Then she plunged into the subject. "My dear lady," she began. "I do assure you that I feel for you. It is the most extraordinary case that I have ever heard of. I believe, if I remember right, there is an account of a woman in Béranger's Autobiography, who had made her baby a foundling, and spent the rest of her life in looking for him, and became mad in consequence. Do let me implore you not to begin looking for your boy; the case is hopeless – you will never succeed – you will only make the rest of your life miserable. It is quite impossible that you should ever find him, and if you did find him, it is utterly impossible that you should be able to prove that he is your child. You will, I assure you, heap disappointments and miseries upon your head."
Alice said nothing. Lady Woodroffe glanced at Molly. She was looking straight before her, apparently quite unmoved.
"Now let us argue the point calmly and quietly. You see a resemblance – you jump to a conclusion. Now, first, as regards the resemblance. There is a very remarkable family resemblance among many of the Woodroffes. Three cousins, at least – Miss Hilarie Woodroffe, whom you know, perhaps; my son; and this Mr. Richard Woodroffe, who appears to be a play actor of some kind – claim kinship after five hundred years – five hundred years. They met by accident in the old church of the family – they made acquaintance – both young men curiously resemble the young lady – "
"It isn't only the face," said Alice; "it's the voice, and the eyes, and the manner. My husband had most beautiful manners when he chose."
"On the stage, I believe, they learn to assume some kind of manners, supposed to be those of society, when they choose. My son, however, always chooses to have beautiful manners. But we must, I am sure you will admit, take into account differences as well as resemblances. For instance, I gather from the whole history that your husband was, in some respects, especially those which most touch a wife's sense of wrong – a – what we call a wretch – a disgraceful person."
"He was. He deserted me. He divorced me. He married an American actress. He deserted her. Richard Woodroffe is his second son."
"My son is quite the reverse. He is a young man of the highest principle and of perfectly blameless character."
Molly smiled, looking straight before her.
"Again, your husband, I believe, was a low comedian – a singer, a dancer, a buffoon – anything."
"He was a general utility actor. Sometimes he had a variety entertainment."
"Humphrey, my son, has no talent for acting at all; like his father, he would conceive it beneath the dignity of a gentleman to make merriment for his friends."
Alice sighed. Molly sat looking straight before her, either unmoved or unconcerned.
"Another point. Was your husband a bookish man?"
"No; he was not. He never opened a book."
"My son is essentially studious, especially in the history of Art."
Molly smiled again, but said nothing. To call Humphrey studious was, perhaps, stretching the truth; but there certainly were the rows of French novels.
"Now, my dear madam, I will ask you to set these points down side by side. That is to say, on one side resemblance in face, real or imaginary; on the other side dignity, good breeding – hereditary breeding, a constitutional gravity of carriage, studious habits, ambition, a total absence of the acting faculty. I ask you which of these qualities he could inherit from your husband? As we are here alone, I would ask you which of these qualities he could inherit from you?"
She paused for a reply. There was none. Alice looked at Molly and sighed. Molly smiled and looked straight before her.
"I do not say these things offensively," Lady Woodroffe continued, in soft and persuasive accents. "My sole desire is to send you away convinced that my son cannot possibly – cannot under any possibility – under any imaginable possibility – be your son. To return to the points of difference. I will ask you one more question. Was your husband a man of unselfish habits and even temper?"
"He was not."
Lady Woodroffe smiled. "I am sorry to hear it, for your sake. My son, on the other hand, is absolutely unselfish, and always sweet-tempered."
She looked sharply at the girl. Why did she smile? What did she mean? What did she know about Humphrey? However, Lady Woodroffe went on, still bland and gracious —
"Do not delude yourself any longer, madam. For the sake of your own peace and quiet, put it away from you. Oh, this dreadful delusion will possess you more and more! You will yearn more and more for the possession of the son you have lost. Your mind will become so filled with this delusion that you will be able to think about nothing else. It will drive you to some desperate act; it will poison your daily life; it will turn your wealth into a heavy burden. I implore you, for the sake of those you love, to abandon this baseless belief."
"Oh! If you only knew! If you only knew!"
The tears rose to the eyes of the woman who sought her son.
"After all these years, I thought I had found him again. I recognized him at the theatre and at the doctor's dinner."
