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THE CHANGELING
NOVELS BY SIR WALTER BESANT & JAMES RICE.
Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; post 8vo., boards, 2S.,each ; cloth, 2S. 6d. each.
READY-MONEY MORTIBOY.
MY LITTLE GIRL.
WITH HARP AND CROWN.
THIS SON OF VULCAN.
THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY.
THE MONKS OF THELEMA.
BY CELIA'S ARBOUR.
THE CHAPLAIN OF THE FLEET.
THE SEAMY SIDE.
THE CASE OF MR. LUCRAFT.
'TWAS IN TRAFALGAR'S BAY.
THE TEN YEARS' TENANT.
^'^ There is also a Library Edition of the above Twelve Volumes, handsomely
set in new type on a large crown 8vo. page, and bound in cloth e.\ira, 6s. each ; and
Popular Editions of THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY, and of ALL SORTS AND
CONDITIONS OF MEN, medium 8vo., 6d. each ; cloth, is. each.
NOVELS BY SIR WALTER BESANT.
Crov/n 8vo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ; post 8vo., boards, 2s. each ; cloth, 2s. 6d. each.
ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN. 12 lUusts. by Barnard.
THE CAPTAINS' ROOM. With Frontispiece by E. J. Wheeler.
ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. With 6 Illustrations by Harry Furniss.
DOROTHY FORSTER. With Frontispiece by Charles Green.
UNCLE JACK, and other Stories.
CHILDREN OF GIBEON.
THE WORLD WENT VERY WELL THEN. 12 Illusts. by Forestier.
HERR PAULUS : His Rise, his Greatness, and his Fall.
THE BELL OF ST. PAUL'S.
FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. Illusts. by Forestier and Waddy.
TO CALL HER MINE. With 9 Illustrations by A. Forestier.
THE HOLY ROSE. With Frontispiece by F. Barnard.
ARMOREL OF LYONESSE. With 12 Illustrations by F. Barnard.
ST. K.A.THERINE'S BY THE TOWER. With 12 Illusts. by C. Green.
VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS. Frontis. by Gordon Brown.
THE IVORY GATE.
THE REBEL QUEEN.
BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE. 12 lUustrations by Hyde.
IN DEACON'S ORDERS. With Frontispiece by A. Forestier.
THE REVOLT OF MAN.
THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN.
THE CITY OF REFUGE.
Crown Svo., cloth, 33. 6d. each.
A FOUNTAIN SEALED. With Frontispiece by H. G. BuRGESS.
THE CHANGELING.
THE CHARM, and other Drawing-room Plays. By SiR Walter Besant
and Walter H. Pollock. With 50 Illustrations by Chris Ham-
mond and Jule Goodman. Crown Svo. , cloth gilt, gilt edges, 6s.;
blue cloth, plain edges, 3s. 6d.
FIFTY YEARS AGO. With 144 Illustrations. Crown 8vo., cloth, 5s.
THE EULOGY OF RICHARD JEFFERIES. Portrait. Cr. 8vo., cloth, 6s.
LONDON. With 125 Illustrations. Demy Svo. , cloth extra, 7s. 6d.
WESTMINSTER. With Etched Frontispiece by F. S. Walker, R.E., and
130 Illustrations by William Patten, etc. Demy Svo., cloth, 7s. 6d.
SOUTH LONDON. With Etched Frontispiece by F. S. Walker, R.E.,
and 118 Illustrations. Demy Svo., cloth, gilt top, i8s.
SIR RICHARD WHITTINGTON. Frontispiece. Cr. 8vo., linen, 3s. 6d.
GASPARD DE COLIGNY. With a Portrait. Crown Svo., art linen, 3s. 6d.
London : CHATTO & WINDUS, iii St. Martin's Lane, W.C.
THE CHANGELING
WALTER BESANT
AUTHOR OK
ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN," "a FOUNTAIN SEALED," ETC.
A NEW EDITION
LONDON
C H A T T O & \ V I N D U S
1899
PRINTED By
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
CONTENTS.
/■
J
CHAPTER
I. Was it Substitution ?
11. The Only Witness gone ...
III. The Three Cousins
IV. The Consulting-Room
V. Guest Night ...
VI. The Old Lover ...
VII. The Master of the Situation
VIII. The Cousins
IX. One More
X, Cousin Alfred's Secret ...
XI. The Doctor's Dinner...
XII. The Other Child of Desertion ..
XIII. A Midnight Walk
XIV. The First Move ...
XV. Two Jumps and a Conclusion...
XVI. A Wretch
XVII, The Second Blow
XVIII. A Gracious Lady ...
XIX. A Cabinet Council
XX. John Haveril clears up Things ..
XXI. "To BE off with the Old Love"
XXII. The Clan again ...
XXIII. One More Attempt ...
XXIV. A Horrid Night ...
XXV. The First Mother
XXVI. The Second Mother
Chapter the Last. Forgiveness
PAGE
I
IS
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73
84
92
110
116
126
143
157
169
185
199
210
222
241
253
26s
276
290
300
313
322
336
282
THE CHANGELING.
CHAPTER I.
WAS IT SUBSTITUTION ?
" Pray be seated, madam." The doctor offered his
visitor a chair. Then he closed the door, with perhaps
a more marked manner than one generally displays
in this simple operation. " I am happy to inform
you," he began, " that the arrangements — the arrange-
ments," he repeated with meaning, "are now com-
pleted."
The lady was quite young — not more than twenty-
two or so — a handsome woman, a woman of distinc-
tion. Her face was full of sadness ; her eyes were
full of trouble ; her lips trembled ; her fingers
nervously clutched the arms of the chair. When
the doctor mentioned the arrangements, her cheek
flushed and then paled. In a word, she betrayed
every external sign of terror, sorrow, and anxiety.
" And when can I leave this place .'' "
"This day : as soon as you please."
" The woman made no objections ? "
" None. You can have the child."
2 The Changeling.
" I have told you my reasons for wishing to adopt
this child " — he had never asked her reasons, yet at
every interview she repeated them : *' my own boy is
dead. He is dead." There was a world of trouble
in the repetition of the word.
The doctor bowed coldly. " Your reasons, madam,"
he said, " are sufficient for yourself. I have followed
your instructions without asking for your reasons.
That is to say, I have found the kind of child you
want : light hair and blue eyes, apparently sound and
healthy ; at all events, the child of a sound and
healthy mother. As for your reasons, I do not
inquire."
"I thought you might like "
" They are nothing to do with me. My business
has been to find a child, and to arrange for your
adoption of it. I have therefore, as I told you,
arranged with a poor woman who is willing to part
with her child."
" On my conditions ? "
"Absolutely. That is — she will never see the
child again ; she will not ask who takes the child, or
where it is taken, or in what position of life it will be
brought up. She accepts your assurance that the
child will be cared for, and treated kindly. She
fully consents."
" Poor creature ! "
"You will give her fifty pounds, and that single
payment will terminate the whole business."
" Terminate the whole business ? Oh, it will begin
the whole business ! "
" There are many reasons for adoption," the doctor
Was it Substitution ? 3
continued, returning to the point with which he had
no concern. " I have read in books of substitutinsf a
child — introducing a child — for the sake of keeping
a title, or an estate, or a family."
The lady answered as if she had not heard this
remark. " The mother consents to sell her child !
Poor creature ! "
" She accepts your conditions. I have told you so.
Go your way — she goes hers."
The lady reflected for a moment. " Tell me," she
said, — "you are a man of science, — in such an
adoption "
" Or, perhaps, such a substitution," interrupted the
doctor.
" Is there not danger of inherited vice, or disease ? "
"Certainly there is. It is a danger which you
must watch in educating the child. He may inherit
a tendency to drink : guard against it by keeping
him from alcohol of any kind. He may show physical
weakness ; watch him carefully. But nine-tenths of
so-called hereditary disease or vice are due to
example and conditions of life."
" If we do not know the character of the parents —
they may be criminals. What if the child should
inherit these instincts ? "
The doctor, who had been standing, took a chair,
and prepared himself to argue the point. He was a
young man, with a strong jaw and a square forehead.
He had a face and features of rude but vigorous
handling ; such a face as a noble life would make
beautiful in age, and an ignoble life would make
hideous. Every man has as many faces as there are
4 The Changeling.
years of his life, and we heed them not ; yet each
follows each in a long procession, ending with the
pale and waxen face in the coffin — that solemn face
which tells so much.
" There is," he said, " a good deal of loose talk
about heredity. Some things external are hereditary
— face, eyes, figure, stature, hands, certainly descend
from father to son ; some diseases, especially those of
the nervous kind ; some forms of taste and aptitude,
especially those which are artistic. Things which are
not natural, but acquired, are never hereditary — never.
If the boy's father is the greatest criminal in the
country, it won't hurt him a bit, because he is taken
away too early to have observed or imitated. The
sons are said to take after the mothers ; that is,
perhaps, because they have always got the models
before them. In your case, you will naturally become
the child's most important model. Later on, will
come in the male influence. If there is, for instance,
a putative father "
"There will be, of course, my husband."
The doctor bowed again. Then there was a husband
living. " He will become the boy's second model,"
he said. " In other words, madam, the vices of the
boy's parents — if they have vices — will not affect him
in the least. Gout, rheumatism, asthma, consumption,
— all these things, and many more, a child may
inherit ; but acquired criminality, never. Be quite
easy on that point."
" My desire is that the child may become as perfect
a gentleman at all points as his — as my husband."
"Why should he not? He has no past to drag
Was it Substitution ? 5
him down. You will train him and mould him as
you please — exactly as you please."
" You have not told me anything about the mother,
except that she is in want."
" Why should you learn her name, or she yours ? "
" I have no desire to learn her name. I was think-
ing whether she is the kind of woman to feel the loss
of her child."
The doctor, as yet inexperienced in the feminine
nature, marvelled at this sympathy with the mother
whose child the lady was buying,
" Well," he said, " she is a young woman — of
respectable character, I believe ; good looking ; in
her speech something of a cockney, if I understand
that dialect."
" The more respectable she is, the more she will
feel the loss of her child."
"Yes; but there is another consideration. This
poor creature has a husband who has deserted her."
" Then her child should console her."
" Her husband is a comedian — actor — singing
fellow, — a chap who asks for nothing but enjoyment.
As for wife and children, they may look out for
themselves. When I saw him, I read desertion in
his face ; in his wife's face, it was easy to read
neglect."
" Poor creature ! "
" Now he's gone — deserted her. Nothing will do
but she must go in search of him. Partly for money
to help her along, partly because the workhouse is
her only refuge, she sells her baby."
The lady was silent for a while, then she sighed.
6 The Changeling.
" Poor creature ! There are, then, people in the world
as unhappy as I myself?"
" If that is any consolation, there are. Well,
madam, you now know the whole history ; and, as
it doesn't concern you, nor the child, best forget it
at once."
"Poor mother!"
She kept harping on the bereavement, as though
Providence, and not she herself, was the cause.
" I have told her that the boy will be brought up
in ease — affluence even " — the lady inclined her head
— " and she is resigned."
" Thank you. And when ? "
"You would like to go up to London this after-
noon? Well, I will myself bring the child to the
railway station. Once more, as regards heredity. If
the child should inherit his mother's qualities, he will
be truthful and tenacious, or obstinate and perhaps
rather stupid ; if his father's, he will be artistic and
musical, selfish, cold-hearted, conceited."
" He might inherit the better qualities of both."
"Ah, then he will be persevering, high-principled,
a man of artistic feeling — perhaps of power, — am-
bitious, and desirous of distinction. I wish, madam,
that he may become so perfect and admirable a young
man." He rose. " I have only, I think, to receive
the money which will start this poor woman on her
wild-goose chase. Thank you. Ten five-pound
notes. I will take care that the woman has it at
once."
" For your own trouble. Dr. Steele?"
" My fee is three guineas. Thank you."
Was it Substitution ? 7
" I shall be on the platform or in the train at a
quarter before three. Please look about for an Indian
ayah, who will receive the child. You are sure that
there will never be any attempt made to follow and
discover my name ? "
"As to discovery," he said, "you may rest quite
easy. For my own part, my work lies in this slum of
Birmingham ; it is not likely that I shall ever get out
of it. I am a sixpenny doctor ; you are a woman of
society : I shall never meet you. This little business
will be forgotten to-morrow. If, in the future, by any
accident I were to meet you, I should not know you.
If I were to know you, I should not speak to you.
Until you yourself give me leave, even if I should
recognize you, I should not speak about this business."
" Thank you," she said coldly. " It is not, however,
likely that you will be tempted."
He took up an open envelope lying on the table — it
was the envelope in which the lady had brought the
notes, — replaced them, and put them in his pocket.
Then he opened the door for the lady, who bowed
coldly, and went out.
*****
A few days before this, the same lady, with an
Indian ayah, was bending over a dying child. They
sent for the nearest medical man. He came. He
tried the usual things ; they proved useless. The
child must die.
The child was dead.
The child was buried.
The mother sat stupefied. In her hand she held a
letter — her husband's latest letter. " In a day or
8 The Changeling.
two," he said, "my life's work will be finished. In a
fortnight after you get this, I shall be at Southampton.
Come to meet me, dear one, and bring the boy. I am
longing to see the boy and the boy's mother. Kiss
the boy for me ; " and so on, and so on — always
thinking of the boy, the boy, the boy ! And the boy
was dead ! And the bereaved father was on his way
home ! She laid down the letter, and took up a
telegram. Already he must be crossing the Alps,
looking forward to meeting the boy, the boy, the
boy !
And the boy was dead.
The ayah crouched down on a stool beside her
mistress, and began whispering in her own language.
But the lady understood.
As she listened her face grew harder, her mouth
showed resolution.
"Enough," she said; "you have told me enough.
You can be silent ? — for my sake, for the sake of the
sahib .'' Yes — yes — I can trust you. Let me think."
Presently she went out ; she walked at random into
street after street. She stopped, letting chance direct
her, at a surgery with a red lamp, in a mean quarter.
She read the name. She entered, and asked to see
Dr. Steele, not knowing anything at all about the
man.
She was received by a young man of five and
twenty or so. She stated her object in calling.
" The child I want," she said, " should be something
like the child I have lost. He must have light hair
and blue eyes."
" And the age ? "
Was it Substitution? 9
" He must not be more than eighteen months or
less than a year. My own child was thirteen months
old. He was born on December 2, 1872,"
" I have a large acquaintance in a poor neighbour-
hood," said the doctor. " The women of my quarter
have many babies. If you will give me a day or two,
I may find what you want." He made a note —
" Light hair, blue eyes ; birth somewhere near
December 2, 1872, — age, therefore, about thirteen
months."
At a quarter before three in the afternoon a woman,
carrying a baby, stood inside the railway station at
Birmingham. She was young, thinly clad, though
the day was cold ; her face was delicate and refined,
though pinched with want and trouble. She looked
at her child every minute, and her tears fell fast.
The doctor arrived, looked round, and walked up
to her. " Now, Mrs. Anthony," he said, " I've come
for the baby."
" Oh ! If it were not for the workhouse I would
never part with him."
" Come, my good woman, you know you promised."
" Take him," she said suddenly. She almost flung
him in the doctor's arms, and rushed away.
Above the noise of the trains and the station, the
doctor heard her sobbing as she ran out of the
station.
"She'll soon get over it," he said. But, as has
already been observed, the doctor was as yet inex-
perienced in the feminine heart.
*****
About six o'clock that evening the lady who had
10 The Changeling.
received the baby had arrived at her house in
Bryanston Square.
" Now," she said, when she had reached the nursery,
" we will have a look at the creature — oh ! the little
gutter-born creature ! — that is to be my own all the
rest of my life."
The ayah threw back the wraps, and disclosed a
lusty boy, about a year or fifteen months old.
The lady sat down by the table, and dropped her
hands in her lap.
" Oh," she cried, " I could not tell him ! It broke
my heart to watch the boy on his deathbed : it would
kill him — it would kill him — the child of his old age,
his only child ! To save my husband I would do
worse things than this — far worse things — far worse
things."
Among the child's clothes, which were clean and
well kept, there was a paper. The lady snatched it
up. There was writing on it. " His name " — the
writing was plain and clear, not that of a wholly
uneducated woman — "is Humphrey. His surname
does not matter. It begins with ' W.' "
" Why," cried the lady, " Humphrey ! Humphrey !
My boy's own name ! And his surname begins
with * W ' — my boy's initial ! If it should be my
own boy ! — oh ! ayah, my own boy come back
again ! "
The ayah shook her head sadly. But she changed
the child's clothes for those of the dead child ; and
she folded up his own things, and laid them in a
drawer.
" The doctor has not deceived me," said the lady.
Was it Substitution? ii
" Fair hair, blue eyes ; eyes and hair the colour of my
boy." The tears came into her eyes.
" He's a beautiful boy," said the nurse ; " not a
spot nor a blemish, and his limbs round and straight
and strong. See how he kicks. And look — look !
why, if he hasn't got the chin— the sahib's chin ! "
It was not much : a dimple, a hollow between the
lower lip and the end of the chin.
" Strange ! So he has. Do you think, nurse, the
sahib, his father, will think that the child looks his
age ? He is to be a year and a quarter, you know."
The ayah laughed. " Men know nothing," she
said.
In a day or two the supposed parent returned
home. He was a man advanced in years, between
sixty and seventy. He was tall and spare of figure.
His features were strongly marked, the features of a
man who administers and commands. His face was
full of authority ; his eyes were as keen as a hawk's.
He stepped up the stairs with the spring of five and
twenty, and welcomed his wife with the sprightliness
of a bridegroom of that elastic age. The man was,
in fact, a retired Indian. He had spent forty years
or so in administrating provinces : he was a king
retired from business, a sovereign abdicated, on whose
face a long reign had left the stamp of kingcraft. It
was natural that in the evening of his life this man
should marry a young and beautiful girl ; it was also
quite natural that this girl should entertain, for a
husband old enough to be her grandfather, an affection
and respect which dominated her.
He held out both arms ; he embraced his wife with
12 The Changeling.
the ardour of a young lover ; he turned her face to
the hght.
"LiHas!" he murmured, "let me look at you.
Why, my dear, you look pale — and worried ! Is
anything the matter ? "
" Nothing — nothing — now you are home again."
" And the boy ? Where is the boy ? "
" He shall be brought in." The ayah appeared
carrying the child. " Here he is ; quite well — and
strong — and happy. Your son is quite happy —
quite happy " Her voice broke. She sank into
a chair, and fell into hysterical sobbing and weeping.
" He is quite — quite — quite happy."
They brought cold water, and presently she
became calmer. Then the father turned again to
consider the boy.
" He looks strong and hearty ; but he doesn't
seem much bigger than when you carried him off six
months ago."
" A little backward with his growth." The mother
had now recovered. " But that's nothing. He's
made a new start already. Feel his fingers. There's
a grip ! Your own living picture, Humphrey ! "
" Ay, ay. Perhaps I would rather, for good looks,
that he took after his mother. Blue eyes, fair hair,
and the family dimple in the chin."
* « * » «
When the doctor was left alone, he took the
envelope containing the bank-notes from his pocket,
and threw it on his desk. Then he sat down, and
began to think over the situation.
" What does she do it for .-' " he asked. " Her own
Was it Substitution ? 13
child is dead. There is no doubt about that ; her face
is so full of trouble. She wants to deceive her husband :
at least, I suppose so. She will keep that secret to
herself. The ayah is faithful — that's pretty certain.
There will be no blackmailing in that quarter. A
fine face she has " — meaning the lady, not the ayah.
*' Hard and determined, though. I should like to see
it soften. I wish she had trusted me. But there, one
couldn't expect it of a woman of that temperament —
cold, reserved, haughty ; a countess, perhaps. It's
like the old story-books. Somebody will be dis-
inherited. This boy is going to do it. Nobody will
ever find it out. And that's the way they build up
their fine pedigrees ! "
The doctor was quite wrong. Nobody was to be
disinherited ; nor was there an estate. This you
must understand, to begin with. The rest I am going
to tell you.
"No clue," the doctor continued. "She is quite
safe, unless she were to meet me. No other clue.
Nobody else knows," He took up the envelope, and
observed that it had part of an address upon it. All
he could read, however, was one word — " Lady."
" Oho ! " he said ; " there is a title, after all. It looks
as if the latter half were a ' W.' There's a conspiracy,
and I'm a conspirator ! Humph ! She's a beautiful
creature ! "
He fell into meditation on that subject which is
always interesting to mere man — the face of a woman.
Then his thoughts naturally wandered off to the
conversation he had held with that memorable face.
14 The Changeling.
" I should like, if I could, to learn how this job will
turn out from the hereditary point of view ! Will
that interesting babe take after his father? Will he
astonish his friends by becoming a low comedian ? Or
will he take after his mother, and become a simplci
honourable Englishman? Or will he combine the
inferior qualities of both, and become a beautiful and
harmonious blend, which may make him either a
villain of the deeper dye, or a common cold-blooded
man of the world, with a touch of the artist ? "
CHAPTER II.
THE ONLY WITNESS GONE.
One afternoon, about eighteen years later, certain
mourning-coaches, returning home from a funeral,
drew up before a house in Bryanston Square. There
were three coaches. From the first descended a
young man of twenty or thereabouts, still slight and
boyish in figure. He had been sitting alone in the
carriage.
From the second came a middle-aged man of the
greatest respectability, to look at. He was so respect-
able, so eminently respectable, that he could not
possibly be anything but a butler. With him was a
completely respectable person of the other sex, who
could be no other than a housekeeper.
In the third carriage there were two young maid-
servants in black, and a boy in buttons. At the
halting of the carriage they clapped their handker-
chiefs to their eyes, because they knew what was
expected on such an occasion ; and they kept up this
external show of grief until they had mounted the
steps and the door was shut. The page, who was
with them, had been weeping freely ever since they
started ; not so much from unavailing grief, as from
the blackness of the ceremony, and the dreadful
1 6 The Changeling.
coffin, and the horror and terror and mystery of the
thing. He went up the stairs snuffling, and so con-
tinued for the rest of the day.
The young gentleman mounted to the drawing-
room, where his mother, sitting in a straight, high
chair, more like an office-chair than one designed for
a drawing-room, was dictating to a shorthand girl
secretary. The table was covered with papers. In
the back drawing-room two other girls were writing.
For Lady Woodroffe was president of one society,
chairman of committee of another, honorary secretary
of a third ; her letters and articles were on subjects
and works of philanthropy, purity, rescue, white lilies,
temperance, and education. Her platform advocacy
of such works had placed her in the forefront of
civilizing women ; she was a great captain in Israel,
a very Deborah, a Jael.
She was also, which certainly assisted her efforts, a
very handsome woman still, perhaps austere: but then
her eloquence was of the severe order. She appealed
to the conscience, to duty, to responsibility, to honour.
If sinners quailed at contemplating the gulf between
themselves and the prophetess, who, like Jeremiah,
had so little sympathy with those who slide back-
wards and enjoy the exercise, it was a perpetual joy
to ladies of principle to consider an example so
powerful.
She was dressed in black silk, but wore no widow's
weeds ; her husband, the first Sir Humphrey, had
been dead four years.
The young gentleman threw himself into a chair.
Lady Woodroffe nodded to her secretary, who
The Only Witness gone. 17
gathered up her papers and retreated to the back
drawing-room, closing the door.
" Well, mother," said the boy, carelessly, " we've
buried the old woman."
"Yes. I hope you were not too much distressed,
Humphrey. I am pleased that you went to the
funeral, if only to gratify the servants."
"How could I refuse to attend her funeral?— an
old servant like that. It's a beastly thing — a funeral,
— and a beastly nuisance."
"We must not forget her services," the lady replied.
"It was in return for those services that I kept her
here, and nursed her through her old age. One does
not encumber one's self with sick old women except
in such cases as this."
" No, thank goodness." The young man was in
no gracious mood. " Give me a servant who takes
her wages and goes off, without asking for our
gratitude."
" Still, she was your nurse — and a good nurse."
" Too ostentatious of her affection, especially
towards the end."
" She was also " — Lady Woodroffe pursued her
own thoughts, which was her way — " a silent woman ;
a woman who could be trusted, if necessary, with
secrets — family secrets."
" Thank goodness, we've got none. From family
secrets, family skeletons, family ghosts, good Lord,
deliver us ! "
"There are secrets, or skeletons, in every family, I
suppose. Fortunately, we forget some, and we never
hear of others. You are fortunate, Humphrey, that
C
1 8 The Changeling.
you are free from the vexation — or the shame — or
the shock — of family secrets, which mean family
scandals. Now, at all events, you are perfectly safe,
because there is no one living who can create a
family ghost for you, or provide you with a
skeleton."
Humphrey laughed lightly. " Let the dead bury
their dead," he replied. " So long as I know nothing
about the skeleton, it can go on grinning in the
cupboard, for aught I care.
" Did I tell you," the young man continued, after
a pause, " of her last words ? "
" What last words ? "
" I thought I had told you. Curious words they
were. I suppose her mind was wandering."
" Humphrey," said his mother, sharply, "what did
she say ? What words ? "
" Well, they sent for me. It was just before the
end. She was lying apparently asleep, her eyes shut.
I thought she was going. The nurse was at the
other end of the room, fussing with the tea-cups.
Then she opened her eyes and saw me. She
whispered, ' Low down, low down. Master Humphrey.'
So I stooped down, and she said, * Don't blame her,
Master Humphrey. I persuaded her, and we kept
it up, for your sake. Nobody suspects. All for
your sake I kept it up.' Then she closed her eyes,
and opened them no more."
"What do you understand by those words,
Humphrey ? "
" Nothing. I cannot understand them. She was
accusing herself, I suppose, of something — I know
The Only Witness gone. 19
not what. What did she keep up ? Whom did she
persuade ? But why should we want to know ? "
'• Wandering words. Nurses will tell you that no
importance can be attached to the last words when
the brain wanders. Well, Humphrey, while you
were at the funeral I unlocked her drawers and
examined the contents. I found that she had quite
a large sum of money invested. One is not in good
service for all these years without saving something.
There is a little pile of photographs of yourself at
various ages. I have put them aside for you, if you
like to have them."
" I don't want them," he replied carelessly.
" I shall keep them, then. There is her wardrobe
also. I believe she had nephews and nieces and
cousins in her native village in India. All her
possessions shall be sent out to them. Meanwhile,
there is a little packet of things which she tied up
a great many years ago, and has kept ever since.
The sight of them caused me a strange shock. I
thought they had been long destroyed. They revived
my memories of a day — an event — certain days —
when you were an infant."
" What things are these, then ? "
" They were your own things — some of the things
which you wore when you were a child in arms, not
more than a few months old."
" Oh, they are not very interesting, are they ? "
" Perhaps not." Lady Woodroffe had in her lap a
small packet tied up in a towel or a serviette. She
placed it on the table. " Humphrey, I always think,
when I look at old things, of the stories they might
20 The Changeling.
tell, if they could, of the histories and the changes
which might have happened."
"Well, I don't know, mother. I am very well
contented with things as they are, though they might
have given my father a peerage. As for thinking of
what they might have been, why, I might, perhaps,
have been born in a gutter."
