The Changeling

"Perhaps. In that case the subject must be approached with the greatest delicacy. Dick's method is to begin with a bludgeon."

"We must think of his mother first," said Molly. "We have been working all along for his mother."

"My dear young lady, you do not understand the situation. Because we must think first of his mother, and for no other reason, we must advance with caution. Had we not to consider the mother, there would be no reason for delicacy at all. And now, if you will not interrupt, I will go on."

The warning was now necessary, because the time had arrived for the final appeal. If that failed, anything might happen.

"We must consider, dear madam, the character, in the first place, of your son, and in the next place, the conditions of his education and position. As regards his character, he has inherited the artistic nature of his father, to begin with. That is shown in everything he does in his music and musical composition."

"I have heard him sing a song of his own composition," said Molly. "It had neither meaning nor melody; he said that it only appealed to the higher culture."

"Once more" – but he spoke in vain – "I say, then, that he has inherited his father's artistic nature. He sings and plays; he paints – "

"Landscapes of impossible colour," said Molly.

"And writes verses. He has a fine taste in the newer arts, such as decoration, bookbinding, furniture – "

"And champagne."

"All these qualities he inherits from his father, with, I imagine, a certain impatience which, when opinions differ, also, I expect, distinguished his father. From his mother he seems to inherit, if I may say so in her presence, tenacity, which may become obstinacy, and strong convictions or feelings, which may possibly degenerate into prejudice. His mother's softer qualities – her depth of affection, her warm sympathies – will doubtless come to the front when his nature, still partly undeveloped, receives its final moulding under the hands of love."

All this was very prettily put, and presented the subject in an engaging light. Molly, however, shook her head, incredulous, as one who ought to know, if any one could know, what had been the outcome of that final moulding under the hands of love.

"This is his character," the doctor went on blandly. "This is the present character as it has been developed from the raw material which we handed over to Lady Woodroffe four and twenty years ago. Next, consider his education."

"Why?" asked his mother. "Hasn't he had his schooling?"

"More schooling than you think. He has been taught that his father was a most distinguished Indian officer, in whom his son could take the greatest pride; that his mother belonged to an ancient Scotch family, his grandfather being the thirteenth baron, and his uncle the fourteenth; he was taught that there is no inheritance so valuable as that of ancient family; as a child he imbibed a pride of birth which is almost a religion; indeed, I doubt if he has any other. His school education and his associates helped him to consider himself as belonging to a superior caste, and the rest of the world as outsiders. This prejudice is now rooted in him. If he had to abandon this belief – "

"But he must abandon it," said Molly. "To-morrow he becomes an outsider."

"When you parted with your boy, you gave him, without knowing what you were doing, statesmen and captains, great lords and barons that belong to history, even kings and queens, for ancestors. Now, without warning – how could one warn a young man of such a thing? – you suddenly rob him of all these possessions. You give him for a father, a worthless scoundrel, to use plain language – a man whose record is horrible and shameful, a deceiver and deserter of women, a low-class buffoon, a fellow who met with the end which he deserved in a workhouse, after a final exhibition of himself as a sandwich-man at one and twopence a day. The mere thought of such a father is enough to reduce this unfortunate young man to madness. And for other relations, I repeat, you offer him, in place of his present cousins, who are gentlefolk of ancient birth, with all that belongs to that possession, such humble – perhaps such unworthy – people as Dick sums up under such titles as 'the pew-opener,' 'the small draper,' and 'the mendicant bankrupt.' Can you imagine Humphrey, with his pride of birth, calling upon the Hackney draper, and taking tea with the pew-opener?"

"They are my cousins, too, Sir Robert," said Molly. "And I get along without much trouble about them."

"Yours? Very likely. Why not?" he replied impatiently. "You are used to them. You were born to them. Sir Humphrey was not." He turned again to Alice. "Have you considered these things? You must consider them – in pity to your son – in pity to yourself."