"My poor dear lady" – again Lady Woodroffe took her hands and soothed her – "it was indeed strange that you should find such a resemblance. As I told you, see how impossible it is to find anything out. Nevertheless, if I can be of any help to you, I will willingly do all I can. Only, my advice is that you let bygones sleep, and remain contented with the wonderful gifts that Heaven has poured into your lap. To desire more is surely a sin."
"I would give them all to the first beggar in the street, if I could only get back the boy."
"We will suppose" – Lady Woodroffe got up and stood before the fireplace, looking down upon her visitor, who was now trembling and tearful – "we will suppose, I say, that you take some steps. I hardly know what steps you can take. Would you go to a lawyer? Perhaps. Would you go to my son? Perhaps. In either case the evidence will be examined. On your side a fancied resemblance. Why" – she pointed to a portrait on the wall – "that is my husband at the age of thirty. Whose eyes, whose face, whose hair, do you see in that portrait? Is it, or is it not, like my son?" There really was a strong resemblance. Lady Woodroffe, however, did not explain that she had copied it herself from an early portrait, perhaps with additions and slight alterations. "This portrait alone will meet the case. Besides – a chance resemblance – again – what is it?"
Alice shook her head sadly. She was shaken in her faith.
"Next, you find an entry in a register. Who made that entry? You do not know. Why? You cannot tell."
"Yet Mr. Woodroffe says – "
"Never mind Mr. Woodroffe. Listen to what I say. You then come forward yourself, and you tell the very disgraceful story of how you sold your own child – your own boy. Oh, a terrible – a shameful story!"
"Who was the child that died?" Molly put a word for the first time.
"Who was that child? I cannot tell you. Some one, for purposes unknown, chose to represent a dead child as my husband's child. I say that I do not choose to offer any explanation of this personation. I will tell you, however, how Mr. Woodroffe explains it, which you know already."
She waited for a reply. There was none.
"He supposes that the child was my child; and he supposes, next, that the person who bought your child was myself. That is what he calls certainty."
"Who was the child, then?" Molly repeated.
"Even supposing that my own child died at Birmingham, which is absolutely false – how will you connect the dead child's mother with the transaction which followed?"
"I don't know." Alice looked to Molly for support, and found none. Molly sat with cold, impassive face.
"When you have made it quite clear that you sold your child, you have then to fix your crime upon me as well. How will you do it? For I have letters showing where I was. The dates prove that I could not be in Birmingham at the time; they prove also that I was at my father's house in Scotland with my boy. Now, what have you got to say?"
"I want my son."
"Find your son," she replied, with a touch of temper. "He will be proud indeed of his mother when you do find him!"
Alice shuddered.
"I can do nothing to get that delusion out of your mind, then?"
"I want my son."
The woman's face was obstinate. She had left off crying and shaking; her eyes were fierce, her pale face was set; she meant fighting. The interview had been a failure.
"Who was the child that died?" Molly's question made all clear and plain again.
In moments of great and serious importance we think of little things. Lady Woodroffe saw, in this set and serious face, in the lines of her mouth, in the determination of the eyes, something that reminded her of Humphrey. She should have asked the woman what other qualities, apart from those she had enumerated, he might have inherited from her.
She was now certain that the interview was a failure. No persuasion, no soft words, could prevail against the certainty in this woman's mind.
"I want my son," she repeated.
Lady Woodroffe turned to Molly. "You have heard everything," she said. "What is your opinion, Miss – ? I did not catch your name."
"We must find out who that child was – the dead child," Molly replied, with tenacity.
"Then we will talk no more." She smiled again, but showed her teeth. She then did the boldest thing in her power, a thing which deliberately confessed the truth and bade them defiance. Like every bold stroke, it was a stroke of genius. Yet, like every stroke of genius, perhaps it was a mistake. For she had brought down the very clothes in which the child had come to her. And now she showed them to the mother, and claimed them for her own. "I am only going to delay you one minute, Mrs. Haveril. It is a foolish thing, perhaps; but it is an appeal to sentiment. I suppose that there is nothing a woman treasures more than her son's baby-clothes. I am going to show you a bundle of things that I made with my own hands, for my baby – mine – woman – do you hear?" – with the real ring of temper – "mine!
