A GRACIOUS LADY.
Once removed from the presence of the great lady and the overwhelming
authority of her manner, her voice, and her face, Richard began to
consider the situation over again. The lady denied any knowledge of
the fact. He might have expected it. Why, how could such a woman, in
such a position, face the world, and confess to having committed so
great a crime? He ought to have known that it was impossible. So he
cursed himself for an ass; steadied his nerves with the reflection
that she _had_ done the thing, whatever she might say; considered that
people can always be found to believe great and solid and shameless
liars; and remarked with humiliation that on the very first occasion
in his life, when he wanted dignity to meet dignity, and authority to
meet authority, he had come to grief.
"Serious comedy, however"--by way of consolation--"is not my line."
In the evening, after dinner, he repaired to the hotel, but not with
the triumphal step which he had promised himself.
Molly was reading a letter aloud to Alice. "Dick," she cried, "perhaps
you can explain what this means. It has just arrived."
"DEAR MADAM,
"I have had an interview with a certain Mr. Richard
Woodroffe, who calls himself a distant cousin of my son. He
brought me a strange story of a strange delusion, which he
seemed to consider supported by a certain discovery of an
entry in a register of births and deaths. I cannot believe
his allegation without further evidence, because it is so
extremely improbable--on the face of it, one would say
impossible--and I cannot understand it, even if it rests on
the strongest evidence. I have, however, forwarded the case
to my solicitors, who will probably communicate with Mr.
Woodroffe. With him personally I do not desire any further
speech. The circumstances of the case, as first placed
before me, naturally awaken a woman's sympathies. A mother
bereaved of her son is, at all times, an object of pity,
even when her bereavement is not due to the common cause,
but to her own conduct; and that conduct not such as can be
readily excused.
"The story which this person brought me is to the effect
that you have seen my son at a theatre; that you afterwards
met him at the house of Sir Robert Steele; that you
observed or imagined certain points of resemblance with
your own first husband; and certain others with the man
Richard Woodroffe. It certainly did not occur to me, when
he called, that he could claim the honour of the most
distant resemblance to my son. However, I learned from him
that you have jumped to the wonderful conclusion that he is
actually none other than your son, whom you lost, not by
death, but by sale--that you sold your child, in fact, for
what he would fetch--as a farmer body sells a pig. I do not
venture to pronounce any judgment upon you for this act;
the temptation was doubtless great, and your subsequent
distress was perhaps greater than if you had lost the child
by act of God. I write to you only concerning the strange
delusion.
"Apart from the imaginary resemblance on which this
delusion is founded, your adviser, this Mr. Richard
Woodroffe, has discovered, he tells me, this entry, to
which I have already referred, in the register of deaths
at Birmingham. It states, he says, that on a certain day
there died in that place one Humphrey, son of Sir Humphrey
Woodroffe. On that day, as I find by reference to my diary,
and to certain letters which have been preserved, I was
staying with my father, Lord Dunedin, at his country seat
in Scotland. My child, then an infant, who was born at
Poonah, in India, was with me. A few days later I travelled
south, to London, in order to meet Sir Humphrey, who was
returning from India. And, of course, the boy came with me.
"It is not my business to inquire, or to explain, why this
entry was made in the register, or why it was thought by
any one desirable that a dead child should be entered under
a false name. That the child could have been Sir Humphrey's
was unlikely, first because he had been in India for ten
years before his return, and next, because he was a man of
perfectly blameless life.
"Observe, if you please, that these facts can all be
proved. My father still lives; the dates can be easily
established. Even as regards resemblance, it can be shown
that the child was, and is, strikingly like his father--of
the same height, the same hair, the same eyes.
"When a delusion of this kind seizes the brain, it is
likely to remain there, and to become stronger and deeper,
and more difficult to remove, as the years go on. I have
therefore thought it best to invite you to meet me. We can
then talk over the matter quietly, and I shall perhaps be
able to make you understand the baseless nature of this
belief. I need hardly say that I should feel it necessary,
in case of your persisting in this claim--that is, if you
propose advancing such a claim seriously--to defend my
honour with the utmost vigour, and in every court of law
that exists. You cannot, of course, be ignorant of the
fact that more than the loss of my child is concerned;
there is the loss of my good name, because you would have
the world to believe that a woman, born of most honourable
and God-fearing parents; married to a man of the highest
reputation, herself of good reputation, should stoop so
low--one can hardly write it--as to buy a baby of a woman
she had never seen, of a poor woman, of a woman of whom
she knew nothing except that she was the deserted wife of
a strolling actor; and to pass this child off upon her
husband and the world as her own.
"I say no more by letter. Perhaps I have spoken uselessly;
in that case, words must give place to acts. However, I
will confer with you, if you wish, personally. Come here
to-morrow afternoon about five; we will try to discuss the
subject calmly, and without the prejudice of foregone
conclusions. In offering you this opportunity I consider
your own happiness only. For my own part, it matters very
little what any one chooses to believe as to my son. There
is always within my reach the law, if injurious charges or
statements are made against my character. Or there is the
law for your use, if you wish to recover what you think is
your own.