Alice made no reply.

"Your son will be crushed, beaten down, humiliated to the lowest, by this revelation. Ask yourself how he will reward the people who have caused the discovery. Will he reward the hand which inflicts this lifelong shame – it can be nothing less to him – with affection and gratitude – or – ? Finish the question for yourself."

Alice clasped her hands. Then she rose and bowed her head. "Lord, have mercy upon me, miserable sinner!" she murmured.

Molly laid her arm round her waist.

"Take me to my room," she murmured.

Her room opened out of the sitting-room. Through the open door Sir Robert saw her lying rather than kneeling at the bedside, her arms thrown upon the counterpane. Molly stood over her, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

The doctor beckoned the girl to leave her. "My dear" – his own eyes were dim with an unaccustomed blurr; he could walk without emotion through a hundred wards filled with suffering bodies, but he had never walked the ward of suffering souls – "my dear, leave her for a while. We are all miserable sinners, you and Dick, with your revengeful thoughts, and I, and everybody. And the greatest sinner is the young man himself."

"I did not think," Molly sobbed. "I only thought – we only wanted to prove the case."

"It is the old, old parable. The false mother thinks only of herself; the true mother thinks of her son. Solomon, I thank thee!"

The true mother came back. "Doctor, do what you will – what you can – I will spare him. Let things remain exactly as they are."

He made no answer. He gazed upon her with troubled eyes.

"Tell me, doctor," she said, "what I must do."

"Will you do, then, what I advise?"

"If you will only save my son from his mother. It's a dreadful thing to say. Doctor, I would rather lose the boy altogether than think that he hates and despises his mother."

"When you put the child into my hands, when you undertook to make no inquiry after him in the future – then you lost your child. I told you so two months ago, when this inquiry began. Nothing but mischief could come of it – mischief, and misery, and hatred, and shame, and disappointment. This you could not understand. Now you do."

She sighed. "Yes, I understand."

"Our duty is plain – to hold our tongues. Humphrey will remain where he is. It is a family secret, which will die with us."

"And is he – Dick's brother – to go on holding the place to which he has no right?" asked Molly.

"There will be no change. It is a family secret," he repeated. "A close family secret, never to be whispered even among yourselves."

"He must never know," said Alice. "Yet I must speak to him once; I must hold his hand in mine once."

"If you can trust yourself. If you can only keep calm. Then, I will bring him – this very afternoon. I will go to him. You shall tell him briefly that he is like your son – that is all – your son which was lost, you know. And, remember, there will not be the least show of affection from him. Let Sir Humphrey – Sir Humphrey he must be – leave you as he came – a changeling – with no suspicion of the fact."

CHAPTER THE LAST.

FORGIVENESS

Alice lay patiently. It was done, then. Her punishment was ended; she was to see her son for once – only for once.

"My dear," she said, "my dream will come true. I shall see my son – to call him my son – for once – only for once. And then? But there will be nothing left."

Dick came bursting in. "I've drawn up the case, and I've got the advertisements ready. If by this time to-morrow the doctor makes no sign, I shall act. Here's the case."

He drew out a document in foolscap, tied with red tape – a most imposing document. "And here are the letters —

"'Sir, – I beg to inform you that the funeral of your father, the late John Anthony Woodroffe, who died yesterday, Tuesday, October 15th, will take place from that institution at twelve o'clock on Friday. Your half-brother, Mr. Richard Woodroffe, has ordered me to convey to you this information.'

"I hope he'll like that," said Dick, rubbing his hands. "And here is the second letter —

"'Sir, – I am requested by Mr. Richard Woodroffe to inform you that your father, Mr. John Anthony Woodroffe, has died in debt to a certain Mrs. Welwood, widow of a grocer, of Lisson Grove. The amount is about £60. He wishes to know whether you are prepared to join him in paying off the liability. Your obedient servants.'

"I hope he will like that," said Dick. "And here is the advertisement —