"These things" – she untied the towel slowly – "are my son's clothes when he was about twelve months of age. They are made of quite common materials, after the old Scotch fashion. The very things I made myself – with my own hands – for the child." She laid back the corners of the towel. She took up the things one by one. "His frock – he had gone into short frocks – his flannel, his shirt, his socks, his shoes, his cap." She held them up, and she looked at her visitor with mockery in her eyes and defiance in her words. "My things – that I made. You would like to have the baby-clothes of your own son – whom you sold – would you not?"
Alice started and sprang to her feet, gazing upon the baby-clothes.
"You see," Lady Woodroffe went on coldly and calmly, as if every word was not a lie, "the work is not very fine. There is his name in marking-ink. I did this embroidery. I made everything except his socks and his shoes. There is his rattle." It was a cheap common thing. "Here is his little cap. You have made such things, Mrs. Haveril, I dare say, for your child – the child you sold. I thought I would show them to you, to prove better than any words of mine, that my child is my own."
"Oh!" It was the scream of a tigress. "Oh, mine – mine – mine!" Mrs. Haveril threw herself literally over the clothes. She clutched and dragged them, and with quick fingers huddled them into the towel again and tied the corners. "Mine!" she repeated, standing up again, her hand on the bundle. "Mine!" Her voice was like a roar of rage, sunk down deep and low and rough – not like her customary voice, which was gentle and sweet. "Mine!" She held the bundle to her heart.
Molly rose at this point and laid her hand on her cousin's shoulder.
"Keep quiet, dear – keep quiet! Let us leave this house." She turned to Lady Woodroffe. "It is a house of lies."
Lady Woodroffe looked at her as if she were not present, and had not spoken.
"The delusion is stronger than I thought," she said, affecting surprise and wonder.
Alice recovered and stood up, still holding the things to her heart.
"Oh," she cried, panting and gasping, "you are a bad woman! a false woman!"
"For Heaven's sake," said Molly, "keep quiet! You have said enough. Think of yourself."
"I had better ring the bell, I think." Lady Woodroffe laid her finger on the knob, but refrained to press it.
"Oh! What can I say?"
"Say nothing, dear," said Molly.
"Will you give me back those things?" Lady Woodroffe moved as if she would take them. "No? Then keep them. After all I have – my son – mine – my son. That is the main thing."
"I made these things – every one – I made them. See, Molly – here is the very paper I wrote. I pinned it to his little frock." She kissed the frock. "'His name is Humphrey.' I wrote it. His father said there was always a Humphrey in the family. I wrote that paper – now!"
Lady Woodroffe smiled sadly. "Poor creature! But perhaps you had better go at once."
"Where is my son?"
"I have done my best to relieve you of a most remarkable delusion. You reward me by robbing me of my child's things. I cannot fight you for them, and I do not like to make my servants take them by force. Keep them."
She rang the bell.
"They are my things."
Lady Woodroffe continued to follow her movements with eyes of compassion.
"It is indeed wonderful!" she murmured. "All this great fortune! And this most miserable delusion to spoil it!"
Alice moved towards the door. She was trembling. She leaned upon Molly. She clung to the bundle. She turned.
"You have given my son back to me. I want no further proof."
Molly bore her down the stairs, as she retired, with some loss of dignity, her face tearful, her cheek flushed, but clutching the bundle.
"Now she knows the whole," said Lady Woodroffe. "And I defy her to move a step. She may look at the boy from afar off." She rang her hand-bell, and called her secretary, and resumed her struggle against sin.
CHAPTER XIX.
A CABINET COUNCIL
"I don't like it," said Richard. "The thing is proved down to the ground. But I don't like it."
On the table lay the bundle of baby-clothes recovered by the true mother. It was untied. The little flannels, the little frock, the little woollen socks, the little cap – a touching little bundle to one who had memories of the things. And near the table, as if guarding the spoil she had carried off, Alice lay upon the sofa, slowly recovering from the excitement of the afternoon.
"Not like it, Dick?" Molly asked. "Why?"
Alice laid her hand upon the things. "I want no other proof," she said. "I made these things; I made them all. What more would you have?"
"What more can we desire?" asked Molly.