" You might, Humphrey " — the widow laughed,
which was an unwonted thing in her — "you certainly
might. And you cannot imagine what you would be
now, had you been born in a gutter."
" What's the good of asking, then ? "
" Look at this bundle of your things."
" I don't want to look at them."
" No, I dare say not. But I do. They tell a story
to me which they cannot tell to you. I am glad the
old woman kept them."
Lady Woodroffe untied the parcel, and laid open
the things.
" The story is so curious that I cannot help looking
at the things. I have opened the bundle a dozen
times to-day, since I found it. I believe I shall have
to tell you that story some day, Humphrey, whether
I like it or not."
" What story can there be connected with a parcel
of socks and shoes ? "
" To you, at present, none. To me, a most event-
ful story. The old nurse knew the story very well,
but she never talked about it. See, Humphrey, the
things are of quite coarse materials — one would think
they were made for that ' gutter child we talked
about."
The Only Witness gone. 21
Her son stooped and picked up a paper that had
fallen on the floor.
'"His name is Humphrey,' " he read, " A servant's
handwriting, one would think. What was the use of
writing what everybody knew ? "
" Perhaps some servant was practising the art of
penmanship. Well " — she tied up the parcel again —
*' I shall keep these things myself."
She put the parcel on the table, and presently
carried it to her room. Her son immediately forgot
all about the old nurse's strange last words, and the
parcel of clothes, and everything. This was not
unnatural, because he presently went back to Cam-
bridge, where there is very little sympathy with the
sentiment of baby linen.
When the door closed upon her son, his mother
sprang to her feet.
" Oh ! " she clasped her hands. Can we put her
thoughts into words — the thoughts that are so swift,
into words that are so slow — the thoughts that can
so feebly express the mind with words that are so
imperfect ? "I have never felt myself free until
to-day. She is dead ; she is buried. On her death-
bed she kept the secret. She never wrote it down ;
she never told any one : had she written it I should
have found it ; had she told any one I should have
heard of it before now. And all, as she said, for the
sake of the boy. She meant her long silence. I
feared that at the last, when she lay a-dying, she
might have confessed. I sat in terror when I knew
that the boy was at her death-bed. I thought that
when Sir Humphrey died, and the boy succeeded, she
22 The Changeling.
might have confessed. But she did not. Good woman,
and true ! Never by a word, or by a look, or by a
sigh, did she let me know that she remembered."
She breathed deeply, as if relieved from a great
anxiety.
" I have thought it all over, day after day. There
is nothing that can be found out now. The doctor
would not recognize me. I suppose he is still slaving
at Birmingham ; he did not know my name. The
mother never saw me. At last, I am free from
danger ! After all these years, I have no longer any
fear."
Over the mantel hung a portrait of her late
husband.
" Humphrey," she said, talking to it familiarly,
" I did it for your sake. I could not bear that you
should lose your boy. All for your sake — all for
your sake I screened the child from you. At least
you never knew that there is not — there has never
been — the least touch of your nobility in the gutter
child. He is mean ; he is selfish. He has never
done a kind action, or said a generous word. He
has no friends, only companions. He has already
all the vices, but is never carried away ; he will
become a sensualist, a cold and heartless sensualist.
I am sorry, Humphrey, truly sorry, my most noble
and honourable husband, that I have given you so
unworthy a successor. Yet he is careful ; he will
cause no scandal. So far, my husband, your name
is safe."
CHAPTER III.
THE THREE COUSINS,
" Is it possible ? " they repeated, gazing each upon
each in the triangular fashion.
Every incident in life is a coincident. That is to
say, nothing happens as one expects. The reason
is that no one considers the outside forces, which
are unseen ; very few, indeed, take into consideration
the inside forces, which are obvious. The trade of
prophet has fallen into decay, because we no longer
believe in him ; we know that he cannot really
prophesy the coincidence : to him, as to us, the
future is the unexpected. Wise folk, therefore, go
about prepared for anything : they carry an umbrella
in July ; they build more ships when peace is most
profound. The unexpected, the coincidence, gives
to life its chief charm : it relieves the monotony ; it
breaks the week, so to speak. Formerly it might
take the form of invasion, a descent upon the coast :
dwellers by the seaside enjoyed, therefore, the most
exciting lives possible. To-day it comes by telegraph,
by post, by postal express. The philosopher of tears
says that the unexpected is always disagreeable ;
he of smiles says that, on the whole, he has received
more good gifts unexpectedly than thwacks. Mostly
24 The Changeling.
however, the opinion of the multitude, which is always
right, is summed up in the words of the itinerant
merchant — the man with the barrow and the oranges.
"We expex a shilling," he says, "and we gits
tuppence."
*' Is it possible? "
These three people had arisen and gone forth
that morning expecting nothing, and lo ! a miracle !
For they were enriched, suddenly, and without the
least expectation, by the discovery that they were
all three of common kin. Imagine the boundless
possibilities of newly recovered cousinship ! No one
knows what may come out of it — an augmentation
of family pride, an increase of family griefs, the
addition of sympathy with the lowly, the shame and
honour of ancient scandals, more money perhaps,
more influence perhaps. It may be a most fortunate
event. On the other hand But for the moment,
these three had not begun to consider the other side.
"Is it possible?" Well, it is sometimes best to
answer a question by repeating it. The place was
a country churchyard ; the time, a forenoon in July.
In the churchyard was a group of four. They were
all young, and two of them were of one sex, and two
were of the other.
The girls were the first to arrive. They entered
by a gate opening into the churchyard from a small
coppice on the north side.
One of the girls, evidently the leader, had in her
face, her form, her carriage, something of Pallas
Athene. She was grave — the goddess, I believe,
seldom laughed ; she was one of those girls who
The Three Cousins. 25
can smile readily and pleasantly, but are not anxious
to hear good stories, like the frivolous man at his
club, and really saw very little to laugh at even in the
unexpectedness of men — nothing, of course, in the
ways of women. Her seriousness was sweet in
the eyes of those who loved her — that is to say, of
all who had the privilege of knowing her. Her head
was large and shapely — a shapely head is a very
lovely thing in woman. Her figure matched her head
in being large and full. Her features were regular,
her cheek was ample, like that of a certain bronze
Venus in the Museum. Her hair was light in colour,
and abundant, not of the feathery kind, but heavy,
and easily coiled in classical fashion. Her eyes were
of that dark blue which is wickedly said to accompany
a deceitful nature. If this is ever true, it certainly
was not true of Hilarie Woodrofife. She was dressed
in white, as becomes a girl on a summer morning,
with a rose at her throat for a touch of colour. As
a child of her generation, she was naturally tall ;
and being, as she was, a girl of the highest refinement
and culture after such an education as girls can now
command, and being, moreover, much occupied with
the difficulties and problems of the age, she bore
upon her brow an undoubted stamp of intellectual
endeavour. Twenty years ago, such a girl would
have been impossible. If you are still, happily, so
young that you can doubt this assertion, read the
novels — the best and the worst — of that time.
Her companion showed in her face and her appear-
ance more of Aphrodite than the sister goddess. She
looked as sprightly as L'Allegra herself; of slighter
26 The Changeling.
figure than the other, she was one of those fortunate
girls who attract by their manner more than by their
beauty. Indeed, no one could call her beautiful ; but
many called her charming. Her grey eyes danced
and sparkled ; her lips were always smiling ; her head
was never still ; her face was made for laughing and
her eyes for joy ; her hair was of the very commonest
brown colour — every other kind of girl has that kind
of hair, yet upon her it looked distinguished. The
dress she wore — she had designed and made it her-
self— seemed craftily intended to set off her figure
and her face and her eyes. In a word, she was one
of those girls — a large class — who seem born especi-
ally for the delight and happiness of the male world.
They are acting girls, singing girls, dancing girls,
even stay-at-home girls ; but always they delight
their people or the public with their vivacity, and
their cheerfulness, and their sympathy. By the side
of the other girl she looked like an attendant nymph.
I have always thought that it would be a pleasing
thing to detach from Diana's train one of those
attendant nymphs, whose undeveloped mind knew
nothing but the narrow round of duty ; to run breath-
lessly after the huntress, or to bathe with her in a
cold mountain stream. I would take her away, and
teach her other things, and make her separate and
individual. But the fear of Dian has hitherto pre-
vented me. Ladies-in-waiting, in other words, must
have a dull time of it.
Both girls, of course, were strong, healthy, and
vigorous : they thought nothing of twenty miles on
a bicycle ; they could row ; they could ride ; they
The Three Cousins. 27
could play lawn tennis; they would have climbed
the Matterhorn if it had been within reach. They
were such girls as we have, somehow, without know-
ing how, without expecting it, presented to modern
youth, athletic and vigorous, of the last decade of
the nineteenth century.
"This is my churchyard, Molly," said Hilarie.
"You have seen the house — this place belongs to
the house — and the whole of it belongs to the family
history."
"It must be very nice to have a pedigree," said
Molly — " ancestors who wore laced coats and swords,
like the characters on the stage. My people, I sup-
pose, wore smock-frocks. I gather the fact because
my father never mentioned his father. Smocks go
with silence."
"One would rather, I suppose, have a pedigree
than not."
" Small shops, also, go with silence. I wonder why
one would rather have a grandfather in a smock than
in a small shop."
" I will tell you something of the family history.
Let us sit down on this tombstone. I always sit
here because you can see the church, and the alms-
houses, and the school, if you like to take them
together. So, Once there was a man named Wood-
roffe, who lived in this village, seised of a manor, as
they say. He was a small country gentleman, an
Armiger ; I will show you his tomb presently, with
his coat of arms. This man — it was five hundred
years ago — had four sons. One of them stayed at
home, and carried on the family descent ; the second
28 The Changeling.
son was educated by the Bishop, and rose to the
most splendid distinction. He actually became Arch-
bishop of Canterbury and Lord Chancellor of Eng-
land. Now, the father of these lads had friends or
cousins — they came from the next village, where
their descendants are living still — in the City of
London. So the two younger sons were sent up to
town and apprenticed, one to a mercer, and the other
to a draper ; and one of these became Lord Mayor —
think of that ! — and the other, Sheriff. There was
a wonderful success for you ! The effort seems to
have exhausted the family, for no one else has ever
distinguished himself. Stay ; there was an Indian
civilian of that name, who died some time ago, but
I don't know if he belonged to the family. My own
branch has always remained hopelessly undistin-
guished— squires, and plain gentlemen, and Justices
of the Peace. They hunted, flogged vagabonds, and
drank port. And, of course, after all these years,
one does not know what has become of the citizens*
descendants."
" Still, Archbishop, Lord Mayor, and Sheriff — that
ought to last a long time."
" It has lasted a long time. Well, when they be-
came old, these men resolved to show their grateful
sense of the wonderful success which had been ac-
corded to them. So they came back to their native
village, and they replaced the little church by a
beautiful and spacious church — there it is ! "
Truly it was a great and noble church, ot propor-
tions quite beyond the needs of a small village ; its
tower and spire standing high above all the country
The Three Cousins. 29
round, its recessed porch a marvel of precious work.
The windows and the clerestory and the roof
may be seen figured in all the books on ecclesi-
astical architecture as the finest specimens of their
style.
"Yes, this church was built by these brothers.
They walled the churchyard — this is their old grey
wall, with the wallflowers ; they built the lych-gate —
there it is — in the churchyard ; they founded a
school for the young — there it is " — she pointed to a
small stone hall standing in the north-west corner of
the churchyard. It was of the same period and of
the same architecture as the church ; the windows
had the same tracery ; the buttresses were covered
with yellow lichen : a beautiful and venerable
structure. From the building there came a confused
murmur of voices. "And on the other side of the
church they built an almshouse for the old — there it
is " — she pointed to a long low building, also of the
same architecture. " So, you see, they provided, in
the same enclosure, a place of worship for the living,
a place of burial for the dead, a school for the young,
and a haven of rest for the old."
The sentiment of the history touched her com-
panion, who looked about her, and murmured —
" It seems a peaceful place."
" Everything in the place seems to belong to those
four brothers : the old house behind those trees, the
broken cross at the gate, the ruined college in the
village, the very cottages, all seem to me to be
monuments of those four brothers."
" It is a beautiful thinsr owning such a house and
30 The Changeling.
such a place," said the other. "But I prefer your
gardens to your churchyard, Hilarie, I confess."
Just then a young man, in a hired victoria, drove
up to the gate and descended, and looked about him
with an indolent kind of curiosity. He wore a brown
velvet coat, had a crimson scarf with a white waist-
coat, carried a pince-nez on his nose, had sharp and
somewhat delicate features, carried his head high,
and was tall enough to convey by that attitude, which
was clearly habitual, the assumption of superiority, if
not of disdain. And there was in him something of
the artist. His face was pale and clean shaven ; his
lips were thin ; his hair was light, with a touch of
yellow in it ; his eyes, when you could make them
out, were of a light blue, and cold. His figure was
thin, and not ungraceful. In a word, a young man of
some distinction in appearance ; of an individuality
certainly marked, perhaps self-contained, perhaps
selfish.
He walked slowly up the path. When he drew
near the girls he raised his hat.
"Am I right," he asked, "in thinking this to be
Woodrofife Church ? "
" Yes. It is Woodroffe Church."
"The church built by the Archbishop and his
brothers ? "
" This is their church. That is their school. That
is their almshouse. Would you like to go into the
church ? I have the key with me, and am going in
at once."
At this moment they were joined by another young
man, whose entrance to the churchyard was not
The Three Cousins. 31
noticed. He had been walking with h'ght elastic
step along the middle of the road. A small bag was
slung from his shoulder by a strap ; he carried a
violin-case. His broad felt hat, his brown tweed suit,
his brown shoes, were all white with the dust of the
road. He passed the church without observing it ;
then he remembered something, stopped, came back,
and turned into the churchyard.
He was quite a young man. His face was clean
shaven — a mobile face, with thin lips and quick blue
eyes. His hair, as he lifted his hat, was a light brown
with a trace of yellow in it, growing in an arch over
his forehead. His step was springy, his carriage
free. His hair — longer than most men wear it, —
the blue scarf at his throat, his long fingers, made
one think of art in some shape or other. Probably a
musician.
In the churchyard he looked about him curiousl}'.
Then he turned to the group of three, and put
exactly the same question as that proposed by the
first young man.
"May I ask," he said, "if this is Woodroffe
Church ? "
The attendant nymph jumped up. "Oh!" she
cried. " It's Dick ! "
" You here, Molly ? " he asked. " I never ex-
pected "
"Hilarie," said the girl, "this is my old friend
Dick. We were children together."
Hilarie bowed graciously. " I am pleased to know
your friend," she said. " I was just telling this other
gentleman that this is Woodroffe Church. We are
32 The Changeling.
going into the church : would you like to come
too?"
Hilarie led the way, and opened the door of the
south porch. Within, restorers had been at work.
The seats which replaced the old oaken pews were
machine-made, and new ; they wanted the mellowing
touch of two hundred years, and even then they
would be machine-made still. The rood screen, as
old as the Archbishop, was so polished and scraped,
that it looked almost as much machine-made as the
seats. Even the roof, after its scraping and painting,
looked brand new. Yet they had not destroyed all
the antiquity of the church : there were still the grey
arches, the grey pillars, the grey walls and the monu-
ments. There were many monuments in the church ;
two or three tablets in memory of former vicars ; all
the rest, shields, busts, and sculptured tombs, in
memory of bygone Woodroffes. A low recessed arch
in the north wall contained the figure of a Crusader.
" He is one of the Woodroffes," said the guide. A
recent tablet commemorated one who fell at the
Alma. "He was another of them," said the guide.
" You are walking over the graves of a whole family ;
they have been buried here from time immemorial.
Every slab in the aisle, and every stone in the chancel,
covers one of them."
In the north transept there stood a long low altar-
tomb, with carvings on the sides, and a slab of grey
granite on the top. Formerly it had been surrounded
and covered by a white marble tabernacle richly
carved ; this was now broken away and destroyed,
except a few fragments in the wall. The tomb
The Three Cousins. 33
itself was dilapidated ; the granite slab was broken
in two, yet the inscription remained perfectly legible.
It was as follows : —
"Hie jaceiit
ROBERTUS WooDROFFE, Amiiger,
et
HiLARis, Uxor Ejus,
Qui Robertus obiit Sep. 2, a.d. mccccxxxix.''
In the right-hand corner of the slab were the arms of
the deceased.
" This tomb," said the guide, " was erected by the
Archbishop, to the memory of his father."
On the opposite side of the south transept one
of the common Elizabethan monuments was affixed
to the wall. It represented figures in relief, and
painted. The husband and wife, both in high ruffs,
knelt before a desk, face to face. Below them was a
procession of boys and girls, six in number. Over
their heads was a shield with a coat-of-arms — the
same arms as on the other tomb. The monument
was sacred to the memory of Robert Woodroffe,
Knight, and Johanna his wife. Beneath the figures
was a scroll on which the local poet had been allowed
to do his worst.
" After thy Dethe, thy Words and Works survive
To shew thy Virtues : as if still alive.
When thou didst fall, fair Mercy shrieked and swoonVl,
And Charity bemoaned her deadly Wounde.
The Orphan'd Babe, the hapless Widow cry'd.
Ah ! who will help us now that thou hast dyed?"
" They made him a knight," said the guide,
^
34 The Changeling.
"against his will. James the First insisted on his
assuming the dignity. It was the only honour ever
attained by any of this branch. They all stayed at
home, contented to make no noise in the world at
all. Well, I think I have shown you all the monu-
ments."
" This is my ancestor," said the man with the
violin-case, pointing to the first tomb. " Not this
one at all."
" Why, the elder Robert is my ancestor also ! "
said the first young man, wondering.
" Good gracious ! He is my ancestor as well ! " cried
Hilarie, in amazement. " All these Woodroffes belong
to me, and I to them."
"Your ancestor? Is it possible?" she added,
turning from one to the other.
" Is it possible ? " the two men repeated.
" The Archbishop's elder brother is my direct
ancestor," said Hilarie. " He is buried here beneath
this stone."
" Mine was Lord Mayor Woodrofife," said the first
young man. " He was buried in the Church of All
Hallows the Less, where his tomb was destroyed in
the Fire."
" And mine was the Sheriff," said the second young
man. " He was buried in St. Helen's, where you
may see his tomb to this day."
" Oh, it is wonderful ! " Hilarie looked at her new
cousins with some anxiety. The first young man
seemed altogether " quite : " well-dressed, well-spoken,
well-mannered, well-looking, of goodly stature, a
proper youth. In fact, proper in the modern sense.
The Three Cousins. 35
His turn-out was faultless, and of the very day's —
not yesterday's — mode. She turned to the other.
Circumstances, perhaps, were against him : the dust
with which he was covered ; the shabby old bag
hanging round his neck ; his violin-case. A gentle-
man does not travel on foot, carrying a violin.
Besides, his face was not the kind of face which
comes out of Eton and Trinity. It was a humorous
face ; there was a twinkle, or the fag end of a smile,
upon it. Such a girl as Hilarie would not at first take
readily to such a face. However, he looked quiet,
and he looked good-natured ; his eyes, realizing the
oddness of the situation, were luminous with sup-
pressed laughter.
" Molly," he said, " please tell this lady — your friend
— who I am."
" Hilarie, this is Dick Woodroffe. I suppose you
have never heard of him. I never thought of his
name being the same as yours. Dick is an actor.
He sings and plays, and writes comediettas ; he is
awfully clever."
" Thank you, Molly. Add that I am now on
tramp."
He looked with some contempt on the other young
man.
"Since you are my cousin, Mr. Woodroffe, I hope
we shall be friends."
Hilarie shook hands v/ith him. " My name is
Hilarie Woodroffe, and I am descended from the
eldest brother. The old house, which I will show you
presently, has remained with us. And you — are you
really another cousin ? "
36 The Changeling.
She turned to the first comer.
" I hope so. My name is Humphrey Woodroffe."
"Oh, this is delightful! May I ask what your
branch has been doing all these years .'' "
" I have a genealogy at home. We have had no
more Lord Mayors or Archbishops. A buccaneer or
two ; a captain under Charles the First ; a judge
under William the Third ; and an Anglo-Indian, my
father, now dead, of some distinction."
" Your branch has done more creditably than mine.
And yours, Cousin Dick .'' "
He laughed. " We went down in the world, and
stayed there. Some of us assisted in colonizing
Virginia, in the last century, by going out in the
transports. There is a tradition of highwaymen ;
some of us had quarters permanently in the King's
Bench. I am a musician, and a mime, and a small
dramatist. Yet we have always kept up the memory
of the Sheriff."
"Never mind, Dick," said Molly; "you shall raise
your branch again."
He shook his head. " There is not so much stay-
ing power," he said, " in a Sheriff as in a Lord
Mayor."
Hilarie observed him curiously. " Why," she said,
" you two are strangely alike. Do you observe the
resemblance, Molly ?"
"Yes. Oh yes!" — after a little consideration.
" Mr. Humphrey is taller and bigger. But they cer-
tainly are alike."
" Good Heavens ! It is wonderful. The same
coloured hair, growing in the same manner ; the same
The Three Cousins. 37
eyes. It is the most extraordinary instance of the
survival of a type."
The young men looked at each other with a kind
of jealousy. They resented this charge of resemblance.
" Like that bounder?" said the look of the young
man of clubs. " Like this Piccadilly masher ? " was
the expression on the speaking countenance of the
man on tramp.
"After five hundred years." Hilarie pondered over
this strange coincidence. " Let us go back to the
churchyard,"
At the porch she paused, and bade them look
round. " Tell me," she said, " if you have ever seen
a place more beautiful or more peaceful ? "
The amplitude of the churchyard was in harmony
with the stateliness of the church. An ancient yew
stood in one corner ; the place was surrounded by
trees ; the steps of the old Cross were hollowed by
the feet of many generations ; beyond the quiet
mounds the dark trees with their heavy foliage made
a fitting background ; two or three of the bedesmen
stood at their door, blinking in the sunshine.
"The almshouse is a reading-room now," said
Hilarie. "The old people have quarters more com-
modious for sleeping, but they come here all day long
to read and rest."
They stood in silence for a while.
The swifts flew about the tower and the spire ; the
lark was singing in the sky, the blackbird in the
coppice. The air was full of soft calls, whispers-
twitters of birds, the humming of insects, and the
rustle of leaves. From the schoolroom came the
38 The Changeling.
continuous murmur of children's voices. Another old
man passed slowly along the path among the graves
towards the almshouse : it seemed as if he were
choosing his own bed for a long sleep. Everything
spoke of life, happy, serene, and peaceful.
" I am glad you came here," said Hilarie. " It is
your own. When you know it you will love every-
thing in it — the church and the churchyard, the trees
and the birds, the old men and the children, the
living and the dead."
Her eyes filled with tears. Those of the man with
the violin-case softened, and he listened and looked
round. Those of the other showed no response —
they were resting with admiration upon the other
girl.
"Come" — Hilarie returned to the duty of hostess,
— " let me show you the house — the old, old house —
where your ancestors lived."
She led the way to the gate by which she had
entered. She conducted them along a path under
the trees into a small park. In the middle of the
park were buildings evidently of great age. They
were surrounded by a moat, now dry, with a bridge
over it, and beyond the bridge a little timbered
cottage which had taken the place of gate tower and
drawbridge. Within was a garden, with flowers,
fruit, and vegetables, all together. And beyond the
garden was the house. And surely there is no other
house like unto it in the whole country. In the
middle was a high-roofed hall ; at either end were
later buildings ; beyond these buildings, at one end,
was a low broad tower, embattled. The windows of
The Three Cousins. 39
the hall were the same as those of the church, the
school, and the almshouse.
" You cannot wonder," said the girl, " that I love
to call this house my own — my very own. There is
nothing in the world that I would take in exchange
for this house. Come in. Cousin Humphrey," she
said hospitably. "And — and — my other cousin,
Cousin Dick. Besides, you are a friend of Molly's.
Come in. You are both welcome."
She opened the door. Within, the great hall had
a stone bench running all round ; the high-pitched
roof was composed of thick beams, black with age ;
the floor was boarded ; the dafs stood raised three or
four inches for the high table ; the circular space was
still preserved beneath the lantern, where the fire was
formerly made.
"Here lived Robert," said the chatelaine, "with
his four sons. There was no floor to the hall then.
The servants took their meals with the master, but
below him. The men slept on the floor. This was
the common living-room." She led the way to the
north end. " Here was the kitchen, built out beyond
the hall " — there were signs of women-servants — " and
above it " — she led the way up a rude stair — " the
solar of three or four rooms, where the lord and lady
slept, and the daughters, and the women-servants.
At the other end " — she led them to the south end of
the hall — " was the lady's bower, where the lady with
her maids sat at their work all day. And beyond is
the tower, where the men-at-arms, our garrison, lay."
These rooms were furnished. " They are our
sitting-rooms." Three or four girls now rose as
40 The Changeling.
Hilarie entered the room. She presented her cousins
to them. " My friends," she said, simply. " Here
we live ; we take our meals in the hall. Our servants
sleep in the gate-house ; we in the solar. Confess,
now, my newly-found cousins, is it not a noble
house ? "
She showed them the tower and the dungeon and
the guard-room, all belonging to the Wars of the
Roses. And then she led them back to the hall,
where a dainty luncheon was spread on a sideboard.
The high table was laid for about a dozen. The
girls, to whom the cousins had been presented, trooped
in after them. At the lower table stood the servants,
the coachman and grooms, the gardener and his staff,
the women-servants, the wives and children of the
men. All sat down together at their table, which ran
along the middle of the hall. Before Hilarie's chair,
in the middle of the high table, stood an ancient ship
in silver ; ready for her use was a silver-gilt cup,
also ancient ; silver cups stood for each of her
guests.
" We all dine together," she said — " my friends and
I at our table, my servants below ; we are one family.
My ancestors " — her cousins sat on each side of her
— " dined in this fashion. There is something in
humanity which makes those friends who break bread
together."
" It is like a picnic five hundred years back," said
Humphrey. " I have heard talk, all my life, about
this place. My father always intended to visit it, but
at last grew too old."
Hilarie watched her two guests. The taller,
The Three Cousins. 41
Humphrey, had the manners of society ; he seemed
to be what the world, justly jealous, allows to be a
gentleman. Yet he had a certain coldness of manner,
and he accepted the beauty of this ancient place with-
out surprise or enthusiasm.
" What are you by profession, Cousin Humphrey ? "
she asked.
" Nothing, as yet ; I have been travelling since I
left Cambridge." He laid his card before her — " Sir
Humphrey Woodrofife."
" You have the title from your father. I hope you
will create new distinctions for yourself."
"I suppose," he said coldly, "that I shall go into
the House. My people seem to want it. There arc
too many cads in the House, but it seems that we
cannot get through the world without encountering
cads." He looked through his hostess, so to speak,
and upon the third cousin, perhaps accidentally.
" You certainly cannot," observed the third. " For
instance, I am sitting with you at luncheon."
" You will play something presently, Dick, won't
you ? "
Molly, sitting on the other side of the table, saw a
quick flush upon her friend's cheek, and hastened to
avert further danger. One may be a cad, but some
cads are sensitive to an openly avowed contempt
for cads.
