The Changeling

"Who made him an impostor? It is not Humphrey that is a living fraud. It is yourself – yourself, Lady Woodroffe," he repeated sternly. "And I am your accomplice."

"Well, take him out of my sight. His footstep is like a knife in my side. I could shriek even to hear his voice. Oh, doctor! doctor!" – her own voice sank to a moan – "if I could tell you – oh, if I could only tell you! – how I have always hated the boy. Take him back – the gutter brat – take him back to that creature, his mother. He is worthy of her."

Sir Robert sat down again and took her hand in his. "Dear lady" – his voice was soft and soothing, and yet commanding; his hand was large and comforting, yet strong; his eyes were kindly, yet masterful – "your position is very trying. You want rest. In an hour or two, I hope, we shall settle this business. Then you will be easy in your mind again. Come. I shall send you news that will be worth the whole pharmacopœia, if I know the heart of woman."

She burst again into sobs and tears. "Oh, if you knew – if you knew!"

"Yes, I know. Now I am going. You will be better when I am gone. Once there were two mothers," he murmured, "in the parable." He looked down upon her bowed head. "One thought of herself – the other – I go to see the other."

On the stairs he met Humphrey.

"Sir Robert? Been to see my mother? She's not ill, I hope?"

"Best not go to her just now. She is a little troubled about herself."

"Nothing serious, I hope?" He spoke with the cold show of interest in which one might speak of a servant.

"Anything may become serious; but we will hope that in this case – "

"Come into my room for a moment, if you can spare the time." He led the way to his study. "I want to ask you about a man I met at your house – that fellow with the money, who says he was a gardener once, and looks it still."

"What about him?"

"He's been here. He called here the other day. Sat half an hour – said he wasn't used to my kind of conversation."

"Well, he isn't – is he?"

"I dare say not. But as we don't regulate our discourse by the acquirements of gardeners, it doesn't matter. However, I asked him what he came for, and hinted that I wasn't going to take any shares, if that was what he wanted. Then he began to talk conundrums."

"What did he tell you?"

"Told me nothing. Hinted that there was a lot that I ought to know."

"He didn't give you any hint of what that was?"

"No. Why? I thought that you, who know everything, might know what he meant."

"My young friend, I learn a good deal about the private affairs of many people. They remain private affairs."

"Very good. This fellow seemed mad. He informed me, among other things, that he was no relation of mine."

"Unnecessary."

"Quite so. Then he began to speak in high terms of my mother, for which I ought to have kicked him."

"Of your mother?"

"Then he said that if I followed the wishes of my mother, there would be any amount of money for me. That was to come after I learned the truth. What is the truth?"

"How am I to know what he meant? Perhaps he called on the wrong Woodroffe. There's another man of your name, you know – Richard Woodroffe."

"I know. Little cad! Perhaps that may explain the whole thing. It never does to treat those outsiders as if they were gentlemen born, does it? Once in the gutter, always in the gutter, eh?"

"I don't know."

"Look here, Sir Robert, you come here a good deal. My mother says she knew you years ago – "

"Very slightly."

"Well, there's something going on. She's miserable. I had hints from Molly – from a girl – as well as this gardener fellow – that there's something going on. Is it a smash? Has my mother chucked her fortune? The girl said something about losing everything. I can't get my mother to attend to business, and I must have some money soon. You're a man of the world, Sir Robert. There's a row on, you know."

"Another? Why, man, I hear you were engaged to Miss Woodroffe and to Miss Pennefather at the same time. There are the materials for a pretty row. Is there another?"

"Well, if my mother has got into a mess, I was thinking that it might be as well to make it up with Molly, and stand in with the gardener, and get as much as I can out of him."

"Perhaps – perhaps." He considered a little. "Look here, Sir Humphrey, I am on my way to see Mrs. Haveril. Be here – don't go away – I shall come back in an hour or two, with something to tell you."

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE SECOND MOTHER

When we are waiting for the call to do something – to say something – of cardinal importance; something that will affect the whole of our life, all that remains of it: when we are uncertain what will happen after or before we have said or done that something; then the very air round us is charged with the uncertainty of the time. Even the hall and the staircase of the Hôtel Métropole, when Molly entered that humble guest-house, seemed trembling with anxiety. Her cousin's rooms were laden with anxiety as with electricity.

"Come in, Molly," said Alice. "No, I am not any better; I try to rest, but I cannot. I keep saying to myself, 'I shall get my son back; I shall get my son back.' How long shall I have to wait?"

"I hope – to-morrow. Dick has prepared a way to tell him."

"Will he be ready to go away with his own mother, to America, do you think, Molly dear?"

"Perhaps. But you must remember. He has his own friends and his own occupations. And we don't know yet – "

"He will be glad – oh, how glad! – to get his true mother back. He's a handsome boy, isn't he, Molly? As tall as his father – Dick isn't nearly so tall – and stout and strong, like my family. He's like Cousin Charles."

"Don't tell him so, Alice."

"Why not? His face is his father's – and his voice. Oh, Molly! will he come to-morrow?"

"Dick was going to send his letter to-morrow." Her heart sank as she thought of the contents of that letter, which would reach its destination, not as a peace-offering or a message of love at all. The poor mother! Would her son fly to her arms on the wings of affection?

Their discourse was interrupted or diverted – there was but one topic possible that day – by the arrival of Sir Robert Steele.

As a skilful diplomatist, he began with the second of the two mothers where the first ended. That is to say, he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, and held it, talking in a soft, persuasive voice.

"We are such old – old friends, dear lady," he began – "friends of four and twenty years – that I have taken a great liberty. That is – I am sure you will forgive me – I have consented to act as ambassador on a delicate mission."

"He comes from Lady Woodroffe," thought Molly, "or perhaps from Humphrey."

"Yes," the doctor went on, his voice being like the melodious cooing of the stock-dove – "yes. As a friend of the past, I thought you would forgive this interference. Things have changed, with both of us, since that time, have they not? I was then at the bottom of the profession – I am now at the top. I was then a sixpenny doctor – fill your own bottle with physic, you know; with a red lamp, and a dispensary open from six to ten every evening. Now I am what you know. You are a great lady – rich – a leader. I am sure you sometimes think that 'not more than others we deserve' – "