"I remain, dear madam, very faithfully yours,
"LILIAS WOODROFFE."
"What _is_ the meaning of this letter, Dick?" Molly repeated. "What is
this entry that she talks about?"
"Molly, I thought I was coming home with a discovery that was a
clincher. And I believe I've gone and muddled the thing."
"Well, but tell us."
He told them.
"But what more do we want?" asked Molly. "The child that died was
hers."
"So I believe--I am sure. I remember how she took it--and her lies,
and her pretences, and her rage. It wasn't the wrath of an innocent
woman, Molly; it was the wrath of a woman found out and driven to bay.
I am sure of it."
"Then what does she mean by this letter?"
"It's her reply. It means defiance."
"Ought we to go, then?"
"I don't know. I think that I was wrong to go. But that may make it
right for Alice to go."
Alice did go. She took Molly with her because she wanted support.
She went filled with doubt. The woman's letter was confident and
braggart; but there was the discovery of the child's death, and there
was the resemblance. She came away, as you shall see, in certainty,
yet more in doubt than before.
They found themselves in a room in which not only the refinement
which may be purchased of an artistic decorator is visible, but the
refinement which can only be acquired by many generations of wealth
and position and good breeding. Books, pictures, curtains, carpets,
furniture,--all bore witness to the fact that the tenant was a
gentlewoman. The Anglo-American, born and brought up in the poverty
of London clerkery; accustomed to the bare surroundings of poverty in
the Western States; able to command, after many years, and to enjoy,
the flaunting luxury of a modern hotel; felt with a sense of sinking,
that her son--if this was her son--must have been brought up with
social advantages which she could never have given him. On the table
lay a small bundle tied up with a towel; curiously out of place this
simple bundle looked among the things beautiful and precious of this
drawing-room. You know how a little matter will sometimes revive an
old recollection. What had this parcel wrapped in a towel to do with
that time, twenty-four years ago, when the mother, broken-hearted,
laid her child in the arms of the doctor who carried it into the
railway station? Yet she was reminded of that moment--that special
moment--in the history of her bereavement. To be sure, the mind of the
woman was easily turned to this subject. It possessed her; she could
think of nothing else, except when Molly came to talk and sing to her.
The door was opened and a lady came in. She was not dressed in nearly
so costly a manner as her visitor, but her appearance impressed. She
was a great lady in manner and in appearance. She was also gracious.
Though a speaker on platforms, an advocate of many causes, she was
still feminine and dignified.
She produced the effect which she desired without apparent effort. She
carried in her hand a bundle of letters and papers. She bowed to her
visitors.
"It is very good of you," she said, "to come. If you will excuse me
one minute----" She sat down and touched a hand-bell. It was answered
by a young lady. "These are the letters," said Lady Woodroffe. "I have
indicated the replies. You can let me have them at six." Then she
turned to Alice again. "You will forgive a busy woman, I am sure," she
said. "I am for the moment greatly occupied with rescue work of all
kinds. It is a beautiful thing to snatch even one poor woman from a
life of crime."
One may observe that she received Alice as she had received
Richard--with a great show of important philanthropic work. The
effect produced was not quite the same, because Alice was thinking of
something else, and to Molly it was only good play-acting. She was
not in the least impressed by the presence or the authority. She only
considered that the business was well done.
Lady Woodroffe finished. "Now," she said, smiling sweetly, "we will
begin to talk."
"I have brought my cousin, Miss Pennefather," said Alice. "She knows
why I am here."
"Oh yes!" Lady Woodroffe recognized Molly's presence with the
inclination which asserts a higher place. "Shall we take some tea
first?"
She was disappointed in the appearance of the woman who claimed her
son. One expects of a woman who would sell her baby a face of brass
and eyes of bronze; one expects vulgarity in a highly pronounced
form--perhaps with ostrich feathers. She came in expectant of a battle
with a red-faced, over-dressed female. She found a woman dressed
quietly, yet in costly stuffs, a pale face, delicate features; no sign
of the commoner forms of vulgarity; a woman of apparent refinement.
Of course, we all know that a person may be refined yet not a
gentlewoman. Many there are who take comfort in that reflection.
She rang the bell for tea and began to talk. "It is very good of you
to come," she began. "Tell me, have you been long in the old country?
Do you find it altered since you left it--so long ago? I believe you
are not an American by birth. Have you any children? Do you soon
return to the States?"
She went on without paying much attention to Mrs. Haveril's replies.
"I hear that your husband is a millionaire. We shall soon begin to
think that all Americans are millionaires. It must be strange to have
unlimited command of money. I am sure you will do a great deal of good
with it. The sense of responsibility when there is so much waiting
to be done must be overwhelming. Here in this country we are all so
poor--so very poor. We have our country houses, you know, which are
very fine houses--some of them, and our parks and gardens. But then,
you see, the houses and gardens cost so much to keep up, and our farms
remain unlet. However ... here is the tea."
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.