Dick laughed. "All right, Molly. What shall I
play ? Something serious, befitting the place ?
Luncheon is over — I will play now, if you like." He
looked down the hall. " That, I suppose, is the
musicians' loft ?"
42 The Changeling.
" That is the musicians' gallery. It is a late
addition — Elizabethan, I believe."
"The musicians' gallery? Well, Miss Woodroffe,
I am the music. Let me play you something in
return for the fine ancestors you have given me, and
for your gracious hospitality."
He took up his violin-case, to which he had clung
with fidelity, marched down the hall, climbed up into
the gallery, and began to tune his fiddle.
"Hilarie," Molly said, "Dick plays in the most
lovely way possible. He carries you quite out of
yourself. That is why everybody loves him so."
However, the artist, standing up alone in the
gallery, struck a chord, and began to play.
I suppose that the magic belonged to the fiddle
itself. It is astonishing what magical powers a fiddle
may possess. This was the most sympathetic instru-
ment possible. It was a thought leader or inspirer.
The moment it began, all the listeners, including the
servants below the salt, sat upright, their eyes fixed
upon the gallery, rapt out of themselves.
Hilarie, for her part, saw in a vision, but with a
clearness and distinctness most marvellous, her an-
cestor Robert with Hilarie his wife. They were both
well-stricken in years ; they were standing in the
porch with their eldest son, his wife and children, to
receive their visitors. And first, across the draw-
bridge, rode the great Lord Archbishop and Lord
Chancellor, followed by his retinue. When the Arch-
bishop dismounted, the old man and his wife, and the
son, and his wife, and his children went on their
knees ; but the Archbishop bade them rise, and
The Three Cousins. 43
kissed his parents lovingly. Meantime, the pages
and the varlets were unloading pack-horses and pack-
mules, because the Archbishop would not lay upon
his father so great a charge as the entertainment of
his following. And she saw next how the Lord
Mayor and the Sheriff, his brother, rode up side by
side, the Sheriff a little behind the Mayor, and how
they dismounted and knelt for their father's blessing ;
and so all into the hall together, to take counsel for
the great things they were minded to do for their
native village.
Hilarie turned to her cousin on the right. " Cousin,"
she said, still in her dream, "we must think of our
forefathers, and of what they did. We must ask
what the Archbishop would have done in our place."
But her cousin made no reply. He was looking
with a kind of wonder at Molly. Had the man never
seen an attractive girl before? He had ; but out of
a thousand attractive girls a man may be attracted
by one only.
And the music went on. What was it that the
musician played ? Indeed, I know not ; things that
awakened the imagination and touched the heart.
" No one knows," said Molly, " what he plays ;
only he makes one lost to everything."
As for herself, she had a delicious dream of going
on the tramp with Dick, he and she alone — he to
play, and she But when she was about to tell
this dream, she would not confess her part in the
tramp.
The music was over ; the fiddle was replaced in its
case ; the musician was going away.
44 The Changeling.
In the porch stood Hilarie. " Cousin," she said,
" do you go on tramp for pleasure or for necessity? "
"For both. I must needs go on tramp from time
to time. There is a restlessness in me. I suppose it
is in the blood. Perhaps there was a gipsy once
among my ancestors."
" But do you really — live — by playing to people ? "
"He needn't," said Molly; "but he must. He
leaves his money at home, and carries his fiddle. Oh,
heavenly ! "
" Why not .'' I fiddle on village greens and in
rustic inns. I camp among the gipsies ; I walk with
the tramps and casuals. There is no more pleasant
life, believe me ! "
He began to sing in a light, musical tenor —
" When daffodils began to peer,
With heigh ! the doxy over the dale,
Why then comes in the sweet o' the year ;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.
The lark that tirra-lirra chants
With heigh ! with heigh ! the thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the hay."
" You are a strange man," said Hilarie. " Come
and see me again."
" I am a vagabond," he replied, "and my name is
Autolycus."
Dick took off his hat and bowed low, not in
Piccadilly style at all ; he waved his hand to Molly ;
he glared defiance at Humphrey, who loftily bent his
head ; and then, catching up his violin-case, he started
off with a step light and elastic.
The Three Cousins. 45
Humphrey, the other cousin, half an hour later,
stood beside his carriage,
" I must congratulate myself," he said, " on the
good fortune which has presented me to the head of
my family."
" To two cousins, say."
" Oh ! I fancy we shall not see much of Autolycus.
Meanwhile, since you kindly grant me permission, I
hope to call upon you again."
" I shall be very pleased."
As he drove away, his last look was not on Hilaric,
but on the girl beside her — the girl called Molly —
the nymph attendant. Some, the goddess charms ;
but more, the nymph attendant.
" What was she doing with all those girls ? " he
asked. " Making a home for them, or some such
beastly nonsense, I suppose."
CHAPTER IV.
THE CONSULTING-ROOM.
The doctor's servant opened the door noiselessly,
almost stealthily, and looked round the room.
There were half a dozen people waiting. One was
an ex-colonial governor, who had been maintaining
the empire with efficiency in many parts of the world
for thirty years, and was now anxious to keep himself
alive for a few years in the seclusion of a seaside
town, if certain symptoms could be kept down.
There was a middle-aged victim to gout ; there was
an elderly sufferer from rheumatism ; there was an
anaemic girl ; there was a young fellow who looked
the picture of health ; and, sitting at one of the
windows, there was a lady, richly dressed, her pale
face, with delicate features of the kind which do not
grow old, looking anxious and expectant.
They were all anxious and expectant : they feared
the worst, and hoped the best. One looked out of
window, seeing nothing ; one gazed into the fireplace,
not knowing whether there was a fire in it ; one turned
over the pages of a society journal, reading nothing;
all were thinking of their symptoms. For those who
wait for the physician, there is nothing in the whole
The Consulting-Room. 47
world to consider except symptoms. They have got
to set forth their symptoms to the physician. They
have to tell the truth, that is quite clear. Still, the
plain truth can be dressed up a little ; it can be
presented with palliatives. A long course of strong
drinks may figure as a short course of weak whisky-
and-soda. Perhaps the danger, after all, is not so
grave. Patients waiting for the doctor are like
persons waiting to be tried for life. Can a man take
any interest in anything who awaits his trial for life
— who hopes for an acquittal, but fears a capital
sentence ?
The doctor's manservant looked round the room,
and then glided like a black ghost across the thick
carpet. He stopped before the lady in the window.
" Sir Robert, madam, will see you."
There are some who maintain that the success of
this eminent physician, Sir Robert Steele, M.D.,
F.R.S., is largely due to the virtues of his manservant.
Certainly this usher of the chamber, this guardian of
the portal, this receiver of those who bring tribute,
has no equal in the profession. In his manner is the
respect due to those who know where the only great
physician is to be found. There is also an inflexible
and incorruptible obedience to the laws of precedence,
or order of succession. Thirdly, there is a soft, a
velvety, note of sympathy in his voice, as one who
would say, " Be of good cheer, sufferer ; I bring thee
to one who can relieve. Thou shalt not suffer long."
The rest of the patients looked at each other and
sighed. He who would follow next sighed with
increasing anxiety: his fate would soon be known.
48 The Changeling.
He who had yet to wait several turns sighed with
impatience. It is hard to be tormented with anxiety
as well as with pain. Those symptoms again ! They
may be the final call. Did Christiana, when the call
came, repair first, in the greatest anxiety, to a
physician ! Or they may be only passing clouds, so
to speak, calling attention to the advance of years.
The doctor, in his consulting-room, held a card in
his hand — " Mrs. John Haveril." The name was
somehow familiar to him. He could not remember,
at the moment, the associations of the name. A
physician, you see, may remember, if he pleases, so
many names. To every man's memory belongs a
long procession of figures and faces, with eyes and
voices. But most men work alone. Think of the
procession in the memory of a physician, who all day
long sees new faces and hears new voices ! " Haveril."
He knew the name. Was she the wife of a certain
American millionaire, lately spoken of in the papers ?
" The doctor, madam, will see you."
The lady rose and followed him. All the patients
watched her with the same kind of curiosity as is
shown by those waiting to be tried towards the
man who is called to the honours of the dock. They
observed that she was strangely agitated ; that she
walked with some difficulty ; that she tottered as she
went ; that her lips trembled, and her hands shook.
"Locomotor ataxis," whispered one. "I myself — — "
" Or perhaps a break-up of the nervous system. It
is my own "
But the door was shut, and the patients in waiting
relapsed into silence.
The Consulting-Room. 49
The lady followed the manservant, who placed a
chair for her and withdrew.
Instead of sitting down, the patient stepped forward,
and gazed into the doctor's face. Then she clasped
her hands.
" Thank God," she cried ; " he is the man 1 "
" I do not understand, madam. I see so many
faces. The name — is it an American name ? "
" You think of my husband. But I am English-
born, and so is he."
" Well, Mrs. Haveril, even the richest of us get our
little disorders. What is yours ? "
" I have been very ill, doctor ; but it was not for
that that I came here."
" Then, madam, I do not understand why you do
come here."
" You don't remember me ? But I see that you
don't." Her trembling ceased when she began to
speak. " Yet I remember you very well. You have
changed very little in four and twenty years."
" Indeed .? "
•*I heard some people at the hotel talking about
you. They said you were the first man in the world
for some complaints. And I remembered your name,
and — and — I wondered if you were the man. And
you are the man."
" This is a very busy morning, madam. If you
would kindly come to the point at once. What do
you want with me ? "
"Doctor, I once had a child — a boy — the finest boy
you ever saw."
" It is not unusual," the doctor began, but stopped,
E
50 The Changeling.
because the woman's face was filled with a great
trouble, " But pray go on, madam."
"I had a boy," she repeated, and burst into a flood
of tears.
The doctor inclined his head. There is no other
answer possible when a complete stranger bursts into
tears from some unknown cause.
" I lost the boy," she proceeded. "I — I — I lost the
boy."
" He died ? "
She shook her head. " No. But I lost my boy,"
she repeated. "My husband deserted me. I was
alone in a strange town. My relations had cast me
off because I married an actor. I was penniless, and
I could find no work. I sold the boy to save him
from the workhouse, and to get the money to follow
my husband."
" Good Heavens ! I remember ! It was at Bir-
mingham. Your husband's name was — was } "
" His professional name was Anthony."
" True — true. I remember it all. Yes — yes. The
child was taken by a lady. I remember it perfectly.
And you are the deserted wife, and the rich American
is your husband ? "
" No. I followed my husband from place to place ;
but I had to cross the Atlantic. I came up with him
in a town in a Western State. When I found him, he
got a divorce for incompatibility of temper. I lost
both my husband and my child, and neither of them
died."
" Oh ! And then — then you came back to look for
the boy ? "
The Consulting-Room. 51
" No ; I married John Haveril. It was before he
made his money."
" And now you come to me for information about
the child, who must be a man by this time ?"
" I've never forgotten him, doctor. I never can
forget him. Every day since then I have thought of
him. I said, * Now he's six ; now he's ten ; now he's
twenty.' And I've tried to think of him as he grew
up. Always — always I have had the boy in my
mind."
"Yes; but surely Perhaps you had no more
children ? "
" No ; never any more. And last spring I fell ill —
very ill. I was "
" What was the matter ? "
She told him the symptoms.
" Yes ; nerves, of course. Fretting after the child."
"You know. The American doctor did not. Well,
and while I was lying in my dark room, I had a
dream. It came again. It kept on coming. A dream
which told me that I should see my child again if
I came to London. So my husband brought me
over."
"And you think that you will find your child ? "
" I am sure that I shall. It is the only thing that
I have prayed for. Oh, you need not warn me about
excitement ; I know the danger. I don't care so very
much about living ; but I want that dream to come
true. I must find the boy."
" You might as well look for him at the bottom of
the sea. Why, my dear lady, your boy was intended
to take the place of a dead child ; I am sure he was.
52 The Changeling.
I know nothing at all about him. There is no clue —
no chance of finding the child."
" Do you know nothing } "
" Upon my honour, madam, I cannot even guess.
The lady did not give me her name, and I made no
inquiries."
"Oh!" Her face fell. "I had such hopes. At
the theatre, yesterday, I saw a young man who might
have been my son — tall, fair, blue-eyed. Oh, do you
know nothing ? "
" Nothing at all," he replied decidedly. " And you
came here," he went on, " remembering my name, and
wondering whether it was the same man ? Well, Mrs.
Haveril, it is the same man, and I remember the
whole business perfectly. Now go on."
" Where is that child, doctor ? "
" I say that I don't know. I never did know. The
lady gave me the money, received the child at the
railway station. You brought it to the waiting-room.
She had an Indian ayah with her, and the train
carried her off, baby and all. That is all I can tell
you."
Mrs. Haveril sighed. " Is that all ? "
" Madam, since such precautions were taken, it is
very certain that no one knew of the matter except
the lady herself, and she will certainly not tell, because,
as I have already told you, the case looked like sub-
stitution, and not adoption."
"What can I do, then.?"
"You can do nothing. I would advise you to put
the whole business out of your head and forget it.
You can do nothing."
The Consulting-Room. 53
" I cannot forget it : I wish I could. The wicked-
ness of it ! Oh, to give away my own child only to
run after that villain 1"
" My dear lady, is it well to allow one single episode
to ruin your life ? Consider your duty to your second
husband. You should bring him happiness, not
anxiety. Consider your splendid fortune. If the
papers are true, you are worth many millions."
"The papers are quite true."
"You yourself are still comparatively young — not
more than five and forty, I should say. Time has
dealt tenderly with you. When I knew you, in
Birmingham, you were a girl still, with a delicate,
beautiful face. How could your husband desert you?
Your face is still delicate and still beautiful. You
become the silks and satins as you then became
your cottons. Resign yourself to twenty years more
of happiness and luxury. As for that weakness of
yours, it will vanish if you avoid excitement and
agitation. If not — what did your American adviser
warn you ? "'
She rose reluctantly. " I cannot forget," she said.
" I must go on remembering. But the dream was
true. It was sent, doctor ; it was sent. And the first
step, I am sure and certain, was to lead me here."
» « * * «
After a solitary dinner. Sir Robert sat by the fire
in his dining-room. A novel lay on a chair beside
him. Like many scientific men, he was a great
reader of novels. For the moment, he was simply
looking into the fire while his thoughts wandered
this way and that. He had seen about twenty
54 The Changeling.
patients in the course of the day, and made, in con-
sequence, forty guineas. He was perfectly satisfied
with the condition of his practice ; he was under no
anxiety about his reputation : his mind was quite at
ease concerning himself from every point of view.
He was thinking of this and of that — things indifferent
— when suddenly he saw before him, by the light of
the four candles on the table, the ghost of a date.
The figures, in fact, stood out, luminous, against the
dark mahogany of his massive sideboard. " December
2, 1872." He rubbed his eyes; the figures dis-
appeared ; he lay back ; the figures came again.
" It's a trick of memory," he said. " What have I
done to-day that could suggest this date } " The
only important event of the day was the visit of his
old patient, and the reminder about a certain adoption
in which he had taken a part. Was the date con-
nected with that event .-'
He got up and went into his consulting-room.
There, on a shelf among many companions, he found
his note-book of 1874. He remembered. The time
was winter ; it was early in the year. He turned
over the pages ; he came to his notes. He read
these words : " Child must have light hair, blue eyes ;
age — must be born as nearly as possible to December
2, 1872, date of dead child's birth."
"That's the date, sure enough," he said. "And
the brain's just been working round to it, without my
knowledge — of its own accord — started by that poor
woman. Humph ! "
He put back the note-book, and returned to the
dining-room.
The Consulting-Room. 55
He sat down by the fire again, crossed his feet, lay
back, took up the novel, and prepared for a comfort-
able hour.
In vain. That business of the adoption came back
to him. The letters on the page melted into dis-
solving views : he saw the poor woman crying over
the child, and clutching at the money which would
save the boy from the workhouse and carry her to
her husband ; he saw the Indian ayah taking the
child from him, and the lady bowing coldly from the
railway carriage. "A lady through and through,"
said the doctor.
The torn envelope was addressed to " Lady "
She was a woman of title, then. He got up ; on
the bookshelves of the dining-room was a Red
Book.
" Now," he said, " if I go right through this book
from beginning to end, and if I should find the heir
to something or Lord Somebody, born on December
2, 1872, I shall probably come upon the victim of
this conspiracy — if there has been a conspiracy."
Luckily he began at the end, at the letter Z. Before
long, under the fourth letter from the end, he read as
follows : —
"Woodroffe, Sir Humphrey Arundale, second
baronet; born at Poonah, December 2, 1872; son of
Sir Humphrey Armitage Woodroffe, first baronet,
G.C.B., G.C.M.G., formerly Lieut.-Governor of Bengal,
by Lilias, daughter of the fifteenth Lord Dunedin.
Succeeded his father in 1888. Educated at Eton
and Trinity College, Cambridge. Is a captain in
the Worcestershire Militia. Residence, Crowleigh,
56 The Changeling.
Worcestershire, and Bryanston Square, London.
Clubs, 'Junior United,' 'Travellers,' and 'Oriental.'"
" That's my man ! " cried the doctor, with some
natural excitement. " I believe I've found him.
Then there has been substitution, after all, and not
adoption ! But, good Lord ! it's Lady Woodroffe !
Lady Woodroffe ! It's the writer and orator and
leader ! Oh, purity ! Oh, temperance ! Oh, charity !
What would the world say, if the world only knew .-* "
He threw the book aside and sat down. " I told
that woman," he reflected, "that I knew nothing
about the lady who carried off her child. Well, I
did not know then. But I do know now. Must I
tell her ? Why disturb things .'' She can never find
out. Let her go back to her adopted land. And as
for this — this substitution — I promised solemnly that
I would not speak about the business, even if I were
to chance upon that lady, without her leave. My
dear Mrs. Haveril, go home to America and forget
the boy who is now the second baronet. Go home ;
it will be best for your health. ' The first step,' she
said. Strange ! The first step. But not for you,
dear lady, not for you."
CHAPTER V.
GUEST NIGHT.
" I AM glad to see you again, Cousin Humphrey,"
It was two months after the meeting in the church-
yard. Hilarie's house was full ; her guests overflowed
into the village. It was, in fact, the first guest night
of the season.
" This is the beginning of Term," she said. " You
shall make acquaintance with the college."
" I have heard something about your college."
He looked round the room, which was the lady's
bower, as if in search of some one.
"You can take me in, and I will tell you more
about it during dinner."
There were more than the house-party. The place
is within an hour of Victoria, and a good many friends
of the students had come out by train to see what
the college was like ; what it meant ; and if it had
come to stay.
A new social experiment always draws. First, it
attracts the social wobblers who continually run
after the last new gospel. Then it attracts those
who watch social experiments from the outside.
Thirdly, it attracts the New Woman herself; those
who are curious about the New Woman ; and those
58 The Changeling.
who hate the New Woman. Lastly, it attracts
those who are always in search of material for
"copy." For all these reasons, the guests present
wore that expression of countenance called, by their
friends, " thoughtful ; " it should rather be called
"uncertain." They looked about curiously, as if to
find traces of the experiment in the furniture, on
the walls, in the students' dresses ; they listened in
order to catch the note of the experiment in the air ;
they cast suspicious looks to right and to left, as
expecting something to be sprung upon them. To
be invited at all was to make them realize that they
were in the very van and forefront of contemporary
intellect ; it also imposed upon them the difficult
task of pronouncing a judgment without a " lead."
Now, without a lead these philosophers are uncertain.
Hence the aspect and appearance of the guests this
evening. They did not know what to think or what
to say of the college — no one had yet given them
a lead ; they were uncertain, and they would be
expected to pronounce a judgment.
The oracle who waits for a "lead" is common
among us ; he takes himself seriously ; he is said
by his friends to have " made the most " of himself :
not that he has distinguished himself in any way,
but he has made the best out of poor materials,
and he would have made himself a good deal bigger
and better had the materials been richer. As it is,
he reads all the thoughtful papers in all the magazines ;
he writes thoughtful papers of his own, which he
finds a difficulty in placing ; he sometimes gets
letters into the papers giving reasons why he, being
Guest Night. 59
a very little man, cannot agree with some great man.
This makes his chin to stick out. He even contrives
to get people to read his letters, as if it matters a
brass farthing whether he agrees or does not agree.
Over a new social experiment, once he has got
a " lead," this oracle is perfectly happy.
"We will talk presently," said Hilarie, turning to
welcome new guests.
Humphrey stepped aside, and looked on while the
room filled up. The students, he remarked, who
were all dressed in white, with ribbons of their own
individual choice, appeared to be a cheerful company
of damsels. To be sure, cheerfulness belongs to their
time of life, and to the profession of student, about
which there should cling a certain lawless joyousness
— a buoyancy not found in the domestic circle, a touch
of the barrack, something of the camp, because they
are recruits in the armies that fight against ignorance
and prejudice. These white-robed students were
full of cheerfulness, which bubbled over in laughter
and happy faces. One is told that in some colleges
there are students entirely given over to their studies,
who wear dowdy dresses, who push back their hair
anyhow behind their spectacles, who present faces
of more than possible thoughtfulness. Here there
were none such ; none were oppressed with study.
Rightly considered, every college for young persons
should be interesting. We have forgotten that there
used formerly to be colleges for old persons ; for
priests, as Jesus Commons and the Papey on London
Wall ; for physicians ; for surgeons ; for serjeants-
at-law ; for debtors, as the Fleet ; for the decayed,
6o The Changeling.
as an almshouse ; for criminals, as Newgate ; for
paupers, as the workhouse. A college for girls is
naturally more interesting than one for young men :
first, because they are girls ; next, because the male
college contains so much that is disquieting, — ambition
and impatience, with effort ; strenuous endeavour to
conciliate Fame, a goddess who presents to all comers
at first a deaf ear, eyes that see nothing, and a
trumpet silently dangling at her wrist ; the resolution
to compel Fortune, even against her will, to turn
round that wheel which is to bear them up aloft.
The strength of these ambitions stimulates the air —
you may note this effect in any of the courts at
Cambridge. One remembers, also, that in most
cases Fame, however persistently wooed, continues to
dangle the silent trumpet ; while Fortune, however
passionately invoked, refuses to turn the wheel ; and
that the resolution and determination of the petitioner
go for nothing. One observes, also, that the courts
of the colleges are paved with shattered resolutions,
which make a much better pavement than the finest
granite. One remembers, also, that there are found
in the young man's college the Prig and the Smug,
the Wallower, the Sloth, the Creeping Thing, and
the Contented Creature. But pass across the road
to the Woman's College. Heavens! what possi-
bilities are there ! What ambitions are hers ! For
her field is not man's field, though some pretend.
Not hers to direct the throbbing engine, and make
that thing of steel a thing of intelligence ; not hers
to command a fleet ; not hers to make the laws.
She does not construct lighthouses ; she does not
Guest Night. 6i
create new sciences ; she docs not advance the old ;
she never invents, nor creates, nor advances ; she
receives, she adapts, she distributes. How great are
her possibilities ! Though she neither creates nor
invents, she may become a queen of song, a queen
of the stage, a great painter, a great novelist, a great
poet — great at artistic work of every kind. Or, again,
while her brother is slowly and painfully working
his way up, so that he will become a O.C. at forty, a
Judge at sixty, the girl steps at once by marriage
into a position that dazzles her friends, and becomes
a queen of society, a patron of Art, a power in politics.
Far be it from me to suppose that the maidens of
any college dream of possibilities such as these.
Perhaps, however, the possibilities of maidenhood are
never quite forgotten. There is another possibility
also. Every great man has a mother. Do maidens
ever dream of the supreme happiness of having a
great man for a son ? Which would a woman prefer,
the greatest honour and glory and distinction ever
won by woman for herself, or to be the mother of
a Tennyson, a Gordon, a Huxley ?
"Now, my cousin," said Hilarie. "The dinner is
served."
So two by two they went into the old hall. It had
been decorated since the summer. The lower part
was covered with tapestry ; the upper part was hung
with armour and old weapons. There were also
portraits, imaginary and otherwise, of women wise
and women famous. Queen Elizabeth was there,
Joan of Arc was there, George Sand, George Eliot,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Jane Austen, Grace
62 The Changeling.
Darling, Rosa Bonheur, and many others. The
male observer remarked, with a sense of omission,
the absence of those queens of beauty whose lament-
able lives make history so profoundly interesting.
Where were Rosamond, Agnes Sorel, La Valli^re,
Nell Gwynne ? Alas ! they were not admitted.
" The house," said the president, taking her seat,
" is much larger than it looks. With the solar and
the lady's bower and the tower, we have arranged
dormitories for forty and half a dozen sitting-rooms,
besides this hall, which is used all day long."
The musicians' gallery had been rebuilt and
painted. It contained an organ now and a piano,
besides room for an orchestra. Six of the students
were sitting there with violins and a harp, ready to
discourse soft music during the banquet. There
were three tables running down the hall, with the
high table, and all were filled with an animated,
joyous crowd of guests and residents.
" I want to interest you in my college," Hilarie
began, when they were seated.
Humphrey examined the menu. He observed
that it was an artistic attempt — an intelligent effort
at a harmony. If only the execution should prove
equal to the conception !
"At present, of course, we are only beginning.
What are you yourself doing, however ? "
" I follow — humbly — Art. There is nothing else.
I paint, I write verse, I compose."
"Do you exhibit?"
"Exhibit? Court the empty praises or the empty
sneers of an ignorant press ? Never ! I show my
Guest Night. 63
pictures to my friends. We confide our work to
each other."
Ililarie smiled, and murmured something inaudible.
"And we keep the outer world outside. You, I.
fear " — he looked down the room — " admit the outer
world. You lose a great deal. For instance, if this
mob was out of your lovely house, I might bring my
friends. It would be an ideal place for our pictures
and our music, and for the acting of our plays."
"I fear the mob must remain." Hilarie began to
doubt whether her college would appeal, after all, to
this young man.
" What we should aim at in life," the artist con-
tinued, " is Art without Humanity."
"I should have said that Humanity is the basis
of all Art."
Her cousin shook his head. " Not true Art — that
is bodiless. I fear you do not yet belong to us."
" No ; I belong to these girls, who are anything but
bodiless."
" Your college, I take it, has something to do with
helping people ? "
" Certainly."
" My own view is that you cannot help people.
You may give them things, but you only make them
want more. People have got to help themselves."
"Did you help yourself?"
" Oh, I am born to what my forefathers acquired.
As for these girls, to whom you are giving things,
you will only make them discontented."
The president of the college looked round the hall.
There were forty white frocks encasing as many
64 The Changeling.
girls, students at her college, and as many guests.
There was a cheerful ripple of talk ; one thought of
a dancing sea in the sunlight. There were outbursts
of laughter — light, musical ; one thought of the white
crests of the waves. In the music-gallery the girls
played softly and continuously ; one thought of the
singing of birds in the coppice. The dinner was
already half finished. There is a solid simplicity
about these guest nights. A short dinner, with
jellies, ices, and puddings, most commends itself to
the feminine heart.
