"She's been through it so often. For a good ten years after our child
was lost boys used to be brought to us to look at every few months. And
every time it meant a draining of her vitality."
"I understand that, sir; and I hope Mrs. Whitelaw doesn't think I've
come of my own accord."
"No, she knows you haven't. We've asked you to come because--but I must
go back. When my wife had been through so much--so many times--and all
to no purpose--she made me promise--the doctors made me promise--that
she shouldn't be called on to face it again. Whenever she had to
interview one of these claimants--"
"_I'm_ not a claimant," Tom put in, hastily.
"I know you're not. That's just it. It's what makes the difference. But
whenever she had to do it--and decide whether a particular lad was or
was not her son--it nearly killed her."
Tom made an inarticulate murmur of sympathy.
"The worst times came after we'd turned down some boy of whom we hadn't
been quite sure. That was as hard for me as it was for her--the fear
that our little fellow had come back, and we'd sent him away. It got to
be so impossible to judge. You imagined resemblances even when there
were none, and any child who could speak could be drilled about the
facts, as we were so well known. It was hell."
"It must have been."
"Then there were our two other children. It wasn't easy for them. They
grew up in an atmosphere of expecting the older brother to come back.
At first it gave them a bit of excitement. But as they grew older they
resented it. You can understand that. A stranger wouldn't have been
welcome. Whenever a new clue had to be abandoned they were glad. If
the boy had been found they'd have given him an awful time. That was
another worry to my wife."
"Yes, it would be."
"So at last we made up our minds that he was dead. It was the only
thing to do. Self-protection required it. My wife took up her social
life again, the life she's fond of and is fitted for. Things went
better. She didn't forget, but she grew more normal. In spite of the
past there were a few things she could still enjoy. She'd begun to feel
safe; and then--in that lake in New Hampshire--I happened to see you."
"If I were you, sir, I shouldn't let that disturb me."
"It does disturb me. When I went back that year to our house at Old
Westbury and spoke to my wife and children about it, they all implored
me not to go into the thing again."
"If I could implore you, too--"
He shook his head. "It wouldn't do any good. I've come to the point
where I've got to see it through. I have all the data you've given
me--as well as some other things. If you're not--not my son--" He
rose striding to the fireplace, where he stood pensively, his back to
the smouldering fire--"if you're not my son, at least we can find out
pretty certainly whose son you are."
Tom also rose, so that they stood face to face. "And if you can't find
out pretty certainly whose son I am--?"
"I shall be driven to the conclusion that--"
He didn't finish this sentence. Tom didn't press for it. During the
silence that followed it occurred to him that if there was a war the
question might be shelved. It was what, he thought, he would work for.
The same idea might have come to the older man, for looking up out of
his reverie, he said, with no context:
"What do you mean to be?"
"I've always hoped, sir, to go into a bank. It's what I seem best
fitted for."
There came into the eyes that same sudden light, like the switching on
of electricity, which Tom remembered from their meeting in the water.
"I could help you there."
"Oh, but it would only be in a small way, sir. I'd have to begin as
something--"
"All the same I could help you. I want you to promise me this, that
when you're free--either after Harvard, or after the war--you'll come
to me before you do anything else. Is that a bargain?"