The Changeling

"I do, doctor, constantly. But the loss of my boy has poisoned everything. Yet now, I hope – "

"Now, I promise and assure you. This day – this evening – "

She fell back on her pillow.

"I will not let you see him," he said, "unless you keep calm. Don't agitate yourself. Shall I go on? Will you keep as quiet as possible? Now, I've got a great deal to say. Lie down – so. We must remember our present position, and what we owe to ourselves. Think of that. There are three of us concerned."

"Oh!" cried Molly. "Then you own it at last!"

"First, there is Lady Woodroffe. Exposure of this business will ruin that lady."

"She deserves to be ruined," said Molly.

"Because she has taken a poor child and brought it up in luxury? Let us not inflame the situation by hard words."

"I don't wish to be hard on her," said Alice. "But she said my baby-clothes were hers."

"Forgive her, Mrs. Haveril. We must all forgive. Before I leave you to-day I must take your forgiveness with me."

"Oh, Sir Robert!" said Molly. "She will forgive you too, if you restore her son."

"As for myself, the second of the three. It will be a pleasing thing for the world to read, and for me to confess, that I was the person who found the child and arranged the bargain. And that afterwards, when I discovered that for 'adoption' I must read 'substitution,' I held my tongue until proofs had been discovered which rendered further silence impossible. I am an Ex-President of the College of Physicians; I am a Fellow of the Royal Society; I have written learned works on points of pathology; I am a leader in practice; I am a K.C.B. It will be a very delightful exposure for me, will it not?"

"Well," said Molly, "but you might have told us when you found it out."

"As for yourself, my dear madam, I believe that in the States they are curious about rich people."

"They just want to know even what you eat and drink."

"Then consider – you must – the effect upon your own reputation, which will be produced when you have to confess that you sold your child – sold: it is an ugly word, is it not? – sold your child for fifty pounds."

"Why should the story come to light at all?" asked Molly.

"There are secrets in most families. In my position I learn many. I certainly considered this as one of them. The only reason why this must come to light is that the young man must lay down his title. His name fortunately remains unchanged."

"Who cares for a title?" asked Molly.

"You would, young lady, if you had one. An hereditary title, however, cannot be laid down at will. It belongs to a man – to his father, to his eldest son. To lay it down would require explanation. And there is no other explanation possible except one – that the man is not the son of his putative father."

"Doctor," said Alice, "I don't care what the world says. I shall not listen to what the world says. I want my boy."

"Very well. You shall have your boy, if you like. But we must have a little talk first about him – about your son."

"Ah! my son."

"Now, dear lady, I want all your sympathy." He pressed her hand again. "Your sympathy and your affection and your self-denial, even your self-effacement. I have to call upon all these estimable qualities. I have to ask of your most sacred affection – your maternal affection – a self-sacrifice of the highest, the most noble, the most generous kind."

He looked into his patient's eyes. As yet there was no mesmeric response. Alice was only wondering what all this talk meant. If there was any other expression in her eyes, it was the hungry look of a mother bereft of her children. The doctor let her hand drop.

"I shall succeed," he said. "Of that I have no doubt. But I fear my own power of presenting the case with the force which it demands."

He then, with as much emphasis as if he were on the stage, produced a manuscript from his pocket, and unfolded it with an eye to effect.

"I received this," he said, "half an hour ago. It is Lady Woodroffe's confession. It was written in the dead of night – last night. If the imagination of the writer can be trusted, it was written by order of her dead husband, who stood beside her while she wrote. The intensity of feeling with which it was written is proved by that belief."

"Ghosts!" said Molly, contemptuously. "Stuff with her ghosts!"

"My dear young lady" – the doctor felt that his ghostly machinery had failed – "will you kindly not interrupt? I am speaking with Mrs. Haveril on a subject which is more important to all concerned than you can understand. Pray do not interrupt."

But the impression which might have been produced by the vision of the dead husband was ruined by that interruption. If a ghost does not produce his impression at the outset, he never does.

Alice received the confession coldly. "Am I to read it," she asked.

She opened it and read it through. What it contained we know very well. It was written quite simply, stating the plain facts without comment. The concluding words were as follows: —

"My husband never had the least suspicion. The boy's real nature, which is selfish and callous and heartless, did not reveal itself to him. To me it was, almost from the outset, painfully apparent. He is so entirely, in every respect, the opposite of his supposed father, that I have sometimes trembled lest a suspicion should arise. For my own part, I confess that I have never felt the least tenderness or affection for the boy. It has been a continual pain to me that I had to pretend any. So far as that is concerned, I shall be much relieved when I have to pretend no more. Whatever steps may be taken by his real mother, they will at least rid me of a continual and living reproach. I do not know how much affection and gratitude his real mother may expect from such a son in return for depriving him of his family and his position, and exchanging his cousins in the House of Lords for relations with the gutter. I wish her, however, joy and happiness from his love and gratitude."

"Molly dear," said Alice, "the woman confesses she took the child and passed it off upon the world for her own. What do you say now, doctor?"

"If necessary, I am ready to acknowledge publicly that Lady Woodroffe is the person who bought your child. However, when you came to me about it, I did not know that fact. I found it out afterwards by a remarkable chance. But she confesses, which is all that you desire."

"She confesses! Now – at last! Oh, Molly, I shall get back the boy! He will be my own son again – not that horrible woman's son any more! Oh, my own son! my own son!"

"The other mother," the doctor murmured. Molly heard him, but understood not what he meant. "Will you, dear madam, read the latter part of the document once more, that part of it beginning, 'My husband never had any suspicion.' Perhaps Miss Molly will read it aloud."

Molly did so. As she read it she understood the meaning of these words, "the other mother." She thought of Humphrey, with his cold disdainful eyes, his shrinking from display, his pride of birth, his contempt of the common herd, and of this warm motherly heart, natural and spontaneous, careless of form and reticence, which was waiting for him, and her heart sank for pity. The sham mother, glad at last to get rid of the pretence; her own lover Dick, eager to pull down the pretender, and full of revenge; the pretender himself maddened with rage and shame; and the poor mother longing in vain for one word of tenderness and kindness. Molly's heart sank low with pity. What tenderness, what kindness, would Humphrey have for the mother who had come to deprive him of everything that he valued?

"I have come here this afternoon," the doctor went on, "as a friend of both mothers. On the part of Lady Woodroffe, I have absolutely nothing to propose. She puts the case unreservedly in your hands. Whatever steps you take, she will accept. It remains, therefore, for you, madam, to do what you think best."

"I want my boy," she repeated doggedly. "So long as I get him, I don't care what happens."

"That is, of course, the one feeling which underlies everything. I will, if you like, see him in your name."

"Dick was going to write to him as the son of Anthony Woodroffe," said Molly.

"I know his proposals. We have to consider, however, the possible effect which the discovery of the truth will produce upon this unfortunate – most unfortunate – young man."

"Why is he unfortunate?" asked his mother jealously. "He will be restored to his own mother."

"I am going to tell you why. Meantime, you will agree with me that it is most important that the communication of the truth must not embitter this young man, at the outset, against his mother."

"No, no. He must not be set against me."

"Quite so. Dick proposes, I understand, to address a letter to him as the son of the late Mr. Anthony Woodroffe – better known as John Anthony – and inviting him to pay certain liabilities. As to the wisdom of that step, I have no doubt. It can produce no other effect than to fill him with rage and bitterness against all concerned, all – every one – without exception."

He shook a warning finger at one after the other.

"But he must know," said Molly.