" Let me tell you my design, at least. I saw that
in this revolution of society, going on so rapidly
around us, all classes of women are rushing into
work."
"A woman who works ceases to be a woman,"
Humphrey spoke and shuddered.
" I think of my great-grandmother Hilarie, wife of
Robert, who lies buried in our church. She sat with
her maids in the lady's bower and embroidered.
She administered everything — the food and the drink
and the raiment. She made them all behave with
decency. She brought up the children, and taught
them right and wrong. Above all, she civilized.
To-day, as yesterday and to-morrow and always, it
is the duty of woman to civilize. She is the ever-
lasting priestess. This is therefore a theological
college."
Her cheek flushed, her eye brightened. She turned
her head, as if suspecting that she had said too much.
Her cousin seemed not to have heard ; he was, in
fact, absorbed in partridge.
Guest Night. 65
" Now that all women want to work, will they
continue to civilize ? I know not yet how things
may go. They all want to work. They try to work,
whether they are fit for it or not. They take men's
work at a quarter the pay. I know not how it will
end. They turn the men adrift ; they drive them
out of the country, and then congratulate them-
selves— poor fools ! And for themselves, I chiefly
dread their hardening. The woman who tries to
turn herself into a man is a creature terrible — un-
natural. I know the ideal woman of the past. I
cannot find the ideal woman of the present."
" There isn't any."
"If we surrender the sacerdotal functions, what
have we in exchange ? "
" I don't know." The manner meant, " I don't
care ; " but Hilarie hardly observed the manner.
" I cannot alter the conditions, cousin. That is
quite true. But there are some things which can
be done."
Hilarie went on, at this point, to tell a story, for
one who could read between the lines — which her
cousin certainly could not — of a girl dominated partly
by a sense of responsibility and duty ; one who, being
rich, must do something with her wealth, partly by
that passion for power which is developed in some
hearts — not all — by the possession of wealth ; and
partly by a deep sympathy with the sufferings and
sorrows of her impecunious sisters.
There are always, as we know, at every moment
of life, two courses open to us — the right and the
wrong ; or, if the choice is not so elementary, the
F
66 The Changeling.
better and the worse. But there comes to those of
the better sort one supreme moment when we seem
to choose the line which will lead to honour, or the
line which will lead to obscurity. To the common
sort the choice is only apparent, not real ; men and
women are pushed, pulled, dragged, shoved, either
in the way of fortune or in the way of failure, by
circumstances and conditions beyond our control.
To them there is no free will. When the time of
repentance arrives, we think that we choose freely.
The majority cannot choose ; their lives are ordered
for them, with their sins and their follies. They
might choose, but they are not able ; they cannot
see before them or around them. A fog lies about
their steps ; they stumble along with the multitude,
getting now and then a pleasant bit, now and then
a thorny bit. Some walk delicately along a narrow
way, which is grassy and flowery, where the babbling
brooks run with champagne, and the spicy breezes
are laden with the fragrance of melons, peaches, and
roast lamb. Some march and stagger along the
broad way, thirsty and weary, where there is no re-
freshment of brooks or of breezes. It is an unequal
world.
Such a supreme moment came to Hilarie after
long consideration.
" I thought," she explained, " that if the Archbishop
and his brethren were living to-day, they would do
something for the women who work."
Her cousin slowly drank a glass of champagne.
" Yes ? " he asked, without much affectation of in-
terest.
Guest Night. 67
" I thought that if the Archbishop were living, he
would like to found a college — not for priests, nor for
old villagers, but for girls ; not to teach anything, but
to give them a place where they can go and stay.
In this college we do not teach anything. There are
no lectures. We need not do any work unless we
please. Every girl does exactly what she pleases :
some study, some paint — not after your school, I
fear ; some practise music ; in fact, they do just
what they please. 1 believe that at least a dozen are
writing novels, two or three are writing verse, one or
two are working for examinations. In the evening
we amuse ourselves."
" You give them all this ? "
" Certainly. They come here whenever they please,
and they can stay here for three months, or more if
there is necessity. In three words, my cousin, I
maintain an establishment of forty guests, and I fear
I shall have to increase the number."
" And what's the good of it ? "
" When the Archbishop built his school, he argued,
first, that education is good even for the swineherd ;
next, that with education follow manners ; and, thirdly,
that it was good for himself to give. So, you see,
it is good for the girls to get the rest and quiet ;
living thus all together in a college raises their stan-
dard of thought and manners ; and, thirdly, it is good
for me, as it was the Archbishop, to give."
" I do not feel myself any call to give anybody
anything."
" Meantime, I keep before myself the great function
of woman. She is, I say, the eternal priestess. She
68 The Changeling.
compels men into ways of gentleness and courtesy ;
she inspires great thoughts. By way of love she
leads to the upper heights. But you do not feel
these things."
" I do not, I confess."
" If the girls must work, I want them ever to keep
before themselves the task laid upon them. They
have hitherto civilized man from the home ; they
must now civilize him from the workshop. That, my
cousin, is the meaning of this college."
"You've got some rather pretty girls in the place,"
said Humphrey.
" Oh, pretty ! What has that to do with it ? "
The music ceased. There was a general lull. The
guests all leaned back in their chairs. The president
knocked v;ith her ivory hammer, and they all returned
to the lady's bower.
In the drawing-room Humphrey left the president
to the people who pressed in upon her, and wandered
round the room, looking, apparently, for some one.
Presently he discovered, surrounded by a company
of men, the girl who was called Molly. She, too, was
dressed in white, and wore a cherry-coloured ribbon
round her neck ; a dainty damsel she looked, con-
spicuous for this lovely quality of daintiness among
them all. At sight of her the young man coloured,
and his eye brightened ; then his face clouded.
However, he made his way to her. She stepped out
of the circle and gave him her hand.
"It is a week and more," he whispered, "since I
have seen you. Why not say at once that you don't
care about it any longer ? "
Guest Night. 69
'- "You are welcome to the college, Sir Humphrey,"
she replied aloud. " Confess that it is a pretty sight.
The president was talking to you about it all dinner-
time. I hope that you are interested."
"I think it is all tomfoolery," he replied ungra-
ciously ; "and a waste of good money too."
" Hilarie wants money to make happiness. You
do not look in the best of tempers, Humphrey."
"I am not. I couldn't get enough to drink, and
I have had to listen to a lot of stuff about women
and priestesses."
"Good stuff should not be thrown away, should
it ? Like good pearls."
"I want to talk to you— away from this rabble.
Where can we go ? "
" I will take you over the college." She led the
way into the library, a retired place, where she sat
down. " Do you ask how I am getting on ? "
"No, I don't." He remained standing. "You'll
never go on the stage with my consent."
" We shall see." By her quick dancing eye, by
her mobile lips, by the brightness of her quaint,
attractive face, which looked as if it could be drawn
into shapes like an india-rubber face, she belied his
prophecy. " Besides, Hilarie wants me to become a
tragic actress. Please remember, once more, Hum-
phrey, that what Hilarie wishes I must do. I owe
everything to Hilarie — everything."
"You drive me mad with your perverseness, Molly."
" I am going to please myself. Please understand
that, even if I were engaged to you, I would keep
my independence. If you don't like that, take back
7o The Changeling.
your offer. Take it back at once." She held out
both her hands, as if she was carrying it about.
"You know I can't. Molly, I love you too much,
though you are a little devil."
" Then let me alone. If one is born in a theatre,
one belongs to a theatre. I would rather be born
in a theatre than in a West End square. Humphrey,
you make me sorry that I ever listened to you."
"Well, go and listen to that fiddler fellow who
calls you Molly. Curse his impudence !"
" Oh, if you had been only born differently ! You
belong to the people who are all alike. You sit in
the stalls in a row, as if you were made after the
same pattern ; you expect the same jokes ; you take
the same too much champagne ; you are like the
pebbles of the seashore, all rounded alike."
" Well, what would you have ? "
"The actors and show folk — my folk — are all dif-
ferent. As for kind hearts, how can you know, with
your tables spread every day, and your champagne
running like water ? There's no charity where there's
no poverty."
" I don't pretend to any charity."
" It is a dreadful thing to be born rich. You might
have been so different if you had had nothing."
"Then you wouldn't have listened to me."
" Thank you. Listening doesn't mean consenting."
"You cannot withdraw. You are promised to me."
" Only on conditions. You want me to be engaged
secretly. Well, I won't. You want me to marry
you secretly. Well, I won't."
" You are engaged to me."
Guest Night. 71
" I am not. And I don't think now that I ever
shall be. It flattered me at first, having a man in
your position following around. I should like to be
' my lady.' But I can't see any happiness in it. You
belong to a different world, not to my world."
" I will lift you into my world."
"It looks more like tumbling down than getting
lifted up. There is still time, however, to back out.
If you dare to maintain that I ever said 'Yes,' I'll
say ' No ' on the spot. There ! "
This sweet and loving conversation explains itself.
Every one will understand it. The girl lived in a
boarding-house, where she took lessons from an old
actress in preparation for the stage. From time to
time she went to stay with her friend — her bene-
factress— who had found her, after her father's death,
penniless. At her country house she met, as we
have seen, her old friend Dick, and the other cousin.
The second meeting, outside the boarding-house,
which the latter called, and she believed to be, acci-
dental, led to other meetings. They were attended
by the customary results ; that is, by an ardent
declaration of love. The girl was flattered by the
attentions of a young man of position and apparent
wealth. She listened to the tale. She found, pre-
sently, that her lover was not in every respect what
a girl expects in a lover. His ideas of love were not
hers. He turned out to be jealous, but that might
prove the depth and sincerity of his love ; suspicious,
which argued a want of trust in her ; ashamed to
introduce her to his own people ; anxious to be
engaged first and married next, in secrecy ; avowedly
72 The Changeling.
selfish, worshipping false gods in the matter of art
and science ; and, worst of all, ill-tempered, and
boorish in his ill temper. Lastly, she was, at this
stage, rapidly making the discovery that not even for
a title and a carriage and a West End square ought
she to marry a man she was unable to respect.
"We will now go back to the lady's bower," she
said. "This talk, Humphrey, will have to last a long
while."
CHAPTER VI.
THE OLD LOVER.
" My dear Dick ! " Molly ran into the dining-room
of her dingy boarding-house, which was also the
reception-room for visitors. " At last ! I thought
you were never coming to see me again."
" It has been a long summer. I only came home
last night."
" Sit down, and let me look at you." She put him
in a chair, and turned his face to the light, familiarly
holding it by the chin. " You look very well, Dick.
You are browned by the summer's sun, that's all."
She released his chin, and lightly boxed his ears.
They had always been on very friendly terms, these
two.
"Well, Dick, tell me about your summer. Has it
been prosperous ? Have you had adventures .-' " She
laughed, because she knew very well the kind of
adventures that this young man desired.
"Adventures come to the adventurous, Molly."
" Oh, how I envied you that day when you turned
up among the tombs, covered all over with dust,
looking so fit and going so free ! If I were only
a man, to go off with you on the tramp ! "
" I wish you were, Molly. We would go off
74 The Changeling.
together. I've often thought of it. You should carry
a mandoline ; I would stick to the fiddle. We would
take a room at the inn, and have a little show. You
should dance and sing and twang the mandoline. I
should play the fiddle and do the patter. We should
have a rare time, Molly."
" We should, oh, we should ! Do you remember
that time when daddy let me go with him, and you
came too ? "
" I do. I remember how charming you looked,
even then ! You were about fourteen ; you wore a
red flannel cap. You used to take off your shoes and
stockings whenever we came to a brook, and wade in
it with your pretty bare feet."
"And we rested on the trunks of trees in the woods,
and had dinner in the open. And you talked to all
the gipsies in their own language. And one night we
sat round their fire, and had some of their stew for
supper. Oh ! And we listened to the birds, and
made nosegays of honeysuckle. And the people
came to the inn at night while you played the fiddle,
and daddy sang comic songs and did conjuring tricks.
Oh, what a time it was ! "
" And you danced. Don't forget your dance,
Molly. I taught you that dance."
The girl laughed merrily. Then she threw herself
into the attitude common to all dancing-girls in all
ages and all countries — the arms held out and the
foot pointed.
" I haven't forgotten it, Dicky. I only wish I could
forget it." She sighed. "It would be better for me
if I could."
The Old Lover. 75
" If we could go away together, Molly ! " He took
her hand and held it.
" Don't, Dick, don't ! You make me feel a longing
for the road and the country."
" There's nothing like it, Molly darlin', nothing !
When the summer comes, I'm off. All the winter I
live in a lonely flat, and am respectable."
"As respectable as you can be, Dick."
" Well, I put on dress clothes and get engagements.
I don't mind, so that in summer I can be a tramp and
a rogue and a vagabond."
" Not a rogue, Dick."
" I was born behind the scenes in a circus at St.
Louis before my worthy parent ran away from his
wife. It's in the blood, I suppose. I don't care,
Molly, what they say." He sprang to his feet, and
began to walk about. " There is no life like it. We
don't want money ; we don't try to be gentlefolk.
We're not cooped up in cages. All we've got to do
is to amuse the people. We're not stupid ; we're not
dull. We're not selfish ; we are contented with a
little. We're never tired of it. We're always
trying some new business. My poor Molly, you're
out of it. Pity, pity ! " He sat down again, shaking
his head. " And you born to it — actually born
to it ! "
" Well, I'm to have the next best thing to it. I'm
to be an actress, at any rate."
" An actress ! Well, that's something. Tell me
about it, Molly."
" A serious actress — a tragic actress. It's all
settled. I'm to show the world the real inwardness
76 The Changeling.
of Shakespeare. I'm to be the light and lamp of all
other actresses. I'm to be another Siddons."
"You another Siddons? Oh, Molly ! " He laughed,
but not convincingly. The part of the scoffer was
new to him. " You, with that face, with those lips,
with those eyes ? My child, you might be another
Nelly Farren, but never another Siddons."
The girl laughed too ; but only for a moment.
Then she became serious.
" It's got to be, Dick. Don't tempt me. Don't
make me unhappy. It would grieve Hilarie awfully
if I failed or changed my mind — which is her
mind."
" My cousin Hilarie hasn't the complete disposal
of your life, has she } "
" She ought to have, because she saved my life.
What should I have done, Dick, when daddy died and
left me without a penny ? There are relations about,
I dare say ; but I don't know where. My only
chance was to get in somewhere. You were away.
What could I do ? Eighteenpence a night to go
on "
" No, no ; not with that crew, Molly."
" There Hilarie found me. And she thinks she is
doing the best thing in the world for me when she
gets me taught to be a tragedy queen."
" You shall be a great actress, Molly. You shall
rake in fifty pounds a week, and you shall wear long
chains of diamonds, if you like."
" I've got ambition enough, if that counts for any-
thing. I like that part of it where the great actress
sweeps across the stage, with all the people shouting
The Old Lover. 77
and clapping. Why, when daddy took me to the
pit, and I used to watch the leading lady marching
majestically — like this — with her long train, sweeping
it back — so — I resolved to be an actress. And when
she spoke the lines, I didn't care twopence about the
sense, if they had any ; I was thinking all the time
how grand she looked, and how splendid it must be
to have all the world in love with you."
"You shall have it, Molly — if you like, that is.
You were always ready to think about fellows being
in love with you, were you not ? "
" Why not ? The stories and the plays and the
songs are all about love. A girl can't help wanting
all the world to be in love with her. At the theatre
I used to see love and admiration on every man's
face. The women's faces were not so full of love, I
noticed."
" Oh, you noticed that, did you ? At so early an
age ? Wonderful ! "
" And now, Dick, now, you see, I've found out that
it means work ; and after all the work it may mean
failure. Sometimes I think — Dick, I don't mind
saying everything to you — girls who are beautiful —
like me, in my way — were never intended to work ;
they were to be rewarded for their good looks by —
you know — the prince, Dick."
" Sometimes it comes off," Dick replied thought-
fully. " There was Claribel Winthrop — Jane Perks
her real name was — in one of my country companies ;
she married a young lord. But she worked des-
perately hard for it. All of us looked on and backed
her up. It might come off that way ; but I should
78 The Changeling.
be sorry, Molly. You're born for better things ; you
ought to have an empty purse."
"What should you say, Dick, if it was to come off
that way ? "
"Is there a young lord, then? Already?" He
changed colour.
'* He isn't a lord, but he is not far off, Dick ; and I
can have him if I like."
" What sort of a fellow, Molly ? Oh, be very care-
ful. It is the devil and all if he isn't the right sort.
Do you like him ? " His face twisted as if he could
not find it in his heart to like him.
" He's a baronet. He's young. He wants to con-
ceal things. His mother doesn't like show folk. He
thinks most people are cads. He's rich."
" You don't mean to say it's that cousin of mine —
not Sir Humphrey ? "
She nodded her head. "You don't like him, I
know, I'm afraid he's got a temper, and I don't
know if I shall be able to put up with him."
"You haven't promised, have you ? "
" He says I have. But I haven't, really. I am
always reminding him that there is still time to draw
back. But, Dick, think ! To have plenty of money !
To be independent ! "
Dick groaned. " It's the greatest temptation in
the world. Eve's apple was made of gold, and after
she'd got it she couldn't eat it. You think of that,
Molly. You can't eat a golden apple. Now, I could
give you a real delicious Ribstone pippin." He sat
down beside her, and took her hand again. "It's
very serious, my dear." It is the manner of the
The Old Lover. 79
stage to address the ladies so. It means nothing.
Whether it is also the manner to take their hands, I
know not. " You must be very careful, Molly. Will
my other cousin, Hilarie, advise ? "
"It's a secret, so far. But don't think about it,
Dick. I've got to please Hilarie first. The young
man will have to be considered next."
" Well, if there's nothing fixed Molly, I don't
like the fellow, I own. I don't like any of the lot
who talk about outsiders and cads, as if they were a
different order. Still, if it makes you happy — Molly,
I swear there's nothing I wouldn't consent to if it
would make you happy." The tears stood in his eyes.
"My dear Dick," she said. "There's nobody cares
for me so much as you." And the tears stood in her
eyes as well.
The young man let go her hand, and stood up.
" That's enough, Molly — so long as we understand.
Now tell me about the studies. Are you really
working ? "
" Really working. But, oh, Dick, my trouble is
that the harder I work the more I feel as if it isn't
there. I do exactly what I am told to do, and it
doesn't come off."
" But when you used to sing and dance • "
" Oh, anybody could make people laugh."
The actor groaned. " She says — anybody ! And
she can do it ! And they put her into tragedy ! "
" Whenever I try to feel the emotion myself, it
vanishes, and I can only feel myself in white satin,
with a long train sweeping to the back of the stage,
and all the house in love with me."
8o The Changeling.
" This is bad ; this is very bad, Molly."
" See, here, Dick, I'm telling you all my troubles.
I am studying the part of Desdemona — you know,
Desdemona who married a black man. How could
she ? — and of course he was jealous, I've got to
show all kinds of emotion before that beast of a
husband kills me."
" It's a fine part — none finer. Once I saw it played
magnificently. She was in a travelling company,
and she died of typhoid, poor thing ! Yes, I can see
her now." He acted as he spoke. " She was full of
forebodings ; her husband was cold ; her distress of
mind was shown in the way she took up trifles, and
put them down again ; she spoke she knew not what,
and sang snatches of song ; in her eyes stood tears ;
her voice trembled ; she moved about uneasily ; she
clutched at her dress in agitation.
" ' The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sin^all a green willow.' "
" Why," cried the girl, " you make me feel it — you
— only with talking about it ! And I — alas ! Have
I any feeling in me at all, Dick .'' "
" Oh yes, it's there — it's there all right. There's
tragedy in the most unpromising materials, if you
know how to get at it. I think a woman's got to be
in love first. It's a very fine thing for an actress to
fall in love — the real thing, I mean. Then comes
jealousy, of course. And after that, all the real
tragedy emotions."
" Oh, love ! " the girl repeated with scorn.
" Try again now ; you know the words."
The Old Lover. 8i
Molly began to repeat the lines —
" My mother had a maid called Barbara ;
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad,
And forsook her ; she had a song of ' Willow.'"
She declaimed these lines with certain gestures
which had been taught her. She broke off, leaving
the rest unfinished.
The effect was wooden. There was no pity, no
sorrow, no foreboding in the lines at all. Dick shook
his head.
" What am I to say to Hilarie ,-' " she asked.
Dick passed his fingers through his hair. Then he
sat down again, and began to laugh — laughed till the
tears ran down his cheeks.
*' You a tragedy queen ! " he said. " Not even if
you were over head and ears in love. Now, on the
other hand, if I had my fiddle in my hand, and were
to play — so — that air which you remember " — he put
out his legs straight and sat upright, and pretended
the conduct of a fiddle and bow — " could you dance,
do you think, as you used to dance two years ago .<• "
She stood before him, seeming to listen. Then
she gently moved her head as if touched by the
music. Then she raised her arms and began to
dance, with such ease and grace and lightness as can
only belong to the dancer born.
"Thank you, Molly." He stood up as if the music
was over. " We shall confer further upon this point
— and other points. When may I come again to
visit Miss Molly Pennefather ? "
He caught her head in his hands and kissed her
gaily on her forehead — after all, he had no more
G
82 The Changeling.
manners than can be expected of a tramp — and
vanished.
" If Dick could only play ' Desdemona ' ! " she
murmured, looking after him at the closed door.
" Why, he actually looked the part. I suppose he has
been in love. If I could only do it so ! " She
imitated his gestures, and broke out into singing —
" The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow."
" No," she said ; " it won't do. I don't feel a bit
like Desdemona. I am only myself, and I am filled
with the most unholy longing for money — for riches,
for filthy lucre, which we are told to despise."
Her eyes fell upon a newspaper, folded and lying
on the floor. It had probably dropped out of Dick's
pocket. She took it up mechanically, and opened
it, expecting nothing. The sheet was one of the
gossipy papers of the day, full of personal paragraphs.
She glanced at it, thinking of the paragraphs about
herself and her grand success, which would probably
never appear, unless she could transform herself.
Presently her eye caught the word " millionaire,"
and she read —
" Among the nouveaux riches — the millionaires of the West
— we must not, as Englishmen, forget to enumerate Mr. John
Haveril, who has made his money partly by transactions in
silver-mines, and partly by the sudden creation of a town on his
own lands. He is said to be worth no more than two or three
millions sterling, so that he is not in the very front rank of
American rich men. Still, there is a good deal of spending
even in so moderate a fortune. Mr. Haveril is by birth an
Englishman and a Yorkshireman. He was born about sixty
The Old Lover. 83
years ago, and emigrated about the year '55. His wife is also
of English origin, having been born at Hackney. Her maiden
name was Alice Pennefather,"
Molly looked up in bewilderment. " There can't
be two people of that name ! " she said. She went
on with the paper —
" They have no children to inherit their wealth. They have
arrived in London, and have taken rooms at the Hotel
Mdtropole."
That was all. She put the paper on the table.
" Alice Pennefather ! Why, she must be the Alice
who disappeared — Dad's first cousin ! But Alice
married an actor named Anthony ; Dad gave her
away. He often wondered what had become of
her. This Mr. Haveril is a second husband, I
suppose. And now she's a millionairess ! I think I
might go and call upon her at the H6tel Metropole.
I will."
CHAPTER VII.
THE MASTER OF THE SITUATION.
The lady looked at the card. " Sir Richard Steele,
M.D., F.R.S.," and in the corner, "245, Harley
Street, W."
"Who is Sir Richard Steele ? "
Her visitor came upstairs. He stood before her
and bowed.
" I was right," he said. " I remember your face
perfectly. But you do not appear to remember me,
Lady Woodroffe."
" Indeed, Sir Richard. But if you will refresh my
memory "
" I have to recall to you an incident in your life
which happened four and twenty years ago."
"That is a long time ago." So far she suspected
nothing.
" Yes ; but you cannot have forgotten it. I have
called. Lady Woodroffe, against my wish, to remind
you of a certain adoption of a child a few days after
the death of your own boy, at Birmingham, just about
four and twenty years ago. It is impossible that you
have forgotten the incident. I see that you have not."
For the suddenness of the thing fell upon her like a
paralytic stroke. She sat motionless, with parted lips
The Master of the Situation. 85
and staring eyes. " You have not forgotten it," he
repeated.
"Sir," she said, forcing herself to speak, "you talk
of things of which I know nothing. What child ?
What adoption ? Why do you come here with such
a story ? "
"Let me remind you again. You were passing
through Birmingham with your child and an Indian
ayah. The child was taken ill, and died. You called
at my surgery — I was then a small general prac-
titioner in a poor quarter of Birmingham — you asked
me if I could procure a child for adoption. I under-
stood that it was, perhaps, for consolation ; I guessed
that it was, perhaps, for substitution. You told me
that the child was to have light hair and blue eyes ;
and for age it was to correspond tolerably nearly
with that of your own lost child, whose birth-date
you gave me — December the 2nd, 1872. I have the
date in my note-book. Now do you remember
anything about it ? "
" Nothing," she replied, with pale face and set
lips ; " nothing."
" I found you out, only yesterday, by means of this
date. I was reminded of the date, and I suspected
substitution. I therefore looked through the Red
Book, and I came to the name of the present baronet.
He was born, it is stated, on December 2, 1872 —
the exact date on which your own child was born.
I looked out your address ; I am here. I remember
you perfectly. And I now find that my suspicions
were correct."
" Do you accuse me of substituting a strange child
86 The Changeling.
for my own ? " She spoke in words of indignation,
but in a voice of terror.
" I merely state what happened — a transaction in
which I took part. That is all, so far."
"Where is your proof? I deny everything. Prove
what you say."
" It is very easy. I recognize in you the lady who
conducted the business with me. I took the child
myself to the railway station. I gave the child to
the ayah, who took it to the carriage in which you
were sitting."
" Proof ! What kind of proof is that ? You look
in the Red Book, you find a date, and you make up
a story."
"A man in my position does not make up stories.
I am no longer a general practitioner ; I am one of
the leaders of my profession. I am no longer either
obscure or poor. I have nothing whatever to gain
by telling this story."
" Then, sir, why do you come to me with it at all ? "
" Partly out of curiosity. I was curious to ascertain
whether chance had directed me to the right quarter.
I am satisfied on that score. Partly I came in order
to warn you that the story may possibly be brought
to light."
"How.? how?"
" Since you are not concerned, it doesn't matter,
does it ? I may as well go." But he did not move
from his chair.
" So far as I am concerned, there is no truth in it."
" In that case, I can do nothing except to tell the
person who is inquiring what I know. I can send
The Master of the Situation. 87
her to you. Consider again, if you please. There is
no reason for me to hide my share in the transaction
— not the least. And if you continue to declare that
you are not the purchaser of the baby, I am freed
from the promise I made at the time, to maintain
silence until you yourself shall think fit to release mc
from my promise."
" Who is inquiring, then ? "
" Is the story true .-' "
The lady hesitated ; she quailed. The physician
looked her in the face with eyes of authority. His
voice was gentle, but his words were strong.
"You must confess," he said, " or I shall leave you.
If you continue to deny the fact, I repeat that I shall
feel myself absolved from my promise."