"I say that I don't like it." Dick rubbed his chin. "I don't like it at all. It means defiance. I was in hopes that she would climb down when she saw the copy of the entry. But she didn't. I understand now. She can't afford to climb down; so she must defy us. She will fight, if we make her. She sends for the mother of the child. She actually gives her another weapon, and she says, 'Do your worst. I defy you!'"
"What do you mean by not being able to climb down, Dick?"
"Why, she's not only a great lady, rich and well born, and in society. She is also a leader in all kinds of religious and philanthropic movements. A certain religious paper, for instance, called her, the other day, the Queen of the White Lilies. Exposure would be a terrible thing for her. But if she can make it look, as she will try, like an attempt on my part to get money out of Alice or herself, the thing might do her no harm. However, there's the register. They can't say I forged that entry."
"Well, but, Dick, what do you mean? You prove that her son is dead, and that he was buried under his own name without any concealment, just before the adoption; and we've got the baby-clothes, and we recognize them. What more can you want? She must climb down, as you call it."
"We have got lots more, if you come to that. We have got the man who found the child. I wonder how Sir Robert would like going into court and deposing that he bought a baby for adoption by an unknown person. We have also got the mother of the adopted child. Unfortunately, there is nothing at all to connect Lady Woodroffe with the adoption. Without that connection the case breaks down. There's the point."
"Does Humphrey know anything about it?"
"I believe not. Lady Woodroffe is not likely to tell him."
"You must not set my son against me," said the mother.
"Not if we can help it. But about the value of this evidence. Now, Molly, please go into the witness-box." She stood up behind a chair, placing her hands on the back. "I am counsel. The jury are sitting over there; the judge is on your right. Keep your eyes on counsel. Now, you are Alice first – Alice Haveril. You swear, madam, that you know these clothes. How do you know them? Because you made them with your own hands. Are they made of rare or uncommon materials? Are they not made of stuff commonly used for the garments of infants? Is there anything distinctive in the materials used? They are also made in the fashion commonly used for children, are they not? Nothing distinctive, then, in the fashion? So that, for materials or for shape, there is nothing to make them different from any other baby-clothes? Nothing. Then, madam, how do you know that they were made by your own work?"
"Because I know," said Molly.
"Because you know. But how do you know?"
"Because I remember."
"But you cannot tell me how you remember them – by what mark?" He took up the frock. "Here is a crest in red silk. Did you work that? No. Yet it is on the frock."
"Well, Dick," said Molly, "you needn't take so much pleasure in knocking the case to pieces."
"I am only showing you what it amounts to. Now, get into the box again. You are Mr. Richard Woodroffe, the expert in sagacity. What have you got? A certified copy of an entry in the register of births and deaths. You place, I believe, great reliance on that entry? It records the death of the child of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe. Your theory is that the child who died was immediately replaced by the child who was adopted. Very well. But if there was no concealment of the death, how could there be substitution?"
"There's an answer to that," Molly replied quickly. "The woman never thought of hiding her name until after the child was dead and buried – until she thought of the substitution."
"That is your theory. When you come to proof – how do you know that the child whose death is recorded was really the son of Sir Humphrey? Was the death announced in the papers? They have been searched, but there is no mention of the event. Yet, when a man of such great importance as Sir Humphrey Woodroffe loses his only son, the announcement of the event would be made in all the papers, both here and in India. How do you explain that omission? It is not for us – I'm on the other side, Molly – to find out the reason of this lying entry; it is sufficient for us to prove the continuous existence of the child from his birth to the present day. Who made that declaration? We do not know; we do not care. It is sufficient for our purposes to prove that Lady Woodroffe at the time was with her father in Scotland."
"Oh, Dick, this is too horrible!"