" It is true," she murmured, and buried her face in
her hands.
" I only wanted the confirmation from your own
lips. Now, Lady Woodroffe, be under no anxiety.
I hope that this is the only occasion on which we
shall discuss a subject naturally painful to you."
She sat without reply, abashed and humiliated.
"I remember," he said, "speaking to you then on
the subject of heredity. Let me ask you if the boy
has turned out well ? "
" No. He turned out badly."
" About his qualities, now. His father was artistic
in a way. He could sing, play, and act."
" This boy plays pretty well ; he makes things
which he calls songs, and smudges which he calls
paintings. He is a prig of bad art, and consorts with
other young prigs."
88 The Changeling.
" His mother was, I remember, tenacious, honest,
and careful."
" The boy is obstinate and ill-conditioned."
" Her qualities in excess. His father was hand-
some, selfish, and unprincipled."
"The boy is also handsome, selfish, and un-
principled."
" Humph ! You speak bitterly, Lady Woodroffe."
" You know what I am, what I write, what I
advocate."
" The whole world knows that."
"Imagine, then, what I suffer daily. Oh, how
strong must be the force of hereditary vice when it
breaks out after such an education ! "
" It should make you a little more lenient. Lady
Woodroffe. Your last papers on the exceeding
wickedness of man would be less severe if you looked
at home."
" This is my punishment. I must bear it till I die.
But " — she turned sharply on her accomplice — " he
must remain where he is. There must be no scandal.
I cannot face a scandal. But for that he should have
gone, long ago, back to his native kennel."
" Let him remain. No one but you can turn him
out."
" Doctor — Sir Richard — can I really trust you ? "
" Madam, hundreds of people trust me. I am a
father confessor. I know all the little family secrets.
This is only one secret the more. It is interesting
to me, I confess, partly because I was concerned in
the business, and partly because I was curious to
know what kind of man would emerge from this
The Master of the Situation. 89
boy's birth, and his education, and the general
conditions of his life."
" I may rely upon that promise?"
The doctor spread out his hands. "Other people
do rely upon my secrecy : why not you ? "
"And you will not tell the boy? For that matter,
if you tell him, I would just as soon that you told the
whole world."
" I have long since promised that I would reveal
the matter to no one unless you gave me leave."
She sighed. She leaned her head upon her hand.
She sighed again.
" Let it be so," she said. " Consider me, then, as
one of your patients. Let me come to you with this
trouble of mine, which disturbs me night and day.
It is not repentance, because I would do it again and
again to shield that good and great man, my late
husband, from pain. No ; it is not repentance ; it is
fear of being found out. It is not the dread of seeing
this young man turned out of the position he holds —
I care nothing about him — it is fear of being found
out myself."
"Madam, you can never be found out. There is
only one person who knows the lady in question, and
that is myself. I have only to continue the attitude
which, till yesterday, was literally true — that I knew
nothing about the lady, neither her name, nor her
place of residence, nor anything at all — and you are
perfectly safe. No one can find out the fact ; no one
even can suspect it."
" How has the question arisen, then } What do
you mean by inquirers ? "
90 The Changeling,
" There is only one inquirer at present. She is
certainly an important inquirer, but she is only one."
" She ! Who is it ? "
" The mother of the child."
" Quite a common creature, was she not .? "
" I don't know what you call common ; say undis-
tinguished, born in the lower middle class — a nursery
governess, married to a comedian first, and to an
American adventurer next, who is now a millionaire.
She called upon me, and began to inquire."
"Well, but what does she know ? "
" Nothing, except that she parted with her boy
when she was poor, and she would give all the world
to get him back now that she is rich."
" He would not make her any happier. I can
assure her of that."
" Perhaps not. She saw a young man somewhere,
who reminded her of her husband. This made her
remember things. She heard my name mentioned,
and came to see if I was the man she knew in
Birmingham."
" And then ? "
"All I could say was — truthfully — that I knew
nothing about the lady."
" What will she do ? "
"I don't know. But she can discover nothing.
Believe me, she can do nothing — nothing at all. It
was well, however, to warn you — to tell you. The
young man she saw may have been your son. It was
at the theatre."
" He goes a good deal to the theatre — to see the
girls on the stage."
The Master of the Situation. 91
" His true father was also, I believe, inclined that
way. The best way, I take it, if I may advise "
" Pray advise."
" One way, at least, would be to take the bull by
the horns and bring them together. When she finds
that the young man so like her husband is your son,
she will at least make no further investigation in this
direction."
" Do what you like," said the lady, sinking back
in her chair. " I desire nothing except to avoid a
scandal — such a scandal. Sir Richard ; it would kill
me.
" There shall be no scandal. The secret is mine."
Sir Richard rose, " I promise, once more, to keep
this secret till you give me permission to reveal it."
" Will you ever have to ask my permission ? "
" On my honour, I believe not. I cannot conceive
any turn of the wheel which would make such a
permission desirable."
" My death, perhaps, might set you free ; and it
would rid society of a pretender."
"No. For then the scandal would be doubled.
Your husband's name would be charged with the
thing as well as your own. Rest easy. Lady Wood-
roffe. I will make her acquainted, however, with the
young man."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE COUSINS.
The hall of a West End hotel on a fine afternoon,
even in October, not to speak of June, is a spectacle
of pious consolation in the e5^es of those who like the
contemplation of riches. Many there are on whose
souls the sight of wealth in activity, producing its
fruits in due season, pours sweet and balmy soothing.
All those lovely costumes flitting across the hall, the
coming and the going of the people in their carriages,
the continual arrival of messengers with parcels, the
driving up to the hotel or the driving off, the hotel
porters, the liveries, the haughty children of pride and
show who wear them — these things in a desert of
longing illustrate what wealth can give, and how
much wealth is to be envied ; these things make
w^ealth appear boundless and stable. Surely one
may take such wealth as this to the halls of heaven !
Inexhaustible it must be, else how could the hotel
bills be paid? The magnificent person in uniform,
with a gold band round his cap, makes wealth all-
powerful as well as beautiful, else how could he
receive a wage at all adequate to his appearance and
his manners ? The noble perspective of white tables
through the doors on the right, and of velvet sofas
The Cousins. 93
through the doors on the left, proves the illimitable
nature of the modern wealth of the millionaire, else
how could those sumptuous dinners be paid for?
The American accent which everywhere strikes the
ear further indicates that the wealth mostly belongs
to another country, which makes the true philan-
thropist and the altruist rejoice. " Non nobis, Domine,"
he chants, "but to our neighbours and our cousins."
So long as there is accumulated wealth, which enables
us to run these big hotels, and to maintain these
costly costumes, and to keep these messengers on the
trot, why should we grumble ? All the world desires
wealth. It is only at such places as the entrance-
hall of a great hotel that the impecunious can really
see with their own eyes, and properly understand,
what great riches can actually do for their possessor.
What can confer happiness more solid, more satis-
fying, more abiding, than to buy your wife a costume
for two hundred guineas, and to live in such a hotel
as this, with the whole treasures of London lying at
your feet, and waiting for your choice ?
About half-past four, when the crush of arrivals
was greatest, and the talk in the hall was loudest,
another carriage and pair deposited at the hotel an
elderly couple. The man was tall and thin ; his
features were plain, but strongly marked; his hair
was grey, and his beard, which he grew behind his
chin, was also grey. You may see men like him in
face and figure, and in the disposition of his beard
behind his chin, in every Yorkshire town — in fact, he
was a Yorkshireman by birth, though he had spent
the last forty years of his life in the Western States.
94 The Changeling.
His face was habitually grave ; he spoke slowly.
This man, in fact, was one of that most envied and
enviable class — the rich American, In those lists
which people like so much to read, the name of John
Haveril was generally placed about halfway down,
opposite the imposing figures 13,000,000 dollars.
Reading these figures, the ordinary average Briton
remarked, " Dollars, sir ; dollars. Not pounds sterling.
But still, two millions and a half sterling. And still
rolling, still r-r-r-roUing ! " The city magnate, read-
ing them, sighs and says, " He cannot spend a
quarter of the income. The rest fructifies, sir —
fr-r-r-ructifies!"
John Haveril arrived at this pinnacle of greatness
by methods which I believe are perfectly well under-
stood by everybody who is interested in the great
mystery of making money. It is a mystery which
is intelligible, easy, and open to everybody. Yet
only a very few — say, one in twenty millions — are
able to practise the art successfully. A vast number
try to cross that stormy sea which has no chart by
which they can navigate their barques ; rocks strike
upon them and overwhelm them ; hurricanes capsize
and sink them. Disappointment, bankruptcy, con-
cealment for life, flight, ruin, cruel misrepresentation,
even open trial, conviction, sentence, and imprison-
ment are too often the consequences when persons
who, perhaps, possess every quality except one — or
all the qualities but one or two — in imperfection.
Corners, rings, trusts, presidencies, the control of
markets, monopolies, the crushing of competition, the
trampling down of the weaker, disregard of scruple,
The Cousins. 95
tenderness, pity, sympathy, belong to the success
which ought to have made John Haveril happy.
The fortunate possessor of thirteen miUions —
dollars — got out of the carriage when it stopped.
He looked round him. On the steps of the hotel
the people drew back, hushed and awed. "John
Haveril ! " he heard, in whispers. He smiled. It is
always a pleasure monstrari digito. He marched up
the steps and into the hall, leaving his wife to follow
alone.
This lady, whom we have already met in the
doctor's consultation-room, was dressed in the splen-
dour that belonged to her position. It is useless to
have thirteen millions of dollars if you do not spend
some of them in proclaiming the fact by silks and
satins, lace and embroidery, chains of gold and glit-
tering jewels. Mr. Haveril liked to see his wife in
costly array. What wife would not willingly respond
to such a pleasing taste in a husband ? On this
point, at least, the married couple's hearts beat as
one — in unison. Mrs. Haveril, therefore, ought to
have enjoyed nothing so much as the triumphal
march across the hall, with all the people gazing
upon her as the thrice happy, the four times happy,
the pride of her country, the millionairess.
I do not think that she ever, under any circum-
stances, got the full flavour out of her wealth. You
have seen her with the doctor ; a constant anxiety
weighed her down ; she was weak in body and
troubled in mind. She was no happier with the
millions than if they had been hundreds. Moreover,
she was always a simple woman, contented with
96 The Changeling.
simple ways — one to whom footmen, waiters, and
grand dinners were a weariness. With her pale,
delicate face, and sad soft eyes, she looked more like
a nun in disguise than a woman rolling in gold.
Their rooms were, of course, on the first floor ;
such rooms, so furnished, as became such guests.
Parcels, opened and unopened, were lying about on
the tables and chairs, for they had only as yet been
two or three days in London, and, therefore, had
only begun to buy things. Tickets for theatres,
cards of visitors, invitations to dinner, had already
begun to flow in.
A waiter followed them upstairs, bearing a tray
on which were cards, envelopes with names, and bits
of paper with names. Mrs, Haveril turned them over.
"John," she said, "I do believe these are my
cousins. They've found us out pretty soon."
It was, in fact, only the day after the arrivals were
put in the papers.
John turned over the cards. "Humph!" he said.
" Now, Alice, before these people come, let us make
up our minds what we are going to do for them.
What brings them? Is it money, or is it love? "
" I'm afraid it's money. Still, when one has been
away for five and twenty years, it does seem hard
not to see one's cousins again. 'Tisn't as if we came
back beggars, John."
" That's just it. If we had, we shouldn't have been
in this hotel. And they wouldn't be calling upon us."
" They're all waiting down below."
•• Let 'em wait. What are we to do, Alice? They
want money. Are you going to give 'em money ? "
The Cousins. ' 97
" It isn't my money, John. It's yours."
"Tis thine, lass," the Yorkshireman replied. "If
'tis mine, 'tis thine. But leave it to me." He turned
to the waiter who had been present, hearing what
was said with the inscrutable face of one who hears
nothing, " Send all these chaps and women up," he
said. " Make 'em come up — every one. And, Alice,
sit down and never move. I'll do the talking."
They came up, some twenty in number. One of
the blessings which attend the possession of great
wealth is its power in bringing together and uniting
in bonds of affection the various members of a family.
Branches long since obscure and forgotten come to
the light again ; members long since supposed — or
hoped — to be gone away to the Ewigkeit appear
alive, and with progeny. They rally round the
money ; the possessor of the money becomes the head
of the family, the object of their most sincere respect,
the source of dignity and pride to the whole family.
They trooped up the broad staircase, men and
women, all together. They were old, and they were
young ; they presented, one must acknowledge, that
kind of appearance which is called "common." It
is not an agreeable thing to say of any one, especially
of a woman, that he — or she — has a "common"
appearance. Yet of Mrs. Haveril's cousins so much
must be said, if one would preserve any reputation
for truth. The elder women were accompanied by
younger ones, their daughters, whose hats were monu-
mental and their jackets deplorable : the ladies, both
old and young, while waiting below, sniffed when
they looked around them. They sniffed, and they
H
98 The Changeling.
whispered half aloud, " Shameful, my dear ! and she
only just come home ! " — deploring the motives which
led the others, not themselves, to this universal con-
sent The men, for their part, seemed more ashamed
of themselves than of their neighbours. Their appear-
ance betokened the small clerk or the retail trades-
man. Yet there was hostility in their faces, as if, in
any possible slopping over, or in any droppings, from
the money-bag, there were too many of them for the
picking up.
They stood at the door, hesitating. The splendour
of the room disconcerted them. They had never
seen anything so magnificent.
Mrs. Haveril half rose to greet her cousins. Beside
her stood her husband — of the earth's great ones. At
the sight of this god-like person an awe and hush fell
upon all these souls. They were so poor, all of them ;
they had all their lives so ardently desired riches — a
modest, a very modest income — as an escape from
poverty with its scourge, that, at the sight of one
who had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams, their
cheeks blanched, their knees trembled.
One of them boldly advanced. He was a man of
fifty or so, who, though he was dressed in the black
frock which means a certain social elevation, was
more common in appearance, perhaps, than any of
the rest. His close-set eyes, the cunning in his face,
the hungry look, the evident determination which
possessed him, the longing and yearning to get some
of the money shown in that look, his arched back
and bending knees, proclaimed the manner of the
man, who was by nature a reptile.
The Cousins. 99
He stepped across the room, and held out his hand.
" Cousin Alice," he said softly, even sadly, as think-
ing of the long years of separation, " I am Charles —
the Charlie of your happy childhood, when we played
together in Hoxton Square." He continued to hold
her hand. "This is, indeed, a joyful day. I have
lost no time in hastening here, though at the sacrifice
of most important business — but what are my interests
compared with the reunion of the family ? I say that
I have lost no time, though in the sight of this crowd
my action might possibly be misrepresented."
" You are doing well, Charles ? " asked Mrs. Haveril,
with some hesitation, because, though she remembered
the cousinship, she could not remember the happy
games in Hoxton Square.
"Pretty well, Alice, thank you. It is like your
kind heart to ask. Pretty well. Mine is a well-
known establishment. In Mare Street, Hackney. I
am, at least, respectable — which is more than some
can say. All I want," he stooped and whispered, " is
the introduction of more capital — more capital."
" We cannot talk about that now. Cousin Charles."
Mrs. Haveril pushed him gently aside ; but he took
up a position at her right hand, and whispered as
each came up in turn.
The next was a man who most certainly, to judge
by his appearance, was run down pretty low. He
was dressed in seedy black, his boots down at heel,
his tall hat limp.
He stepped forward, with an affectation of a laugh.
" I am your cousin Alfred, Alice. Alf, you know."
She did not remember ; but she offered him her hand.
100 The Changeling.
" I had hoped to find you alone. I have much to
tell you."
" A bankrupt, Alice," whispered Charles. " Actually
a bankrupt ! And in this company 1 "
"If I am," said Fortune's battered plaything,
" you ought to be, too, if everybody had his
rights."
Cousin Charles made no reply to this charge. Do
any of us get our deserts } The bankrupt stepped
aside.
Then a pair of ladies, old and young, stepped
forward with a pleasing smile.
" Cousin Alice," said the elder, " I am Sophy. This
is my daughter. She teaches in a Board school, and
is a credit to the family, as much as if she had a
place of business in Mare Street, I'm sure."
" Pew-opener of St. Alphege, Hoxton," whispered
Cousin Charles.
And so on.
While the presentation was going on, a young lady
appeared in the door. She saw the crowd, and held
back, not presenting herself. She was none other, in
fact, than Molly. Strange that a little difference in
dress and in associates should make so great a differ-
ence in a girl. Molly was but the daughter of a
tenth-rate player, yet she was wholly different from
the other girls in the room. She belonged to another
species of humanity. It could not be altogether
dress which caused this difference. She looked on
puzzled at first, then she understood the situation,
and she smiled, keeping in the background, waiting
the event.
The Cousins. loi
When they were all presented, Mrs. Haveril turned
to her husband.
"John," she said, "these are my cousins. Will you
speak to them, and tell them that we are pleased to
see them here ? "
John Haveril possessed three manners or aspects.
The first was the latest. It was the air and carriage
and voice of one who is in authority, and willing to
exercise it, and ready to receive recognition. A
recently created peer might possess this manner.
The second was the air and carriage and voice of
one who is exercising his trade. You may observe
this manner on any afternoon near Capel Court. The
third manner was quite different. It was his earliest
and youngest manner. In this he seemed to lose
interest in what went on, his eyes went out into space,
he was for the time lost to the place and people
about him.
On this occasion John Haveril began with the first
manner — that of authority.
"Cousins," he said, "you are welcome. I take it
you are all cousins, else you wouldn't have called.
You don't look like interviewers. My wife is pleased
to see you again, after all these years — five and
twenty, I take it."
There was a general murmur.
" Very well, then. Waiter, bring champagne —
right away — and for the whole party. You saw,
ladies and gentlemen, a paragraph in the papers
about Mr. and Mrs. John Haveril. Yes, and you
have come in consequence of that notice. Very
well."
102 The Changeling.
"That's true," cried Cousin Charles, unable to
resist the expression of his admiration. " To think
that we should stand in the presence of millions ! "
"And so you've come, all of you," said John of the
thirteen millions, " to see your cousin again. Out
of love and affection ? "
" Some of us," said Cousin Charles. " I fear that
others," he cast one eye on the bankrupt and one
on the pew-opener, "have come to see what they
can get. Humanity is mixed, Mr. Haveril. You
must have learned that already. Mixed."
" Thank ye, sir. I have learned that lesson."
" To see our cousin Alice once more, to desire,
Mr. Haveril, to see you — to gaze upon you — is with
some of us, laudable, sir — laudable."
" Quite so, sir. Highly laudable,"
"As for me," said the bankrupt, abashed, "I did
hope to find Cousin Alice alone."
"And if Mr. Charles Pennefather," said the pew-
opener, " means that he wants nothing for himself,
let him go, now that he has seen his Cousin Alice !
Let him go on down-trodding them poor girls in his
place of business."
At this point, when it seemed likely that the
family would take sides, the waiter appeared, bearing
in his arms — I use the word with intention — a
Jeroboam of champagne. He was followed by two
boys, pages, bearing trays ; and on the trays were
glasses.
A Jeroboam ! The sight of this inexhaustible
vessel suggests hospitality of the more lavish :
generosity of the less calculating : it contains two
The Cousins. 103
magnums and a magnum contains two bottles. Can
one go farther than a Jeroboam ? There are legends
and traditions in one or two of the older hotels —
those which flourished in the glorious days of the
Regent — of a Rehoboam, containing two Jeroboams.
But I have never met in this earthly pilgrimage with
a living man who had gazed upon a Rehoboam. At
the sight of the Jeroboam all faces softened, broadened,
expanded, and began to slime with a smile not to be
repressed. Cousin Charles thrust his right hand into
his bosom, and directed his eyes, as if for penance, to
the cornice.
"Now," said Mr. Haveril, "you came here to see
your cousin again. You shall drink her health — all
of you. Here she is. Not so hale and hearty as
one could wish ; but alive, after five and twenty years,
or thereabouts. Now, boys, pass it round."
The glasses went round — the wine gurgled and
sparkled. Cousin Charles gave the word.
" Cousin Alice ! " he cried. " All together— after
me ! " He raised his glass. " Cousin Alice 1 " He
emptied it at one draught.
" I think," said the pew-opener, in an audible
whisper to her daughter, "that it would have been
more becoming to offer port wine. I don't think
much of this fizzy stuff."
" Hush ! mother." The daughter had more reading,
if less experience. "This is champagne. It's rich
folks' drink, instead of beer."
The waiter and the boys went round again. The
second glass vanished, without any toast. Eyes
brightened, cheeks flushed, tongues were loosened.
104 The Changeling.
"Cousin Alice," said the bankrupt, emboldened.
" If I could see you alone "
" Don't see him alone," whispered Cousin Charles.
" Don't see anybody alone. They all want your
money. They are leeches for sucking and limpets
for sticking. Turn 'em over to me. I'll manage
the whole lot for you. Very lucky for you, Cousin
Alice, that I did call, just this day of all days, to
stand between you and them,"
But Cousin Alice made no answer. And they
all began whispering together, and the whisper
became a murmur, and the murmur a babble, and
in the babble voices were raised and charges were
made as of self-seeking, pretence, hypocrisy, unworthy
motives, greed of gain, deception, past trickeries,
known meannesses, sordidness, and so forth. And
there was a general lurch forward, as if the cousins
would one and all fall upon Alice and ravish from
her, on the spot, her husband's millions.
But Cousin Charles, self-elected representative,
stepped forward and held up his hand.
"We cannot part," he said. "It is impossible for
you to leave me with my Cousin Alice "
" Ho ! " cried the pew-opener, " you alone with
Cousin Alice ! "
" See you alone, Alice," whispered the bankrupt,
on whose weak nerves and ill-nourished brain the
champagne was working.
" — without drinking — one more toast. We must
drink," he said, " to our cousin's illustrious, noble, and
distinguished husband. Long may he continue to
enjoy the wealth which he so well deserves and which
The Cousins. 105
none of us envy him. No, my friends, humble and
otherwise, none of us envy him. Mr. Haveril, sir, I
could have wished that the family — your wife's family
— which is, as you know, one of eminent respecta-
bility— an ancient family, in fact, of Haggerston "
"Grandmother was a laundress," said the pew-
opener. " Everybody knows that all the Haggerston
people were washer-women in the old days."
" — had been better represented on this occasion
by a limited deputation of respectability — say, by
myself, without the appearance of branches, which
should not have been presented to you, because we
have no reason to be proud of them." He glanced
at the decayed branch. " Sir, we drink your pro-
longed health and your perpetual happiness. We
are proud of you, Mr. Haveril. The v/orld is proud
of you."
With a murmur, partly of remonstrance with the
speaker's arrogance and his insinuations against their
respectability ; and partly meant for a cheer, the
family drank the health of Mr. John Haveril.
"Thank ye," he said, with no visible emotion.
" Now, take another glass — send it round, waiter —
while I say something. It's just this." As he spoke
his manner insensibly changed. He became the
man of business, hard as nails. " I take it that some
of you are here to see your cousin again, and some
of you are here to get what you can, and some for
both reasons. It's natural, and I don't blame any-
body. When a body's poor, he always thinks that
a rich man can make him rich, too. Well, he can't
— not unless he makes over half his pile. And I'll
io6 The Changeling.
tell you why. A chap is poor because he's foolish or
lazy. Either he can't see the way or he won't stir
himself. You can't help a blind man — nor you can't
help a lazy man. If you give either of them what
he wants, he spends it all, and then holds out his
hand and asks for more." The bankrupt dropped
his head, and sank into a chair. The champagne
helped him to apply this maxim to his own case.
" The best thing that can be done for any one is
to dump him down in a new country where he'll sink
or swim. You, sir," he pointed a minatory finger to
Cousin Charles, "you would like more capital, would
you ? "
" Not in the presence of this multitude, Mr. Haveril,"
Cousin Charles replied.
" Those who want capital, either here or anywhere
else, have got to make it for themselves,"
"So true — so true," said Cousin Charles. "Listen
to this, all of you."
" Make it for themselves. Same as I did. How
much capital had I to start with ? Just nothing.
Whatever you want, make it for yourself by your own
smartness. There's nothing else in the world to get
a man along but smartness. In whatever line you
are, cast about for the prizes in that line and look out
for opportunities. If you can't see them, who can
help you .-' As for you, sir," he addressed the bank-
rupt, "you want money. Well, if I give you money
you wall eat it up, and then come for more. What's
the use, I ask any of you ? "
He looked round. Nobody answered. Cousin
Charles, perspiring at the nose, murmured faintly.
The Cousins. 107
" So true — so true," but not with conviction. Some
of the women wiped away a tear — they had taken
four glasses of champagne, but fortunately a waiter
does not quite fill up the glasses.
" Not one of you would be a bit the better off, in
the long run, if I gave him a thousand pounds."
" Not to give, but to advance," said Cousin Charles.
"Not a bit the better off," John Haveril repeated.
"Not a bit. We've got to work in this world — to
work, and to think, and to lay low, and to watch.
Those who can do nothing of all this had better sit
down quiet in a retired spot. My friends, there's
nothing shameful in taking a back seat. Most of the
seats are in the back. Make up your mind that such
is your lot, and you may be happy, though you've got
no money. I've been poor, and now I'm rich. Seems
to me I was just as happy when I was poor and
looking out."
He paused for a moment.
" Alice doesn't want to throw you over. What
then ? Why — this. Any one of you who came to
ask for something may do it in writing. Let him
send me a letter- and tell me all about it. If it's a
thing that will do you no harm, I'll do it for you.
But I don't expect it is, only to feel that you've got
somebody who'll give you what you ask for just
because you ask for it. Why, there can't be in all
the world anything worse for him. Remember that
you've got to work for a living, to begin with ; harder
if you make your fortune, and harder still if you want
to keep it. That's the dispositions of Providence,
and I'm not going to stand in the way of the Lord.
io8 The Changeling.
Go home, then. Take example by me, if you can.
But if you came to coax dollars out of Alice, give
it up."
The audience looked at each other ruefully. They
did not know what to say in reply. Nor did they
know how to get off. Nobody would move first.
Cousin Charles stepped forward.
" Mr. Haveril," he said, " in the name of the family,
worthy or unworthy, as the case may be ; greedy or
disinterested, as it may be ; I thank you. Whatever
words may drop from you, sir, will be treasured. What
you have said are golden words. We shall, I hope,
write them down and engrave them on the marble
tombstones of our hearts. They will be buried with
us. My friends," he addressed the family, " you can
go-
" Not without you," said the pew-opener — " you
and your respectability."
"Some of us will prepare that little note, I dare
say — I fear so, Mr. Haveril," Cousin Charles went on.
" In business, as you know, the introduction of capital
is not a gift nor a charity ; but I will explain later
on, when these have gone."
"Not without you," said the lady pew-opener,
planting her umbrella firmly on the carpet.
There was so much determination in her face that
Cousin Charles quailed ; he bent, he bowed, he
submitted.
"On another, a more favourable occasion, then,
when we can be private," he said. " Good-bye,
Cousin Alice. You look younger than ever. Ah, if
these friends present could remember you as I can,
The Cousins. 109
in the spring-time of youth and beauty, among the
laurels and the laburnums and the lilacs of Hoxton
Square! Love's young dream, cousin; love's young
dream." He grasped her hand, his voice vibrating
with emotion. "Alice," he said, "on Sunday even-
ings we gather round us a little circle at South
Hackney. Intellect and respectability. Supper at
eight. I shall hope to see you there soon and often."
He then seized Mr. Haveril's hand. " If I may,
sir — if I may."
"You may, sir — you may." He held out a hand
immovable, like a sign-post.
" As men of business — men of business — we shall
understand each other."
" Very like, very like," said Mr. Haveril, with
distressing coldness.
He had fallen into his third manner, and his eyes
were far off. He spoke mechanically.
Cousin Charles clapped his hat on his head and
walked out. He was followed by the lady pew»
opener, who called out after him over the broad
balustrade —
"You and your respectability, indeed! Go and
sweat your shop-girls ! You and your respectability ! "
CHAPTER IX.
ONE MORE.
They are all gone, John," said Alice, " Oh, what a
visit ! I am ashamed ! I never thought my people
could have gone on so ! As for Cousin Charles, he's
just dreadful ! "
One was left. The unfortunate bankrupt, over-
come by the champagne, was asleep in his chair.
John Haveril dragged him up by the collar.
"Now then, you, sir! What do you mean by
going to sleep here ? "
The unfortunate rubbed his eyes and pulled him-
self together. Presently he remembered where he
was.
" Cousin Alice," he said, " are we alone ? " He
whispered confidentially. "They all want your
money — particularly Charles. He's the most grasp-
ing, greedy, cheeseparing, avaricious, unscrupulous,
bully of a cousin that ever had a place of business.
Don't give him anything. Give it to me. I'm
starving, Alice. I haven't eaten anything all day.
It's true. I've got no work and no money."
" John, give him something."
"It's no good," said John. " He'll only eat it, and
then ask for more."
One More. in
"But give him something. Let him eat it."
John plunged his hand into his pocket. After the
manner of the eighteenth century, it was full of gold.
"Well, take it. He transferred a handful to the
clutch of the poor wretch. "Take it. Go and eat it
up. And don't come back for more."
The man took it, bowed low, and shambled off.
It made Alice ashamed only to see the attitude of
the poor hungry creature, and the abasement of
poverty.
"Well, Alice," said John, "we've seen the last of
the family, until their letters begin to come in.
Halloa! Who's this?"
For John became aware of the girl who had been
standing beside the door, unnoticed. When all were
gone, she stepped in lightly.
" Mrs. Haveril," she said — " I ought to call you
Cousin Alice, but I am afraid you have had cousins
enough. My name is Pennefather — Molly Penne-
father."
" Why, I was a Pennefather — same as Charles,
who's just gone out, and the ragged wretch who was
Cousin Alfred."
" Yes ; and others of the truly dreadful people who
have just gone out. I don't know any of them.
Fortunately, they wouldn't have anything to do with
my poor old dad, because he disgraced the family
and went on the stage. If they hadn't been so
haughty, I might have had to know them now."
" Your father ? Is he Willy Pennefather ? "
" He was. But he died five years ago."
"He died.? Poor Willy! Oh, John, if you'd
112 The Changeling.
known my cousin Will ! How clever he was ! And
how bright ! Dead, is he ? "
" He was never a great success, you know, because
he couldn't settle down. And at last he died. And
I Well, I'm studying for the stage myself."
" Oh, you are Willy's daughter ! My dear, you look
straight. But there's been such a self-seeking "
" I don't want your money, indeed ! "
" Oh, but have you got money, my dear? "
" No ; but some day I suppose I shall have — by
my Art. That's the way to talk about the profession
nowadays. Well, I mean that I don't want your
money, Cousin Alice."
" If you haven't got any money and don't want
any " John began.
"You see, we are not all built like Mr. John
Haveril," she interrupted, with a sweet smile. "Art,
I am told, makes one despise money. When I am
furnished with my Art, I dare say I shall despise
money."
" Oh, coom now, lass ! " From time to time, but
rarely, John Haveril became Yorkshire again.
" Despise the brass ? "
" Not the people who have the brass. That is
an accident."
" I don't know about accidents."
" Well, you've got money ; once you hadn't.
You're John Haveril all the same — see ? Besides,
it's quite right that some people should have money.
They can take stalls at theatres. If you will let me
be friends with you, Mr. Haveril, and won't look so
dreadfully suspicious "
One More. 113
" Well, I don't care," he said. " You look as
if-
" As if I was telling the truth. Shake hands,
then."
Mrs. Haveril gave her a hand, and then, looking
in her face, threw her arms round her neck.
" My dear child," she said, "you're the very picture
of your father — Cousin Will. I thought there must
be some one in the family fit to love." She hugged
and kissed the girl with a sudden wave of affection.
" Oh, Molly, my dear, I am sure I shall love you ! "
" I'm so glad. Well, may I call you Alice ? I
will tell you what theatres to go to. Oh, I shall
make myself very useful to you!" She clasped her
hands, laughing — a picture of youth and truth and
innocence. " Some time or other you shall see me
on the stage."
"We get lots of actors out in the West — and
actresses too. Some of them are real lovely," said
John Haveril.
She laughed. "Oh! There are actresses and
actresses. And some elevate their Art, and some
degrade it. Now, let me see. Oh, father is dead,
poor dear! I told you. And the rest of the
family Well, you saw for yourself, cousin, they
are not exactly the kind of people for a person of
your consideration. You should lend them all some
money — not much — and make them promise to pay
it back on a certain day — next Monday week, at ten
o'clock. It's a certain plan. Then you'll have no
further trouble with them. Otherwise, they'll crowd
round you like leeches."
I
114 The Changeling.
" I can't let my own flesh and blood starve."
" Starve ! Rubbish ! They won't starve ! What
have they been doing while you've been away .'*
Unless you encourage them not to work." And now
she sank gracefully upon a footstool, and took her
cousin's hands. "Oh," she said, "it is so nice to
have a relative of whom one may be proud, after all
those cousins. Oh, it must be a dreadful thing to
have such lots of money ! Why, I've got nothing ! "
" You've had no champagne," said Cousin John,
lifting his Jeroboam.
" Thank you. Cousin John, I don't drink cham-
pagne. Well, now, what can I do for you this
afternoon .■' "
" I don't know, my dear. We neither of us know
much about London, and we just wander about, for
the most part, or drive about, and wonder where we
are."
The girl jumped up. " Order a carriage and pair
instantly. I shall drive you round and show you the
best shops. You are sure to want something. As
for me, remember that I want nothing. An actress
appears in costume which the management finds.
You, however, Alice, are different. You must dress
as becomes your position."
*****
" My dear child," said Alice, in the very first shop,
"you must let me give you a dress — you really must."
" I don't want it, I assure you," she laughed. "But
if it pains you not to give me one, why, I will take it."
She did take it. That evening there arrived at
the boarding-house, addressed to Miss Pennefather,
One More. 115
first a bonnet, for which five guineas would be cheap ;
a dress, the price of which the male observer could
not even guess ; a box of kid gloves, a mantle, and
two or three pairs of boots.
"And, oh," said the girl, when she left the hotel
that night, "what a lovely thing it is to feel that there
will be no horrid mercenary considerations between
us ! You will admire my Art, but I shall not envy
your money. Cousin John, admit that I am better
oflf than you — one would rather be admired than
envied."
She reached home. In her room lay the parcels
and the packages. She opened them all. She put
on the bonnet, she stroked the soft stuff with a
caressing palm, she gazed upon the gloves, she held
up the boots to the light.
"Am I a dreadful humbug?" she said. "I must
be — I must be. What would Dick say? But one
cannot No, one cannot refuse. I am not a
stick or a stone. And Cousin Alice actually enjoyed
the giving ! But no money. Molly, you must not
take their money."
CHAPTER X.
COUSIN ALFRED'S SECRET.
It was a few days later, in the forenoon. John Haveril
was gone into the City on the business of keeping
together what he had got — a business which seems
to take up the whole of a rich man's time and more,
so that he really has no chance of looking for the
way to the kingdom of heaven. His wife sat at the
window of her room in the hotel, contemplating
the full tide of life below. She was not in the least
a philosopher — the sight of the people, and the
carriages, and the omnibuses, did not move her to
meditate on the brevity of life as it moves some
thinkers. It pleased her ; she thought of places
where she had lived in Western America, and the
contrast pleased her. Nor was she moved, as a poet,
to find something to say about this tide of life. The
poet, you know, looks not only for the phrase appro-
priate, but for the phrase distinctive. Mrs. Haveril
had never heard of such a thing. She only thought
that there was nothing like it in the Western States,
and that she remembered nothing like it in the
village of Hackney. Molly was lying on the sofa,
reading a novel.
Cousin Alfred's Secret. 117
One of the hotel pages disturbed her dreamery,
which was close upon dropping off, by bringing up in
a silver salver a dirty slip of paper, on which was
written in pencil —
"Mr. Alfred Pennefather. For Mrs. Haveril,
Bearer waits."
" Is it a man in rags ? Is he a disgrace to the hotel ? "
" Well, ma'am, he is in rags. As for his being a
disgrace — he says he's your cousin." Here he laughed,
holding the silver salver before his mouth.
" I wouldn't laugh at a poor man, if I were you.
Why," said Mrs. Haveril, drawing a bow at a venture,
" you've got cousins of your own in the workhouse.
Send him up, right away," she added.
The man came in. The page shut the door quickly
behind him, to conceal the figure of rags not often
seen in that palatial place.
It was Alfred the Broken ; strange to say, though
it was less than a week since he had received that
gift of golden sovereigns, the appearance of the man
was as seedy as ever ; his hat — a ridiculously tall
silk hat with a limp brim — can anything look more
forlorn i* — his coat with ragged wrists ; his boots
parting from the soles ; a ragged and decayed person,
more ragged, more decayed, than before.
" Well ? " the lady's voice was not encouraging.
" You came here last week with the rest of them."
" I did, Alice— I did."
" You had champagne with the rest ; you heard
what my husband had to say : when the rest were
gone, he gave you money. What have you done with
that money ? What do you want now ? "
ii8 The Changeling.
" I want to have a quiet talk with you."
The man had that sketchy irresolute face which
foretells, in certain levels of life, social wreck. Not
an evil face, exactly — the man with the evil face very
often gets on in life — but with a weak face. You
may see such a face any day in a police-court. First,
it is a charge connected with the employer's accounts,
then it is generally a charge of petty robbery. The
last case I saw myself was one of boots snatched from
an open counter. Between the first charge and the
second there is a dreadful change in the matter of
clothes ; but there is never any change in face. As
for Alfred Pennefather, one could understand that he
had once been the gay and dashing Alf among his
pals; that he had heard the midnight chimes ring ;
that he knew by experience the attractions of the
public billiard-room, and the joys of pool ; that he
read the sporting papers ; that he put a " bit " on his
fancy ; that whatever line of life he might attempt,
therein he would fail ; and that repeated failures
would place him outside the forgiveness of his friends.
For repeated misfortunes, as well as repeated follies,
we can never forgive.
" You can talk," said his cousin. " This — young
lady " — she was going to say " cousin of yours " —
"does not count. Goon."
" I hoped, the other day, Alice, to find you alone.
In that crowd of greedy impudent beggars and
flatterers, I could not. I assure you I was ashamed
of being in such company. As for Cousin Charles, if
it had not been for you "
" Go on to something else, please. You all came
Cousin Alfred's Secret. 119
for what you could get ; now, what do you
want ? "
"I'll sit down." He took the most comfortable
chair in the room, and stretched out his legs. " This
is the lap of luxury. Alice, you're a happy woman."
" Oh ! Go on."
" The world has been against me, Alice, from the
beginning. Look at these boots. Ask yourself
whether the world has not been against me. Don't
believe what they say. Scandalous, impudent liars,
all of them, especially Charles. No fault of mine.
No, Alice. It's the world."
" What do you want, again ? "
" I want an advance."
" Then do what my husband told you — write to
him. What has become of the money he gave you }
Is that spent already .'' "
"Don't call it spent, Alice. Debts paid, common
necessaries bought."
" Debts ! Who would trust you .-' Necessaries !
Why, you are shabbier than ever."
"Well, I can prove to you, Alice, that the money
was well laid out."
When, after many days, the man at the bottom of
the ladder gets a few pounds in gold, the first tempta-
tion is to make a night of it. What ? We are not
money-grabbers. To-morrow for a new rig-out ;
to-morrow for the weary business of finding employ-
ment ; to-night for joy and the wine-cup. When the
morrow dawns the wine-cup still lingers in the brain
— but the gold pieces — where are they ? Gone as a
dream — a splendid dream of the night. Thus, after
120 The Changeling.
a little sleep and a little slumber, poverty cometh
again as a robber : and want as an armed man.
o
"Don't let's talk about money spent," he said
cheerfully. " Let's talk about the future. I'm right
down at the bottom of the ladder, Alice. Help
me up."
If a man says that he is at the bottom of the
ladder, he generally speaks the truth. It is one of
those little things about which we are agreed not to
tell lies. And when he asks to be helped up, he
always speaks with sincerity.
" I have no money of my own."
"You've things that make money." His eyes fell
on a bracelet lying on the table.
Alice shook her finger at him. " Cousin Alfred,"
she said, " if you mean that I am going to give you
my husband's presents for you to take to a pawn-
broker, I will have you bundled out of the house.
Now, tell me what you came for, before I ring the
bell for the waiter."
He began to cry. He really was underfed and
very miserable. " Oh ! she's got a hard heart — and
all I want is forty pounds — for the good will and
stock-in-trade of a tobacconist — to become a credit
to the family."
" I have no money of my own," Alice repeated.
"If that is all you have to say, go away. My husband
may come back at any moment."
" He won't. I watched. He's gone into the City
on the top of a 'bus. With all his money, rides out-
side a 'bus. He's gone, and I mean, Alice "
Molly rose and put down her novel. Then she
Cousin Alfred's Secret. 121
advanced and seized the man, taking a combined
handful of shirt-collar and coat-collar, which she
twisted in her strong hand. He spread out his legs
and hands ; he struggled ; the grip tightened ; he
rolled over ; the coat-collar came off in her hand.
" Get up and go, you miserable creature ! " she
cried.
He rose slowly.
" Go ! " said Molly.
" No coat-collar would stand such treatment," he
said. " Pay me for the damage you have done to my
wardrobe."
" Give him a shilling, Molly, and let him go."
" Wait a minute — wait a minute. Oh, don't be
violent, Alice! I've got a secret. If you knew it,
you'd give me money. I'll sell it for forty pounds."
" Sell it to my husband."
He got up feeling for his injured coat-collar.
" This girl's so impetuous. May I sit down again ? "
"No," said Molly. "Stand. If you don't tell
your secret in two minutes, out you go."
" It's about your marriage, Alice. You were
married about twenty-six years ago — it was in 1S71,
I remember. You married a play-acting fellow —
Anthony by name "
" That's no secret."
"Which wasn't his real name, but his theatrical
name. His real name was Woodroffe."
" That is no secret, either."
" Your family wouldn't stand by you, being proud
of their connections, although the only gentleman of
the lot was myself — and I was in a bank."
122 The Changeling.
" Oh, get on to your secret ! "
" But, Cousin Will — Charles's brother — he stood by
you, because he was in the play-acting line himself,
and he got the boot, too, from the family. Will gave
you away. You were married in South Hackney
Church. After the wedding you went away. Will
met me that same day ; I remember I was a little
haughty with him, because a bank clerk can't afford
to know a common actor. He told me about it."
" What is your secret ? "
*' Two or three years later I met Will again, and
borrowed something off him. Then he told me you
had gone off to America."
" That is no secret."
" I'm coming to the secret. Don't you be impatient,
Alice. It's my secret, not yours. Now, then. About
fifteen years ago, I met a fellow at a billiard-table.
He wouldn't play much, and he had some money,
and so I thought — well — I got him to lodge with us.
Mother kept lodgings in Myddleton Square in those
days. He came ; he said his name was Anthony,
and he was a comedian from the States. We are
coming to the secret now. Well, he stayed with us
there a few weeks, and I took some money off him at
pool ; but he never paid his rent, and went away."
" Go on."
"That was your husband, Alice — your husband, I
say — your husband." His voice fell to a mysterious
whisper.
" Well ; and why not ? "
"Well — if you will have it — I'll say it out loud.
That was your husband. You married John Haveril
Cousin Alfred's Secret. 123
because you thought your husband was dead. Per-
haps you hoped he would never find you out. Very
well. He's alive still. I've seen him. That's my
secret."
" I care nothing whether he is alive or dead."
"That's bluff. He's alive, I say; and I know
where he is at this very minute."
" Now you have told your secret, you may go," said
Molly.
" I tell you," said Alice, " that I do not care to
know anything at all about that man."
" Well — but — if he is living, how can you be any-
body else's wife? Look here, Alice. I'm telling the
truth. John Anthony, whose name is Woodroffe, is
in London. Last week I met him by accident, but
he doesn't remember me. We were engaged in the
same occupation. Why should I conceal the poverty
to which I am reduced by the hard hearts of
wealthy friends? We were carrying boards in
Oxford Street. At night we used the same doss-
house."
" I tell you that I do not wish to hear anything
about that man. If he is in poverty and wickedness,
he deserves it."
" Wouldn't you help him now ? "
" I tell you I have no money."
"But this man is your husband."
** I tell you again, I do not want to know anything
about the man."
" Well, I can go and tell him that you're here,
rolling in gold. Forty pounds I want, and then I'll
become a credit to the family — as a tobacconist.
124 The Changeling.
Else you shall have your husband back again. I've
only to set him on to you."
" I don't want your secret."
" Not to keep your husband from finding you out ?
Have you no heart, Alice ? "
Molly pointed to the door. " Out ! " she ordered.
" Out, this instant ! "
He turned away reluctantly. " I thought better of
you, Alice. Well, it's a wicked world. Go straight,
and you go downhill. Chuck your respectability,
and you're like the sparks that fly upward. When I
came here the other day, I thought I was coming to
see a respectable woman."
" Out ! " Molly advanced upon him.
He placed a chair in front of him. " I know where
your husband is — in the Marylebone Workhouse
Infirmary ; that's where he is. I shall go to him.
'Anthony,' I shall say, 'your wife's over here — with
another man.' "
Molly threw the chair down, and rushed at him.
He fled before the fire and fury of those eyes.
* * * ♦ »
" Molly dear," Alice asked, " am I hard-hearted ?
I have not a spark of feeling left for that man ; it
moved me not in the least to hear of his wretched
plight. He is to me just a stranger — a bad man —
suffering just punishment."
" But his name is Woodroffe. That is strange, is it
not ? "
"Yes; his name is Woodroffe. He belonged, he
always said, to a highly respectable family. That
fact did not make him respectable."
Cousin Alfred's Secret. 125
" I wonder if he is any relation to Dick — my old
friend, Dick Woodroffe. He's a musician now, and
singer, too, and his father was a comedian before
him."
"Well, dear, I don't know. As for that man in the
infirmary, I dare say John will go and see if anything
can be done for him. He deserted me first, and
divorced me afterwards, Molly, twenty-four years ago
— for incompatibility of temper. That is the kind of
man he is."
CHAPTER XI.
THE doctor's dinner.
The secret of success is like the elixir of life, inas-
much as that precious balsam used to be eagerly-
sought after by countless thousands ; and because,
also like the. elixir, it continually eludes the pursuer.
One man succeeds. How ? He does not know, and
he does not inquire. A thousand others, who think
they are as good, fail. Why ? They cannot discover.
But each of the thousand failures is ready to show
you a thousand reasons why this one man has suc-
ceeded. First of all, he has really not succeeded ;
secondly, his success is grossly exaggerated ; thirdly,
it is a cheap success — the unsuccessful are especially-
contemptuous of a cheap success — they would not,
themselves, condescend to a cheap success ; fourthly,
it is a success arrived at by tortuous, winding, crooked
arts, which make the unsuccessful sick and sorry to
contemplate — who would desire a success achieved by
climbing up the back stairs ? If a man writes, and
succeeds in his writings, so that ordinary people flock
to read him, he succeeds by his vulgarity. Or, he
succeeds by his low tastes — who, that respects him-
self, would pander to the multitude ? Or, he succeeds
by vacuity, fatuity, futility, stupidity — what self-
The Doctor's Dinner. 127
respecting writer would sink to the level of the
fatuous and vacuous ? He succeeds with an A,
because he is Asinine ; with a B, because he is
Bestial ; with a C, because he is Contemptible ; and
so on through the alphabet. Similar reasons are
assigned when a man succeeds as a Painter, a Sculptor,
a Preacher, a Lawyer. Now, Sir Robert Steele is one
of the most successful physicians of the day. His
success is easily understood and readily accounted
for, on the principles just laid down, by those of his
profession who have not by any means achieved the
same popularity. He humours his patients — every
one knows that ; he has a soft voice and a warm hand
— he makes ignoble profit out of both. Above all, he
asks his patients — some of them — to the most delight-
ful dinners possible.
The latter charge has a foundation in fact : he does
ask a few of his more fortunate patients to dinner.
More than this, he gives them a dinner much too
artistic for most of them to understand. To bring
Art into a menu, to invent and build up a dinner
which shall be completely artistic in every part, a
harmonious whole ; one course leading naturally to
the next ; a dinner of one colour in many tints ; the
wine gurgling like part of an orchestra, is a gift within
the powers of very few. Sir Robert's reputation as a
physician is justly, at least, assisted by his reputation
as a great poetic creator of the harmonious dinner.
I think, having myself none of the gourviefs gifts,
that the possession of them must cause continual and
poignant unhappiness. It is like the endowment of
the critical faculty at its highest. Nothing pleases
128 The Changeling.
wholly. When the critic of the menu dines out, alas,
what false notes, what discords, what bad time, what
feeble rendering, what platitude of conception, he
must endure ! Let us not envy his gifts, let us rather
continue to enjoy, unheeding, dinners which would be
only a prolonged torture to the sensitive soul of the
perfect critic.
The doctor made his selections carefully from his
patients and friends. He knew all the amusing
people about town, especially those benefactors to
their kind who consent to play and sing for after-
dinner amusement ; he knew all the actors, especially
those who do not take themselves too seriously ; he
knew the men who can tell stories, sing songs, and are
always in good temper. He loved them as King
William loved the red deer ; he esteemed them higher
than princes ; more excellent company than poets ;
more clubablc than painters. Among his friends of
the profession was Mr. Richard Woodroffe, whom the
doctor esteemed even above his fellows for his un-
varying cheerfulness and his great gifts and graces in
music and in song. Him he invited to dinner on a
certain evening, partly on account of these gifts and
partly for another reason — the other guests were the
Haverils, who would be useless in conversation ; Miss
Molly Pennefather, their cousin, who would not pro-
bably prove a leader in talk ; Sir Humphrey Wood-
roffe, whom he invited for reasons which you know —
and others, yet conscious beforehand that the young
man would be out of his element and perhaps sulky ;
and two wnhrce, persons of no account — mere patients
— to make up the number of eight, the only number,
The Doctor's Dinner. 129
unless it is four, which is permissible for a dinner-
party. For the menu there was only one person to
be considered ; Dick, for instance, would eat tough
steak with as much willingness as a Chateaubriand ;
Mr. Haveril knew not one dish from another ;
Humphrey, whom he had met at his mother's table,
would be the only guest capable of understanding a
dinner. Moreover, Humphrey would have to be con-
ciliated by the dinner itself, to make up for the com-
pany. The doctor therefore prepared a dinner of a
few plats harmonized with the desire of pleasing a
young man who was most easily approached, he had
already discovered, by means of any one, or any
group, of the senses. Dinner, as every artistic soul
knows, appeals to a group of the senses, which is the
reason why civilized man decorates his tables. Those
unhappy persons to whom dinner is but feeding might
as well serve up a single dish on one wine-case and
sit down to it on another.
The reason, apart from his social qualities, why Sir
Robert invited Richard Woodroffe to the dinner was
not unconnected with a little conversation held at a
smoking concert a few nights before. It was a very
good smoking concert ; a highly distinguished com-
pany was present ; and the performers were all
professionals.
Richard did his "turn," and then took a seat beside
Sir Robert.
" I haven't seen you since last June, Dick, have I 1 "
" I've been on tramp."
" What do you go on tramp for ? "
" Because I must when the summer comes. I can't
K
130 The Changeling.
stay in town — I take the fiddle and sling a hand-bag
over my shoulders and go off,"
" Where do you go ? "
"Anywhere. First by train twenty miles or so
out of London, and then plunge into the country
at random."
" You tramp along the road. And then ? "
*' Well — you see — the real point is that I take no
money with me — only enough for the first day or two
— five shillings or so. The fiddle pays my way. I
play for bed and supper in a roadside inn. The
people of the village come to hear ; sometimes I play
and sing ; sometimes I play for them to dance ; then
I collect the coppers ; next day I go on."
"It sounds delightful for your audience. For me,
listening to you is sufficient ; as for the rest "
" It's more delightful than you can believe. Why,
I know all the gipsies and their language ; sometimes
I camp with them. And I know most of the tramps.
Some excellent fellows among the tramps. And
there's no dress-coat and no dinner-parties."
" What do you mean by saying that you must
go?"
" Well, I don't know. It's something in the blood.
It's heredity, I suppose. My father was a vagabond
before me "
" Did he also go on the tramp ? "
"Well, he was always moving on. He was an
actor — of sorts. Some of them still remember him
over here, though he went to America five and twenty
years ago."
" Do I remember him ? Was his name Woodroffe } "
The Doctor's Dinner. 131
" His stage name was Anthony — John Anthony.
His real name was Woodroffe."
"Anthony!" The doctor sat up. "Anthony? I
have heard that name. Oh yes ; I remember.
Anthony ! Strange ! Only the other day " he
broke off.
" Did you hear that name coupled with any — credit-
able incident ? "
" No — no, not very ; it was in connection with a — a
former wife. . . . How old are you, Dick ? "
" I am two and twenty."
" Yes. I remember the case now — it was four and
twenty years ago. One is always getting reminders.
Dick, there's a young fellow of your name — a baronet
— son of an Anglo-Indian ; are you any relation to
him?"
" I've met him. We are very distant cousins, I
believe. The more distant the better."
" You don't like him .'' Well, he isn't quite your
sort, is he ? All the same, Dick, come and dine with
me next Tuesday. You will meet him ; but that
won't matter. I expect some American people as
well — rich people — fwitveaux riches — the woman is
interesting, the man is plain. They bring a girl with
them — a girl, Miss Molly Pennefather. What's the
matter ? " For Dick jumped.
"Molly? I know Molly!— bless her! I'll come,
doctor, even if there were twenty Sir Humphreys
coming too. And after dinner I'll sing for you, if
you like."
Now you understand why this selection was made.
For the first time in his life, Sir Robert invited a
132 The Changeling.
company which could not possibly harmonize. There
would be no talk worth having, his wine would be
wasted, his cuisine would meet with no appreciation.