"When such a child dies, everybody knows. Did her ladyship's family hear of it? It appears not. Evidence will be brought to show that she set out for London with her boy, that she wrote on arrival, and that she wrote immediately afterwards announcing the return of her husband. When such a child dies, the servants all know. Evidence will be given to show that none of the servants knew, or heard about, the loss of the heir – the only child. We are to prove that so terrible an event was not even announced in the servants' hall. But you shall hear Lady Woodroffe's own statement. Molly, you are now Lady Woodroffe, but I am speaking for you. 'In the autumn of 1873 I was staying at the country seat of my father, Lord Dunedin, in Scotland. I had just returned from India, and was waiting for the arrival of my husband, who was retiring from Indian service. Early in the month of February I received a telegram from Brindisi, to the effect that my husband had arrived there, and was coming home as fast as he could travel. I was to meet him at the house I had taken in London. I therefore left my father's, went on to Edinburgh, stayed the night there, and came on next morning to London, bringing with me the child and my ayah. The next day, or the day after, my husband arrived. I have never been in Birmingham in my life. My child, as an infant, never had any serious illness. As to the entry in the register, I heard of it for the first time from Mr. Richard Woodroffe, calling himself a distant cousin, a vocalist, who seems to have conceived and invented some kind of conspiracy for duping Mrs. Haveril, who is wealthy, and getting money for himself out of her!'"
"Oh, Dick," said Molly, "you haven't!"
"'You ask me' – you are still Lady Woodroffe – 'what proofs I have of these assertions. I have the clearest proofs possible – the letter of my husband, telling me when he would arrive, the evidence of my father that I left Dunedin Castle in time to arrive in London a day or two before my husband – not more.' The evidence of an aged, white-haired, venerable peer will be conclusive, Molly. 'I have old servants who can prove that they have known the child from day to day, and must have discovered the fact immediately had there been any change.' Do you hear, Molly? An aged father, aged servants, a lady with a commanding and queenly presence, a brow of brass, and a voice steady and limpid as that of Truth herself. Poor Truth! she may get down into her well again."
"Well; but about the hotel and the register?"
"Let us ask Lady Woodroffe. She says, 'I know nothing about either. I cannot understand or explain who the woman was that personated me, and said her child was the son of Sir Humphrey. It has been suggested that she may have been the mistress of my husband. I cannot for a moment allow that my husband, the most blameless of men, whose life was passed with open windows, could have carried on an illicit connection. It is impossible and absurd. I have no theory to offer about the personation. I cannot understand it.' That is all."
"She is the most shameless, most abominable, creature alive!" said Molly.
"She has her reputation to maintain. Well, what have we got on our side? The entry; the fact of the adoption; and the resemblance. Put Sir Humphrey, the second baronet, in the box. You are now that worthy, Molly. Look at him, gentlemen of the jury. Look at him well. Turn him round slowly like a hairdresser's waxen effigy. Observe the fall of his hair and its colour; the colour of his eyes; the shape of his head. Here is a portrait of Anthony Woodroffe, who, we maintain, was his father: could there be a more striking resemblance? Here is the respectable Richard Woodroffe, also a son – an unworthy son – of Anthony, and who, we maintain, is the half-brother of the baronet. You observe again a startling resemblance? Then up jumps the other side, with the portrait of Sir Humphrey. Same hair – same eyes. Where is your other resemblance then? Which of the two is his father? He is curiously like them both. See?
"'Resemblance,' the learned counsel continued, 'is not enough. Let us hear the evidence of Sir Robert Steele, M.D., F.R.S., Ex-President of the College of Physicians, author of the Lord knows how many treatises. Take the book, Sir Robert.' We know what he will say about the child and the adoption. Now, listen. He goes on, 'The business over, I thought no more of the matter. Nor did I know the name of the lady, nor did I inquire. It was for me a matter of business partly, because I charged a fee, and of charity partly, because the child would otherwise have gone into the workhouse. I should not like to identify the lady after all these years, when she must have changed greatly; she wore a thick veil while we talked, and I remember only a pale face and regular features.' Or stuff like that," Dick explained. "'Yes, I am now acquainted with Lady Woodroffe, and I know her son. I cannot explain his resemblance to Mr. Richard Woodroffe. The two young men are said to be distant cousins. I never knew Mr. Anthony Woodroffe. I know nothing more about the case; I express no opinion upon the claim. The lady, in adopting the child, did not express her intention of substituting it.' That is the evidence of the medical man, if he would acknowledge that he remembered anything whatever about the transfer!"
"Dick," said Molly, "Humphrey must not know anything until – unless – the case is complete. Don't make him your enemy."
"My dear child, in the event of either success or failure, my half-brother will most certainly regard me with a fraternal feeling, compared with which Cain was loving and Richard the Third was loyal."