But he would have them all before him — mother, son,
stepson — if Richard could be called a stepson — half-
brothers ; and the master of the situation would study
on the spot an illustration of heredity, unsuspected by
the patients themselves,
Mrs. Haveril arrived, clothed chiefly in diamonds.
Why not ? Her husband liked her to wear those
glittering things which help to make wealth attrac-
tive, otherwise we might all be contented with
poverty. But the pale lady's delicate, nun-like face
would have looked better without them. With her
came Molly, now her daily companion. The girl was
dressed, for the first time in her life, as in a dream —
a dream of paradise ; she wore such a frock, with
such trimmings, as makes a maiden, if by happy chance
she sees it in a window, gasp and yearn for the
unattainable, yet go home thankful for having seen
it ; and humbled by the sense of personal unworthi-
ness. Yet, what says the poet ?
" Ah ! but a man's reach should exceed his grasp.
Else what's a heaven for ? "
The girl wore the dress with as little self-conscious-
ness as one would expect. It was such a dress as she
had seen upon the stage — elaborate, dainty, decorated;
perhaps a little too old for her ; but, then, an actress
must be excused for a little exaggeration. Her ro/e
this evening was not a speaking part ; she was only a
lady of the court ; meanwhile, she was on the stage,
The Doctor's Dinner. 133
and it pleased her to find that her audience admired,
though they could not applaud.
"I have invited to meet you," said the doctor,
" two distant cousins ; they bear the same name, and
are of the same descent, but their families have gone
off in different channels, I understand, for some
hundreds of years. It is not often that people can
claim cousinship after so long a separation. One of
them is the only son of the late Sir Humphrey Wood-
roffe, a distinguished Anglo-Indian "
"Woodroffe?" Alice asked. "It was my first
husband's name."
" Very possibly he, too, was a cousin. The other
is a young fellow called Richard Woodroffe."
" Again the name," said Alice.
" Yes ; the distant cousin. He is a musician and a
dramatist in a small and clever way."
" Dick is my oldest friend," said Molly.
" I am very glad, then, that he is coming to-night."
Sir Robert considered this young lady more atten-
tively, because a girl who was Dick Woodroffe's
oldest friend must be a young lady out of the
common. There was, he observed, something cer-
tainly uncommon in her appearance, something which
might suggest the footlights. Any old friend of
Dick Woodroffe must suggest the footlights.
" It is strange," said the doctor, " to have three of
our small party belonging to the same name."
The other guests arrived. The last was Humphrey.
He looked round the room with that expression of
cold and insolent curiosity which made him so much
beloved by everybody. "Outsiders all," that look
134 The Changeling.
expressed. He greeted Dick with a brief nod of
astonished recognition, as if he had not expected to
meet him in a drawing-room. He stared at Mrs.
Haveril's diamonds, and he smiled with some
astonishment, but yet graciously, on Molly.
" You are properly dressed to-night," he whispered.
"I have never seen you looking so well."
" Doctor," said Mrs. Haveril, as he led her down
the stairs, " I wish I could go and sit in a corner."
"Why? You are trembling ! What is the matter?"
" I feel as if I was in a dream. It is the sight of
these two young men. One is the young man I saw
at the theatre — the young man I told you of — so like
my husband ; the other is like him, too, but differently.
I am haunted to-night with my husband's face."
"It is imagination. You have been thinking too
much about certain things. Their name is the same
as your husband's. Probably he, too, if you knew, was
a distant cousin."
" It's not imagination ; it is the fact."
" I am sorry you are so disturbed ; but, above all, do
not agitate yourself," he whispered, as they entered the
dining-room.
" I will keep up, doctor ; but it's dreadful to sit
with two living images of your first husband."
From the ordinary point of view, the dinner was
not so great a success as some of those given at this
house. The conversation flagged. Yet, below the
surface, everybody was interested. Humphrey took in
Molly, but Dick sat on the other side of her, and told
her stories about his last tramp ; Humphrey, therefore,
became sulky, and absorbed wine in quantities. Alice
The Doctor's Dinner. 135
gazed at the two young men — her husband's eyes,
her husband's mouth, her husband's voice, her hus-
band's hair, in both of them — both Hke unto her first
husband, yet both unlike ; they were also like unto
each other, yet unlike. She heard nothing that was
said ; she listened to the voice, she saw the eyes, and
she was back again, after all those years, with that
vagrant man, that vagabond in morals, as well as in
ways, the man who so cruelly used her, the comedian
and stroller.
The doctor also watched the two young men.
They had, to begin with, many points of resemblance;
they were alike, however, as brothers who often differ
in disposition as much as strangers. The elder of the
two — the doctor considered Mrs. Haveril — took after
his mother, and was serious, at least. He thought of
Lady Woodrofife's remarks about him: "Selfish."
Yes ; there was a way of eating his food and absorb-
ing his wine that betokened a selfish pleasure in the
food above the delights of society and conversation.
He did not converse ; he sat glum. " Ill-conditioned
and bad-tempered," Lady Woodroffe said. The
selfishness, and probably the bad temper, he inherited
from the father. From his education he obtained, of
course, the air of superiority, which, like the Order of
the Garter, has nothing to do with intellect or achieve-
ment, or distinction. From his education also his
features had probably acquired a certain manner
which we call aristocratic.
He kept his guest in something like good temper
by asking his opinion, pointedly, as if he valued his
judgment, on the champagne. He had little talks
136 The Changeling.
with him on vintages and years and brands, in which
the young man was as wide as most youths at the
club where champagne flows. And he asked Sir
Humphrey's opinion on 'dxo. plats ^ and let the others
feel that his opinion carried weight, so that his guest
forgot something of Molly's perverseness in listening
to her neighbour's stories, and of the intolerable
nuisance of sitting down to dinner with such a
company.
He turned to the other cousin — Dick, This fellow,
like unto Humphrey, was yet so much unlike him
that, to begin with, his face was as undistinguished as
was his cousin's mind. Yet a clever face, capable of
many emotions. He was full of life and talk, he was
interested in everything, he could listen as well as
talk — a young man of sympathy. The artistic side
of him came from his father, as did also the nomad
side of him ; the sympathy and kindliness and honesty
came to him from his unknown mother — one supposed.
As for John Haveril, he was chiefly engaged in
considering the girl who had thus unexpectedly come
into his life to cheer it with her brightness and her
grace. I have never found any man so old or so
self-made as to be insensible to the charms of sprightly
maidenhood and youthful beauty. John Haveril was
quite a homely person ; he had not been brought up
to think of beauty, and lovely dress, and charming airs
and graces as belonging to himself in any way. It is
this sense of being outside the circle which makes
working men apparently deaf and blind to beauty
adorned and cultivated. Why admire or think upon
the unattainable ? They might as well yearn after
The Doctor's Dinner. 137
the possession of an ancient castle and noble name
as after beauty decorated and set off. And now this
girl belonged to them. He himself and his wife were
only happy when this girl was with them ; she came
every day to see them ; she drove out with them,
took them to see things, taught them what to admire
and what to buy, dined with them, consented graciously
to accept their gifts, but refused their money.
At all events, she refused to take any. Yet she
liked the things that money can buy — lovely frocks,
gloves, hats, ribbons, laces, gold chains, and bracelets,
and necklaces. To him contempt for money, com-
bined with love of what only money can buy, seemed
incongruous. The contempt was only a phrase.
Molly had been taught that Art ought to despise
wealth ; she had not been taught to despise the
things artistic that money can buy. The rich man
chuckled to think how much money can be spent
upon a girl who despises it. He was pleased to
make the girl happy by heaping unaccustomed trea-
sures on her gratified shoulders. It was pleasant to
be generous to a bright, happy, smiling girl, who
kept him alive, and made him forget the burden of
his riches. And as he thought of these things he fell
into his third manner — that of the gardener — and his
eyes went off into space.
After dinner Molly sat down to the piano and
began to sing, in a full, flexible contralto, an old
ditty about love and flowers, taught her by Dick
himself, who possessed a treasure-house full of such
songs, new and old, and of all countries, and in all
languages. There is but one theme fit for a song —
138 The Changeling.
the theme of youth and love, and the sweet season
of roses.
Humphrey stood listening. To this young man,
perhaps to others, the effect of Molly's singing, as of
her presence and of her voice and of her eyes, was to
fill his mind with visions. They came to him in the
shape of dancing-girls with tambourines and cas-
tanets. When a girl is endowed with the real faculty
of singing, she may create in the minds of those who
hear, those visions which best fit their inclinations
and their natures. To this young man came the
troop of dancing-girls, because his disposition inclined
him that way : they sang as they danced, and they
threw up white arms to a music of wild and reckless
joy ; they filled him with the longing, the yearning,
for the delirium of youth and rapture which seizes
every young man from time to time, and sometimes
possesses him all the days of his youth, and casts
him out long before his youth is over to the husks
among the swine. Others, more fortunate, feel the
yearning, too, but they make of it a stimulus and an
incentive. There is no such rapture beneath the sky
as young men dream of; yet the vision may make
them poets, and may strengthen them for endeavour ;
and it may fill them with the worship of woman,
which is the one thing needful for a man. Humphrey,
wholly filled and possessed by this rapture, would
not be cast forth to the husks, because — oh ! sordid
reason — his mother would pay his debts. Alas ! poor
Molly ! and she so ignorant. She had no such vision
— girls never do. When young men reel and tremble
with the vision of rapture inconceivable, girls have to
The Doctor's Dinner. 139
be contented with a mild happiness. To them there
comes no dream of gleaming arms — no imagined
magic of voice and eyes and face. There is no such
thing as a Prodigal daughter ; the humble role of the
Prodigal Girl is to minister, as with the white arms
and the castanets, to the service of the Prodigal Son ;
for which she, too, has to go out presently to sit with
the swine, and to maintain a precarious existence on
the husks.
Molly had no such vision : yet by the mere power
of her voice she could awaken this vision in the mind
of a listener. It is a power which makes an actress ;
makes a queen ; makes a lady of authority ; whom
all obey to whom that power appeals.
Molly, I say, had no respect at all for the flowery
way ; she could not understand, nor did she ask, why
young men should want to dance hand-in-hand with
the girls ; nor why they like to crown their heads
with roses ; nor why they drink huge draughts of the
wine that fizzeth in the cup, to make their heads as
light as their feet.
She created, however, quite a different vision in
the mind of the other young man. Dick knew all
about the flowery way, and, in fact, despised it. You
see, he belonged to the " service ; " he played the
fiddle for the dancers ; like those who gather the
roses, polish the floor, lay the cloth, open the cham-
pagne, cook the dishes, decorate the rooms, and
write the songs ; he belonged to the Show. The
flowery way was nothing to him but a Show ; the
white arms amused him not ; the soft cheeks he knew
were painted ; the smiles and the laughing looks were
140 The Changeling.
practised at rehearsals. As for Molly, she was his
companion and a helpmeet ; one to whom he would
impart and give with all that he had, and who would
in return love and cherish him. What is the Flowery
way compared with the way of Love? This, and
nothing else, is the real reason why the Show folk
are so different from the other folk ; there is no
illusion to them ; they are the paid dancers, makers
of rosy wreaths, musicians and singers of the Flowery
way.
Molly's song, therefore, opened another kind of
vision to Master Richard. All he saw was a long
road shaded with hills, and Molly in the middle of it
marching along with him, singing as she went, and
carrying the fiddle.
When the song was finished, Molly got up.
" May I sing you one of my own songs ? " Hum-
phrey asked her, paying no attention to the rest.
He sat down and struck a note and began a song.
It had no melody ; it was without a beginning and
without an end ; the words told nothing, neither a
story nor a sentiment ; like the music to which they
were set, they began in the middle of a sentence and
ended with a semicolon. His voice was good enough,
but uncultivated. When he finished, he closed the
piano, as if there was to be no more music after him.
"It is music," he said coldly, "of the advanced
school. I am proud to belong to the music of the
future — the true expression of Art in song."
" I will show you " — Richard opened the piano and
took his place — " I will show you something of the
music of the present."
The Doctor's Dinner. 141
With vigorous and practised fingers he ran up and
down the notes ; then he struck into an air — light,
easy, catching, and began to sing the " Song of the
Tramp " — one of his vagabond songs.
Mrs. Haveril sat watching the two young men.
When Dick began, the other one turned away
sullenly, and began to look into a portfolio of etch-
ings, with the air of one who will not listen.
" Doctor," she whispered, " that young man sings
and plays exactly like my husband. It might be the
same. He would sit down and sing just that same
way, as if nothing ever happened and nothing
mattered. I wonder how men can go on like that,
with age and sickness and the end before them.
Women never can. Oh, how like my husband he is !
The other is not like him in manner ; not a bit ; yet
in face — oh, in face — and voice — and eyes — and hair !
It is wonderful ! "
"One can hardly expect the son of Sir Humphrey
Woodroffe to be altogether like a comedian."
" Yet," she repeated, " so like him in face and
everything ; I cannot get over it."
Just then Humphrey looked up. There was just
a moment — what was it .-* — a turn of the face ; a look
in the eyes, that made the doctor start.
" Heavens ! " he thought. " He's exactly like his
mother ! "
Dick finished. John Haveril walked over to the
piano before he got up.
" Mister," he said, " I like it. I find it cheerful.
If you could see your way, now, to look in upon us
of an evening, I think you might do good to my wife,
142 The Changeling.
who's apt to let her spirits go down. Come and
sing to us."
" I will, with pleasure. When shall I come } "
" Come to-morrow evening. Come every evening,
if you like, young gentleman. My wife doesn't care
for the theatres much. If we could sit quiet at home,
with a little lively talk and a little singing, she would
like it ever so much better. You and Molly know
each other, it appears. Come to dinner to-morrow,
and see how you like us."
The party broke up. Sir Humphrey was left alone
with the doctor.
" Stay for a cigarette." Sir Robert rang the bell.
" I hope you liked the dinner and the wine."
"Both, Sir Robert, were beyond and above all
praise. An artistic dinner is so rare ! "
" It was thrown away upon some of my guests.
However, if you will come another day, you shall
meet a more distinguished company. I did not
understand, Sir Humphrey, until this evening, the
very strong resemblance you bear to your mother."
" Indeed ! It is my father whom I am generally
thought to resemble."
"Yes. You have, no doubt, a strong resemblance
to him ; but it is your mother of whom you remind
me from time to time most strongly. It came out
oddly this evening. The inheritance of face and
figure and qualities interests me, and your own case.
Sir Humphrey ; the son of such a father and such
a mother is extremely interesting." He took a
cigarette. " Extremely interesting, I assure you."
CHAPTER XII.
THE OTHER CHILD OF DESERTION.
" Molly ? " Richard arrived before the time, and
found his old friend alone. " You here again ? Last
night I could not ask what it meant — the ineffable
frock and the heavenly string of pearls. What does
it mean } "
She had on another lovely frock with the same
pearl necklace.
" It means, Dick," she replied, with much dignity,
" that Alice — Mrs. Haveril — is my father's first cousin,
and is therefore my own cousin. It also means,
which you will hardly credit, that she is very fond
of me."
" That is, indeed, difficult of belief. And you are
a good deal with them ? And this other frock, too,
this thing — is it cloth of gold or samite ?— was given
to you by your cousin. Molly, Molly, have a care !
The love of gold creeps upon one as a thief in the
night."
"Dick! " She assumed an injured air. "When it
affords them so much pleasure to give me things,
why should I refuse ? And confess, ridiculous
creature, that you never saw me look so nice
before ! "
144 The Changeling,
" You look very nice, Molly — very nice, indeed ;
but I never knew you look otherwise."
"You dear old boy!" She gave him her hand.
" You always try to spoil a simple shepherdess."
" But, I say, Molly, is this kind of marble hall
good for study? Does it bring you nearer to Mrs.
Siddons? Does it suit the cothernus ? Methinks
the liquefaction of black velvet more befits the tragic
muse than the frou-frou of the flowered silk."
" Very well put, Dick. I will remember."
"Tell me something about them, Molly. If I am
to entertain them, you know "
" Mr. John Haveril — whom I call John, for short
— is slow of speech. Don't take that, however, for
dulness. Everybody says he's as sharp as a razor.
And he speaks slowly, and he's got a way while he
talks of gazing far away."
" And madam ? She looks like a saint in sadness
because she's got to wear cloth of gold instead of
sackcloth."
" She is in delicate health. Her husband is always
anxious about her. Dick, he has many millions, and
you always used to say that a man can't get rich
honestly ; but he does seem honest, and he's awfully
fond of his wife."
" A man may be fond of his wife and yet not
austerely honest. Go on, Molly, before they come
in."
"Well, Dick," Molly lowered her voice, "she has
something on her mind. I don't know what — she
hasn't told me yet. But she will. It's some trouble.
Sometimes the tears come into her eyes for nothing ;
The Other Child of Desertion. 145
sometimes she has fits of abstraction, when she hears
nothing that you say ; sometimes she becomes
agitated, and her heart begins to flutter. I don't
know what the trouble is, but it robs her life of
happiness. She wants something. She goes to
church and prays for it. If she were not such a good
woman, I should think she had done something."
" What shall I play for her ? "
" Play something that will rouse her. Play one of
your descriptive things, Dick. I will play an accom-
paniment for you. Make the fiddle talk to her, as
you know how. Nobody plays the fiddle quite so
well as you, Dick."
They dined in the public room, where Molly
observed, with profit, making mental notes, the
dresses of the ladies. Dick, on his part, as an
observer of manners, listened to the conversation and
wasted his time. Most conversation in public places
is naught ; very few people can say anything worth
hearing, either in public or in private ; most people
cannot forget that they are in a public place and may
be overheard — but the modesty is passing away.
The world follows the example of the young man
who was admonished by Swift not to set up for a
wit, "because," he said, "there are ten thousand
chances to one against you." The young man took
that advice, and is, therefore, unknown to history.
At this table the conversation was difficult, not so
much because there was no wit among the small
company, as because there were no opportunities for
the display of wit. It is necessary for wit to have
something to work upon ; there can be no repartee
L
146 The Changeling.
where there is no talk. It is also difficult, if you
think of it, to provide conversation for an elderly
gentleman, who for the greater part of his life has
been more accustomed to pork and beans than to
cotelettes a la Soubise ; who has habitually consumed
bad coffee with his dinner, instead of claret and
champagne ; who is wholly ignorant of literature ;
has never looked upon a good picture ; and has never
heard of science except in connection with railways ;
who was originally apprenticed to a gardener ; who
in early life belonged to the Primitive Methodists.
He might have discoursed upon shares and corners,
but on such matters not even his own wife knew
anything.
One is apt to imagine that the man who has rapidly
made millions by playing upon the gambling spirit
of the people, upon their greed, and their credulity,
and their ignorance, must have moments, at least, of
misgiving, perhaps of remorse. We talk of the ruined
homes, the wrecks of families, the desolated hearths.
Well, that is not the way in which the man who has
succeeded where the rest all fail, looks at it. It is
not the way in which John Haveril regards his own
career. He puts it in his own way this evening at
dinner. Unaccustomed to the society of the rich,
Dick dropped some remark, slightly mal a propos,
about money-making.
"In Yorkshire, sir," said John Haveril, "when a
man buys a horse, he buys him as he stands. It's
his business to find out that animal's faults. It's the
business of the owner to crack up the animal. That's
trading, all the world over. The man who wins, is
The Other Child of Desertion. 147
the man who knows. The man who loses, is the
man who gambles. I have never gambled."
" I thought it was all gambling."
" I buy stocks which I know are going up. I buy
mines when there is going to be a run upon mines.
I buy land where I know there will be built a town.
Other people buy because they see others buying.
The world gambles all the time. Men like me, sir,
do not gamble. We buy for the rise in the market,
which we understand."
" I know nothing, really," said Dick, abashed.
" No, sir ; but you know as much as anybody. I
have read in an English paper that I have ruined
thousands. That is not true. They have ruined
themselves. They buy in a rising venture, not know-
ing that it has risen too high, and they sell when it
falls. My secret is, that I know."
" How do you know ? "
" That, sir, I cannot explain. Why do you sing,
and play that fiddle of yours better than anybody
else .'' It is your gift, sir. So it's mine to know."
In spite, however, of these new lights on the
mystery, or craft, of money-making, which were of
little use to Mr. Haveril's guests, the conversation
languished. The elder lady was pensive and sad ;
the marvels and miracles of the ckefwQte thrown away
upon her ; she looked as if she longed to be upstairs
again, lying on her sofa, looking out upon the full
tide of human life surging round Charing Cross.
After dinner they took coffee in their private room.
"Now," said Dick, taking out his violin, "I want to
play something that will please you, Mrs. Haveril."
14B The Changeling.
He began to tune his instrument, talking the while.
" Molly thinks that you would like a little foolish
entertainment that I sometimes give — a descriptive
piece. The fiddle describes, I only explain with a
word or two, and Molly plays an accompaniment."
Molly took her place and waited.
" You must understand what we are going to talk
about, first of all, otherwise you will understand
nothing. Very good. I am just a strolling player,
or a musician, as you please ; I carry my fiddle with
me, and I am on tramp. In my pocket there is no
money. I earn my bed, and my supper, and my
breakfast, with the fiddle and the bow. I take any
odd jobs that I can get at country theatres, or at
music-halls, or taverns, or anything. My girl is with
me, of course. She can sing a little, and dance a
little, so that on occasion we are prepared with a little
show of our own. We carry no luggage except a bag
with a few necessaries. It is my business to carry
the bag. My girl carries the fiddle, which is lighter.
Now you understand."
At the mention of the word " tramp," Mrs. Haveril,
who had composed herself to quiet meditation at the
window while the others talked, sat up and turned
her head.
" So," Dick struck a chord — a bold, loud chord,
which compelled the mind to listen. " We are on
the road," he went on, talking in a monotone with
murmurous voice, which became subordinated to the
music, so that one heard the latter and forgot the
former, insomuch that the music seemed by itself, and
without any aid, to bring the scene before the eyes.
The Other Child of Desertion. 149
It was the work of a magician. Molly played a
running accompaniment which helped the illusion, if
it added nothing more. Dick watched that one of
his audience whom he desired to hold. After a little
her eyes dropped ; she sat with clasped hands,
listening, carried away — enchanted by the sorcerer.
"We are on the road," he went on, "the broad,
high-road, with banks of turf at the side. There is
nobody else upon the road. We swing along ; we
sing as we go ; it is morning ; the village is behind
us ; another village is before us ; we pick flowers
from the hedge ; we listen to the lark in the sky ;
and we catch the voice of the blackbird from the
wood ; we sit down in the shade when we are tired ;
we dine resting on a stile. The air is fresh and
sweet ; the flowers are all aflame in hedge and
meadow."
As he played and as he talked, the listener heard
the birds ; the cool breeze of the country fanned her
cheek ; she saw the flowers ; the sun warmed her ;
the hard road fatigued her ; she listened to the birds
in the woods, the rustle of the leaves, the whistling
of the wind in the telegraph-wires ; she sat in the
grateful shade ; she bathed her feet in the cool,
running water.
Alice listened — carried away ; her cheeks were
flushed ; she clutched the cushions of the sofa. Far
away — out of sight — forgotten — were the grand rooms
of the rich man's hotel ; far away — forgotten — were
the diamonds and the silks.
Dick watched, with grave and earnest face, the
effect of his playing. With him it was always an
150 The Changeling.
experiment. He tried to mesmerize his people ; to
charm them into forgetfulness.
" Sometimes," he went on, " I get a place in a
country theatre — in the orchestra, you know. This
is the orchestra." He became, on the spot, a whole
orchestra, blatant, tuneless, paid to make a noise ;
you heard all the discordant instruments played
together. Alice sank back in her chair. She did
not care much about the orchestra. Dick changed
quickly. "Sometimes I join a circus, and play in
the procession through the town. The band goes first
in a cart ; you can hear how the bumping shakes the
music." Indeed it did — the cart was without springs,
and the road was uneven. " Behind us are the horses
with the splendid riders." The music passed down
the street, while the patter of the horses on the road
was loud enough to be heard above the music. " Last
of all the riders, before the clown and the rest of the
people, is the Lady Equestrienne of the Haute Ecole.
At sight of her all the girls in the town yearn for the
circus, and the hearts of all the young men sink with
love and admiration." No. Mrs. Haveril cared very
little for this part of the show, either. " Sometimes
we come to a village, where there is a green. Then
the people come out — it is a fine summer evening —
and I play to them, and they dance. What shall it
be ? Sellingers Round, or Barley Break ? Take
your partners — take your places ; curtsey and bow,
and hands across and down the middle, and up again
and one place lower. Now then, keep it up — time —
time — time." Again the lady sat up and listened
with rapt face. Dick watched her closely. " Now
The Other Child of Desertion. 151
've find a school-treat in a field — I play to them.
Jump and dance ; boys and girls, come out to play.
Lasses and lads, take leave of your dads. Boys,
don't be rough with the girls, but dance with each
other. Now, hands all — and round we go, and round
we go." Then the tears came into the pale lady's
eyes. " Good-bye — we are on the road again. The
sun is sinking ; the swallows fly low ; we shall have
rain ; luckily, we've got our supper in the bag. My
girl, we must take shelter in this barn. Come — you
are tired — I play my girl to sleep with a gentle
lullaby. Sweet hay — sweet hay — it hath no fellow.
Sleep, dear girl, sleep. Good night. Good night —
Good night."
He stopped and laid down the fiddle, well pleased
with himself. For that part of his audience to which
he had played was in tears.
Molly jumped up. "Alice dear, what is the
matter?"
" Oh, Molly, it is beautiful ! Oh, it is beautiful !
For I've done it. I know it all. I've been on tramp
myself — ^just as he played it — with the fiddle, too —
just as he made it. Oh, I know the country fair, and
the village inn, and the circus, and all ! I remember
it all. When last I went on tramp I had my ! "
" Alice," her husband interposed. " Don't, my
dear."
"It is four and twenty years ago. I remember it
all so well. I had my "
" Alice " — her husband stopped her again.
She sighed. " Yes — yes. I try not to think of it.
He deserted me after that last tramp. He couldn't
152 The Changeling.
bear the crying of the dear child. He deserted me,
and when I found him again, in America, he put me
away — by the law, as if he was ashamed of me."
" Desertion and divorce," said Dick, " were my
mother's lot as well. She, too, was deserted and
divorced. Is it a common lot ?"
" His name," said Alice, " was the same as yours.
It was Woodroffe — and you are strangely like him."
" My father's name was John Anthony Woodroffe."
Alice sprang to her feet and clasped her hands.
" Oh, my dream — my dream ! Is it coming true ?
You are — you are Oh, how old are you } "
She caught him by the arm, and gazed into his
face as if seeking her own likeness there as well as
her husband's.
" I am twenty-two."
" No ; it is impossible." She sank back. " For a
moment I thought you might be — my own boy.
Yet you are his. Oh, it is strange ! Who was your
mother, then ? "
" She was a rider in a circus."
"And he married her and deserted her ?"
" Yes — and divorced her ; and I know nothing more
about him."
" He must have married your mother directly after
he divorced me."
" No doubt he has treated a dozen women in the
same manner since then," said Dick, with unfilial
bitterness. " The fifth commandment always presented
insuperable difficulties to me."