Molly looked at Alice doubtfully. She lay back in silence, her eyes shut, paying very little attention to what was said. What, Molly thought, would be Humphrey's attitude towards his new mother, when the truth was disclosed to him? With the mother would come the relations. Molly remembered how her own father, the disinherited, used to laugh over his own cousins; over the family pride; how one was parish clerk of St. Botolph's; how one had a select Academy at Homerton; and one had a shop in Mare Street; and one was pew-opener; and one was a Baptist Minister in some unknown but privileged corner of the earth. And it occurred to her, for the first time, that the introduction of Humphrey to his new relations would be a matter of some difficulty and delicacy.
"I don't want any proof," said Alice. "I recognized my child when first I saw him. His father was in every feature and every look. And these are my things – mine: I made them." She laid her hand again on the bundle which brought her so much certainty after so much doubt.
"But it won't do. It isn't enough. We want proof that will convince a judge and a jury."
"If you haven't got it," she said, "I don't mind in the least. I shall send for my son and tell him all. He may stay where he is, if he likes. But I shall tell him all."
"I think," Dick continued, without heeding these words, "that we must continue to advertise."
"And then?"
"Then – I don't know. I should like to bring an action. I don't know what for. We didn't bargain for fraudulent substitution, but for open adoption. I should think there ought to be grounds for action. But, of course, I don't know. They certainly would not court publicity – at least, I should think not. Whether they lost the case or won, the evidence is so circumstantial that the world would certainly believe in the fraud. I cannot believe that even Lady Woodroffe would care to face the footlights."
"You talk as if you were at the same time perfectly certain, and also in great doubt."
"I am both. I am perfectly certain, not only from the evidence of the register and of these clothes, but from the lady's manner. How should we hear and receive such a thing on the stage, Molly? Consider. You are receiving the discovery of a thing you thought hidden away and buried for ever – a discovery which will blast your whole life."
Molly presented immediately a stage interpretation of the emotion thus rudely awakened. She started, threw up her left hand, pressed her heart with her right hand; she opened her lips and panted; her eyes dilated.
"That is very good. But Lady Woodroffe didn't do that at all. She was much more effective. Sit bolt upright in your chair; stiffen yourself; turn your eyes upon me quickly; at the mention of the dead child, let all the colour go out of your face; at the word 'substitution' let your head swim, clutch at the arms of your chair – so – recover in a moment. Look at me again with strangely troubled eyes – so – you remember you are going to fight; harden your face; set your lips firm; let your eyes be like flints for resolution – so. Molly, my dear, if you were to practise for a twelvemonth you couldn't do it half so well as Lady Woodroffe herself. As a study she was most valuable. If there had been any doubt before in my mind, there would be none now."
"How will Humphrey take it?"
"Are you concerned about him still, Molly? – after that midnight walk of ours?"
"Well, Dick, he has not had my answer yet. I must consider him a little. And he is your half-brother, remember."
"He will become, like his half-brother, an outsider – ha! an outsider, a cad, a bounder!" Dick snorted. Forgiveness and tenderness to the man who was trying to take his girl from him could not be expected.
Just then a telegram was brought in. It came from a certain firm of solicitors at Birmingham, and was addressed to Richard Woodroffe —
"Have found the medical man who attended the child. He has his notes, remembers the case, has identified lady from photograph; will swear to her!"
"Good Heavens!" Richard waved the telegram over his head. "We have got the next step. We can identify Lady Woodroffe with the woman whose child died."
He read the telegram.
"Is there anything more wanted, at all?"
"There is one thing wanted. It is the identification of the lady as the adopter of the child, and that lies in the hands of Sir Robert."
"Do you think he knows?"
"I am certain he knows. Why did he ask us all to dinner, if he does not know? I am pretty certain, too, that he won't let out, unless we make him."
"How can we make him, Dick, if he won't?"
"There is only one way, Molly. The case is strong, circumstantially – that if we make it public, the world will be forced to believe it, whatever the lady may say and swear. Nothing could be stronger."
"I want no proof," said Alice. "If you cannot bring my son to me, I shall go to him and tell him all."
"The one thing that will weigh with Sir Robert and the lady is the fear of publicity. I will make one more attempt, Molly. I will go to the lady first and to the doctor afterwards. If they remain obdurate, I will take advice as to the best way of obtaining publicity. And that will ruin the one and damage the other."