" Your mother was a player, too ? " said Alice. " He
always grumbled because I could not play."
The Other Child of Desertion. 153
•' My mother was the Equestrienne of the Haute
Ecole that I talked about just now. She was repre-
sented on the bills as the Pride of the States, the
Envy of Europe, who had refused princes in the
lands of tyrants, rather than forsake nature's nobility
and the aristocracy of the republic."
" I remember, Dick," said Molly. " You used to
tell my father all about it."
" I was born and brought up in the sawdust. And
I played all the instruments in the orchestra one after
the other. And I was afraid to go to church on
account of that terrible announcement about the
generations to follow the wicked man."
" He will suffer ; he must suffer," said Alice. " But
I have long since put him out of my mind."
" My mother never put him out of her mind. She
died hoping that he would be made to suffer. For
my own part, I hope that I may never meet him."
" My dream ! My dream ! First the doctor ; then
my husband's son. The past is returning."
Alice covered her face with her hands to hide the
tears.
" Nay, nay," said her husband. " Keep quiet —
keep quiet."
She sank back on the couch, and lay still, with
closed eyes and pale face.
Molly felt her heart. " It is beating too fast," she
said. " Let her be still awhile."
Thus the evening, which began with an attempt at
mere amusement and entertainment, became serious.
Alice recovered and opened her eyes. " John," she
said, " does he understand .-' "
154 The Changeling.
" I think so," Dick replied. " You were my father's
first wife. In order to be free, he divorced you. He
then married my mother. Believe me, madam, my
mother was wholly ignorant, to the last, of this
history,"
" Indeed, I believe it. I do not think there was a
woman in America who would have married a man
with such a record."
"At all events, my mother would not."
" And you are — my stepson."
" No." Dick considered. " If I were your stepson,
my mother would have come first. I'm not your
stepson. In fact, there isn't a word in the language to
express the relationship. But — if I may venture "
" Alice," Molly interposed, " make a friend of Dick,
as you have of me. He will be the handiest, usefuUest
friend you can have. And he really is the best fellow
in the world — aren't you, Dick ? "
" Of course I am," he replied stoutly.
"As for trying to get money from you, he is
incapable of it. Dick is one of the few people in the
world who don't want money. You must call him
Dick, though."
The pale lady smiled faintly. " Dick," she said,
"if I may ... we have a common sorrow and a
common misfortune — mine, to have married a bad
man ; you, to be his son. Can these things make a
foundation for friendship ? "
"Let us try," said Dick, with something like a
moistening of the eye. He was a tender-hearted,
sentimental creature, who could not bear to see a
woman suffer.
The Other Child of Desertion. 155
Alice held out her thin, white hand. Dick took it
and kissed it.
" If friendship," he said, "can exist between mistress
and servant, then am I your friend. But if not, then
your servant at your command."
"This place," John Haveril laid his hand upon
Dick's shoulder, " is your home, and what we have is
at your service."
"Dick," said Molly, "we are now a kind of
cousins, and you are a sort of stepson of the house."
"So long, Molly, as you don't call me brother."
" John " — after the young people had gone — " did
you tell him about his father .-' "
"No, I didn't." John sat down, and gave his
reasons very slowly. " Why ? This way, I thought.
He's the young man's father ; that's true. But he
ran away from his wife and his child — twice, he did.
That won't make the son respect the father much,
will it ? Next, Alice, I've been to see the sick man."
"You've been to see him, John ? You are a good
man, John. You deserve a less troublesome wife.
When that creature in rags wanted to sell his secret,
I pretended I didn't care. But I did. It made me
sick and sorry to think of that poor, bad man, without
a friend or a helper in his time of need. You are not
jealous, are you, John? I did love the man once.
He is a worthless, wicked man. You are not jealous,
are you, John ? I have no such feeling left for him.
It is all pity — pity for a man who is punished for his
sins."
"Not I, lass — not I. Pity him as much as you
please."
156 The Changeling.
" Tell me what he looks like."
" Well, he's like this young fellow Dick. Also, he's
like that other chap — Sir Humphrey — more like him
than the other. He's grey now, and thin, cheeks
sunk in, and fingers like bits of glass. I told him
who I was, but he only half understood. He won't
desert any more women, I reckon. They've got
stories about him at the Hospital — the boys there
pick up everything. No, Alice. I don't think it
would make this fellow they call Dick any happier to
see his father. I'll go again. Don't think of him
any more, my dear. Remember what the doctor
said. Keep quiet."
CHAPTER XIII.
A MIDNIGHT WALK.
" Let me walk home with you," said Dick. " It is a
fine night, and we can walk."
They left the hotel, and turned northwards across
Trafalgar Square,
" The pale, worn face of that poor woman haunts
me, Molly. It is a strange adventure."
" You will love her, Dick, as much as I do. But
there is that trouble behind, whatever it is, that she
has not yet told me.'
Dick looked up and straightened himself. They
were in the crowd — the crowd infect and horrible at
the top of the Haymarket.
"It is really peaceful night," he said. "The air
just here is corrupt with voices, and there are shapes
about that mock the peace of darkness ; but it is
really peaceful night."
"And overhead are the stars, just as in the
country."
"You are like the lady in Comus, Molly. These
are only shapes and shadows that you see. They
do not exist, except in imagination. They are the
ghosts and devils that belong to night in streets."
Molly pressed a little closer to him, but made no
reply.
158 The Changeling.
What do men understand of the wonder, the
bewilderment, with which a girl looks on the rabble
rout, if ever she is permitted to see it ? What does
it reveal to her, this mockery of the peaceful night ?
Presently they came to the upper end of Regent
Street, which was quieter ; and to Portland Place,
which was quite deserted and peaceful ; and then
to the outer circle of Regent's Park, where they were
beyond the houses, and where the cool wind of October
fell upon their faces from the broad level of the park.
" It is almost country here. Let us walk in the
middle of the road, Molly." He held out his left
hand. Molly linked her little finger with his. " That
is the way we used to walk what time we went on
tramp, Molly."
"Yes, Dick ; it was this way."
She was strangely quiet, contrary to her usual
manner.
"You must never become a town girl, Molly, or
a West End woman, or a society woman."
" I don't know, Dick. Perhaps I must."
They went on a little farther.
" Molly, I wanted to talk to you about something
else, but I must talk about this evening. It's been
a very remarkable evening. I am enriched by a kind
of stepmother — a stepmother before the event, so to
speak, not after — a relationship not in any dictionary.
I am the child of a younger Sultana. Who would
expect to meet in a London hotel, in the person of
a middle-aged millionairess, the elder Sultana ? "
" Ought one to be sorry for you, Dick ? You
couldn't have a better stepmother."
A Midnig-ht Walk. 159
"Not sorry, exactly. But she recalls the sins of
the forefathers. I have always understood that he
was that kind of person. My mother, who took it
wrathfully, was careful that I should know the kind
of person he was. Her history halved the fifth
commandment This good lady takes it tearfully."
"She was thinking of her own dead child. For
a moment she thought you were her son."
" Does one weep for a child four and twenty years
after its death ? There was more than a dead child
in those tears."
" It was your playing, then. You never played
so well. The violin talked all the time. It made
me glow only to think of your birds and breezes and
flowers."
" I shall call on her to-morrow. She wants to
talk about it again. Molly, it's a wonderful thing."
" What is a wonderful thing ? "
For he stopped.
" Woman is a wonderful thing. Acting, as you
know, my poor Molly, makes real emotion difficult
for us, because we are always connecting emotion
with its theatrical gesture. When we ought to weep,
we begin to think of how we weep."
"You talk like a book sometimes, Dick. Where
do you get ail your wisdom ? "
" Not from books. Come on tramp with me, and
you shall learn where I get it, Molly. All the thoughts
worth having come to a man as he walks along the
road, especially by night. Books can't tell him any-
thmg. I say that we can't help connecting emotion
with the stage way of expressing it. This makes
i6o The Changeling.
us quick to understand emotion when we do see
it without the stage directions. Which is odd, but
it's true. An actor born is a kind of thought-
reader."
" What are you driving at, Dick ? "
"I mean that an actor knows real emotion, just
because it isn't like the stage business."
" Well, what then ? "
" I was thinking of that poor pale lady, Molly.
It's four and twenty years since her husband deserted
her, and she thinks about him still. There isn't
room in a woman's heart for more than one lover
in a life, that's all."
" What then ? "
" It's the lingering passion that she thinks was
extinguished long ago. Poor old Haveril is all very
well, but he hasn't the engaging qualities of the light
comedian. Good, no doubt, at making money, and
without the greater vices ; but, Molly, my dear, without
the lighter virtues. And these she remembers."
" Well, but that isn't what lies on her mind. You
will be a thought-reader, indeed, Dick, if you can
read what is written there."
They walked on together, side by side, in silence.
Then the figure of the pale, fragile, sad woman went
out of their thoughts. They returned, as is the way
with youth, to themselves.
" You are happy, Molly ? " he asked.
" I am happy enough," she sighed.
" Most of us are. We make ourselves as happy
as we can. Of course, nobody is entirely happy till
he gets all he wants. For my own part, I want very
A Midnight Walk. i6i
little ; and I am very nearly quite happy, because
I've got it all except one thing, Molly."
" Hadn't we better talk about the wisdom acquired
on tramp ? "
"That is just what I am doing, my dear child.
To-night the stars are out, the skies are clear, the air
is fresh. I smell the fragrant earth across the park.
I can almost believe that we are miles and miles
from a town. And I want to have a real talk with
you, Molly."
" Will you let me talk first ? "
"Certainly, if you won't abuse the privilege. But
leave time for me to answer. We mustn't throw
away such a chance as this."
" I know what you want to say very well. I don't
ask you to put it out of your head, because Oh,
Dick, you know very well that I like you ever so
much ! You are the only kind of brother I ever
had."
" By your leave, Molly, you never had any brother.
You might have had the kindness to call me pal, or
cousin, or comrade, or companion, or confidential
clerk, even — but not any kind of brother. That
relationship doesn't exist for you. I might as well
call myself the child of that good lady, being only
a kind of posthumous stepson. Now, Molly, you
may go on."
"I only mean so that I can tell everything to you."
" That is permitted. Now I shall not interrupt."
"Very well. First of all, Hilarie is anxious about
my appearance. So am I. She remains firm in the
belief that I am the tragedian of the future."
M
1 62 The Changeling.
Dick shook his head. " Vain hopes ! Fond
dreams ! "
" You know, don't you, Dick, that it is impossible ? "
" Comedy, Hght and sparkling, if you please, Molly.
As soon as your name is made, I shall write a part
for you on purpose. You shall take the town by storm
— you yourself, as you are, witch and enchantress."
"Which makes it the more unfortunate that I'm
compelled to go in for the other business,"
" What about advertising ' Lady Macbeth,' and
getting ready a burlesque ? "
Molly took no notice of this suggestion. " Hilarie
thinks the time is now approaching when I ought to
make my d^biit. Dick, I declare that I don't care
one farthing about disappointed ambition. I told
you so before. But I do care about disappointing
Hilarie. And that weighs on my soul more than
anything almost — more than the two other things."
"What are the two other things?"
" I am coming to them. Either of them, you see,
would bring consolation — of sorts — for disappointed
ambition. First, your cousin. Sir Humphrey "
" Oh ! He goes on making love, does he ? "
" He goes on pressing for an answer. What answer
shall I give him ? "
" I will try to answer as if I was a disinterested
bystander. You must consider not what he wants,
but what you want."
" He offers me position and — I suppose — wealth.
He wants me to marry him secretly, and to live out
of the world, while he smooths matters with his
mother."
A Midnight Walk. 163
Dick stopped in the middle of the road. " What ? "
he cried. " He wants you to marry him secretly ?
The — the — no, I won't use names and language.
Marry him secretly and go into hiding > Why ?
Because you love the man ? But you don't. Because
he will make you Lady Woodroffe .-' But he won't —
he will hide you away. Because he is rich? My
dear, I know all about him. He has no money at
all. The money is his mother's ; she could cut him
off with a shilling, if she liked. Because he is clever ?
He isn't. He's the laughing-stock of everybody,
except the miserable little clique that he belongs to ;
they talk of Art — who have no feeling for Art ; they
hand about things they call Art, which are "
"That will do, Dick."
" Add to this that he Is a moody, ill-conditioned
beast. If he loves you, it's because any man would
love you. He'd be tired of you in a week. I know
the man, my dear ; I've made it my business to find
out all about him. He is unworthy of you — quite
unworthy, Molly. If you loved him it might be
different ; I say, might, because then there might be
some lessening of the misery you would draw on
your head — I don't know, it might only mean greater
misery — because you would feel his treatment more."
" You are incoherent, Dick,"
" Could you marry a man without loving him,
Molly ? I ask you that."
" Here is a seat," said Molly, evading the question,
which is always a delicate one for girls. Should they
— ought they — ever to marry without love ? One
would rather not answer that question. There are
164 The Changeling.
conventions, there are things understood rather than
expressed, there are imaginations, men are beheved
to be what they are not, the secret history of men
is not suspected, there are reasons which might pos-
sibly make love quite a secondary consideration. It
is not, indeed, a question which ought to be put to
any girl.
" Here is a seat," Molly repeated. " It is chilly ;
but I am tired. Let us sit down for a minute, Dick."
He pressed his question. " Could you possibly
marry this fellow, Molly, when you cannot respect
him or love him .'' "
"About loving a man, Dick. I suppose it's quite
possible to marry anybody, whether you love him
or not. Whether a girl can screw up her courage to
endure a man all day long when she doesn't like him,
I don't know. Women have to do a great many
things they don't like. Very few women can afford
to choose "
" You can, Molly."
" And if a man is a gentleman, he may be trusted,
I suppose, not to do horrid things. He wouldn't get
drunk ; he would be tolerably kind ; he would not
spend all the money on himself ; he would not desert
one ; he wouldn't throw the furniture about."
"That's a contented and a lowly state of mind,
Molly."
"Well, and you must consider what a man may
have to offer. Money ; position ; independence.
You should listen to girls talking about these things
with each other."
"Go on, Molly. It's a revelation."
A Midnight Walk. 165
"Not really, Dick? Why, as for love, I don't
know what it means. I don't, indeed."
"Don't tell lies, Molly," he said, pressing her
fingers.
" I mean that I don't love Sir Humphrey a bit."
" In that case, why not present him with the Boot ? "
" He won't leave me alone. He hangs about the
street, waiting for me when I go to my lesson. He
comes to the college when I am staying with Hilarie,
and, oh, Dick, can't you understand the temptation
of it?"
" No, I can't."
" Well, then, try to understand it. Here I am, a
girl with no money, dependent on Hilarie, who is all
sweetness and goodness, yet dependent ; and this
man, who may be — very likely — all that you say,
offers me this promotion."
"You ought not to be tempted. He is insulting
you. If he means what he says, why doesn't he take
you by the hand and lead you to his mother? He
won't. He wants to hide you away. But he shall
not, Molly — he shall not, so long as I breathe the
upper air."
Molly made no reply. What was there to say ?
" Fine love ! Very fine love ! " Dick snorted.
" I don't think I care much about his being all
that you say, Dick, because, if I have no particular
regard for him, I should not inquire, and I should not
mind. I suppose he would be tolerably well-behaved
with me."
" Then you are credulous, Molly, because he can't
behave well to anybody."
1 66 The Changeling.
"And while I am pulled this way and that way
with doubts, Hilarie is wanting me to make my first
appearance and to conquer the world ; and my
teacher thinks I shall do pretty well, and learn by
experience, and I know the contrary, because you
say so, Dick."
"Certainly. Quite the contrary."
"And you are always telling me what you
want."
"I want you, Molly. Nothing short of that will
satisfy me."
"Then comes another temptation — worse than
anything."
" What is that } "
" It's Alice. She wants me "
"Does she hiss 'diamonds' in your ear?"
" No. She says that she's so fond of me she cannot
live without me, and she wants me to live with them
altogether. And John chimes in. Says he will
adopt me, and make me his heiress. Think of that,
Dick 1 Millions 1 All for me — for me, the daughter
of a failure."
" Molly." Dick spoke with solemnity suitable to
the occasion. " This goes to the very root of things.
You can't go on tramp with me if you begin to
hanker after millions. No one ever heard of a great
heiress talking, to a gipsy or dancing in a barn. It
can't be done. The weight of the dollars would nail
your very heels to the boards."
" But, Dick, they're my own people, you know."
" My child " — Dick rose, for it was getting cold —
" this is the most alarming temptation of all. It
A Midnight Walk. 167
must be stopped right away. Look here, Molly,"
they were standing- face to face under the lamp-post
beside the railings of the park, " you know very well
that you are only shamming. You love me ; and I
— well, shall I say it ? "
" Stage people have no emotions, Dick. You said
so yourself just now."
"This is not an emotion. It is part of me. I live
in it ; I breathe it ; I only exist, my Molly, because
of you. There isn't any stage gesture to signify my
state of mind. The stalls would be disturbed in
their little minds if one put this passion into visible
representation. Even the gallery wouldn't understand.
Put your arms on my shoulders, Molly."
She obeyed ; she was quite as tall as her lover,
and she had no difficulty in throwing her arms quite
round his neck, which she did. If she blushed, the
stars, which blink because they are short-sighted,
could not see it. The lamp on the lamp-post is, of
course, used to such things.
*' You are the best girl in the world," he said, *' the
best and the dearest ; and I promise you, Molly —
the best and the dearest — that Humphrey shall never
marry you, and that Mrs. Siddons shall never have a
rival in you, and that you shall never become Miss
Molly Pennefather Haveril, heiress of millions, with
decayed dukes and barefooted barons languishing
after you."
He kissed her on the forehead and the lips. The
girl made no reply, except to draw a long breath,
which might have meant remonstrance, and might
equally well mean satisfaction.
1 68 The Changeling.
She took up the vioh'n-case. " If I must carry the
fiddle," she said, " let me see how it feels."
He made no objection. The action was a symbol.
He accepted it as a visible expression of acquiescence,
and so, side by side, in silence, they walked home
under the stars and the lamp-posts.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE FIRST MOVE.
" No, my children," Alice replied. It was two days
later. They were sympathetic children ; they would
feel for one. " I am not afraid to tell you what
troubles me day and night. I am not afraid, but I
am ashamed."
"You need not be ashamed," said Molly, stoutly.
" Whatever you did must have been well done."
Alice sighed. " I wish I could think so. Sit down,
one on each side of me, and I will tell you. Take my
hand, Molly dear."
She was lying on a couch. In these days she was
troubled with her heart, and lay down a good deal.
So lying, with closed eyes, she had the courage to tell
her story — the whole of it — suppressing nothing : the
terrible sale of her child. She told them all.
"My child was taken away," she concluded. "It
was the choice of that for him, or the workhouse. My
people would do nothing for me. Partly they were
poor — you know them, Molly — and some of them
were Methodists, and serious. So I thought of the
child's welfare ; and I thought I should find my
husband with the money, and so — and so "
" You let him go." Molly finished the sentence.
lyo The Changeling.
" I have never known a day's peace since — never
a day nor a night without self-reproach. We've
prospered — oh, how we've prospered ! everything we
touch turns to gold ! And not a single day of happi-
ness has ever dawned for me, because I meet the
reproachful eyes of my boy everywhere ! "
" But you gave him to a lady who would treat him
well."
" The doctor promised for her. But how am I to
know that she has treated him well ? If I could
only find out where he is ! And then came that
dream ! "
" What dream ? "
" It came three times, by which I know that it is a
true dream. Three times ! Each time as vivid and
plain as I see you two. I was sick ; I thought I was
dying, but I wasn't. And I know, now, that I shall
not die without seeing my boy. That I know because,
in the dream, some one, I don't know who, pointed to
England, and said, * Go over now — this very year —
this fall, and you shall find your boy. If you wait
longer, you will never find him.' That was a strange
dream to come three times running, wasn't it ? "
" Strange. Yes ; a very strange dream."
" So we came. John will do anything I ask him.
We shall lose — I don't know how much — by coming
away. But he came with me. We've been here
three weeks. Now listen. First, I found out, by
accident, the doctor who took my child away. To
be sure, he says he knows nothing more about him,
but it is a first step ; and now I've found my husband's
second son, — that is a second step. And both by
The First Move. 171
accident, that is, both providential. What shall I
find next ? "
" I think," said Molly, with profound sagacity, " that
you should give Dick a free hand, and tell him to
search about. You don't know how wise Dick is. He
gets his wisdom by tramping at night. Let him
think for you, dear. You want some one to think for
you."
Mrs. Haveril turned to Dick. " Can you help me,
Dick?"
He rose slowly, and began to walk about the room.
" Can I ? Well, I could try. But I confess the thing
seems difficult. It's a new line for me, the detective
line. Four and twenty years ago. We don't know
who took the child — where she took the child ;
whether it is still living ; whether the lady who took
it is living. We want to find the clue."
" Dick," said Molly, " if we had a clue, we shouldn't
want your assistance. Find one for us."
He sat down at the piano. " Ideas come this way
often." He played a few chords and got up. " Not
this morning. Well, let us see. The doctor says he
doesn't know. If he doesn't, who can? Who else
was there ? An Indian ayah. Where is that woman ?
No mark on the child ? No. Nothing put up with
the clothes ? A rattle. Ah ! People don't keep
rattles. And a paper with his Christian name.
People don't keep such papers. And so the child
disappears. How shall we find him after all these
years .? Have you anything to suggest ? Do you
suspect anybody in the whole wide world ? "
" No. There's only the young man I met at the
172 The Changeling.
doctor's. He's so wonderfully like your father, and
like you, too. But they say he's the son of some
great man. He's bigger than you, Dick. Your
mother was a little woman, I should say."
" She was slight, like most American women."
"This young man is tall. Your father was a
personable man ; and he's big — much like my family.
Dick, when I first saw him, my heart went out to him.
I thought, *0h, my boy must be like you, tall and
handsome ! ' "
"Would it not be better, dear lady, to make up
your mind to forget the whole thing? Consider, it is
so long ago."
" I would if I could. But I can't. No, Dick, I can
never forget it."
"Force yourself to think about something else. It
seems so desperately hopeless."
She shook her head. " When you play, my thoughts
go out after him, whether I will or not. I am sitting
with my son somewhere, or walking with him, or
talking with him. I dream of him at night. Perhaps
he is dead — because I dream of him so much. But
I cannot think of him as dead. Oh, Dick, if you
could find my son for me ! "
" My dear lady, I will do what I can."
" You must think," said Molly, " morning, noon,
and night, about nothing else. Consult your violin ;
you may whisper it into the piano-case."
"Yes, yes — meantime. It's no use going to see
the doctor. He says he doesn't know. But if he
called upon the woman at her hotel, he must have
inquired for her by name."
The First Move. 173
" He did not. She came to him."
" Her own child was dead. Did she come to the
place before the child died, or after ? "
" I cannot tell you."
" Who else was concerned ? Let us consider. An
Indian ayah. Now, one doesn't bury a child and
adopt another child without other people knowing it.
You can't do it — servants must know. Perhaps the
child was substituted. That has been done, I believe.
But servants must know the secret. Then there are
the undertakers who buried the child ; the place
where it is buried. If we knew the name of the
child, I believe it would be easy, after all, to trace
it. Then there is the place where the child died ; it
isn't often that a child dies in a hotel. There are
the doctors who attended the child — they might
remember the case. If we only knew the name of
the child ! Without that, we are powerless."
" I told you, Dick," said Molly, " that we want you
to find the clue. If we knew the name of the child,
we could go on quite easily without you."
*' Very likely," he continued.
" There was no concealment ; it was an open
adoption known to everybody concerned, who were
only three people."
" Then, why did the lady conceal her name ^ "
" She was probably anxious that the child should
not know his relations at all. Perhaps, Dick, if you
were to go away and think for a bit," Molly insisted.
" Oh yes ; presently ! Meantime there is one very
simple way. Will you spend some money ? "
" John will let you spend as much as you please."
174 The Changeling.
"Very well, then." He sat down and took pen and
paper. "The most simple way is to advertise. Let
the world know what you want. Offer a reward.
Same as for a lost dog. What do you think of
this ?—
"'Whereas, in the month of February, 1874, a child was
adopted by a lady unknown in the city of Birmingham, the
mother of the child will be most grateful to the lady who
adopted it, if she will send her name and address to — ' What
shall we say ? ' R. W., care of the hall porter, Dumfries Flats.'
I will receive the letters."
" But the reward ? "
" I am coming to that, Molly.
'"In case of the lady's death, a reward of £100 will be
paid for such information as will enable the child, now a young
man of twenty-six, if he is living, to be identified. Nothing will
be given for any information except such as is capable of proof.
No persons will be received, and no verbal communications will
be heard.'
There, Molly, what do you think of that ? "
It might have been observed that neither then, nor
afterwards, did Richard consult Mrs. Haveril. He
took the conduct of the case into his own hands and
Molly's.
" Dick ! I knew you were awfully clever. I think
it a splendid way ! "
As if such a thing as an advertisement was entirely
novel and previously unknown.
"Yes," said Dick, contemplating the document
with pride, " I flatter myself that it is a good idea.
Looks well on paper, doesn't it ? " He held it at arm's
length to catch the noontide sun. "'Whereas' —
The First Move. 175
there's a legal ' note,' as they say, about it. Well,
now, ]\Iolly, let us see how this will work. If the
adoption was real, somebody must know of it —
whether the lady is living or dead. Then we shall
get a reply in a day or two "
" In a day or two ! Alice ! Think of that ! "
" If it was a substitution, we shall get no reply from
the lady ; but then, we may expect that other people
know about it — servants and such. Then the reward
comes in."
" Oh, isn't he clever, Alice } In a week — at least
— you shall have your boy."
" Now I go," Dick concluded, with one more
admiring glance at the paper before he folded it up,
"and put the advertisement in the leading papers all
over the country, and keep it going for a week, unless
we hear something. Let us live in hope meantime."
Sir Robert read the advertisement over his break-
fast. " Ah ! " he said. *' She has found an adviser ;
she means business ; she will spend money. What is
the good? She can just prove nothing. I am the
master of the situation."
Yet there remained an uneasiness. For, although
he was the master of the situation, it might be at the
cost of declaring — or swearing in a court — that he
still knew nothing as to the name and position and
residence of the lady.
Lady Woodroffe read the advertisement as well.
One of her secretaries pointed it out to her as an
interesting item in the day's news. She read it ; she
held the paper before her face to hide a guilty pallor ;
176 The Changeling.
her heart sank low : the dreadful thing was already in
the papers. Soon, perhaps, it would appear again,
with her name attached to it.
Next morning a letter was received by the adver-
tiser. It enclosed the advertisement, cut out of a
paper, with these words, " You need not advertise any
more. The child has been dead for twenty years."
"Now" — Richard read the letter twice before he
began to think about it — "what does this mean? If
it was adoption, why not come forward ? If it was
substitution, then the child may be dead or he may
not. I don't think he is, for my part. I believe it is
a try-on to make us give over. We shall not give
over, dear madam."
He continued the advertisement, therefore, for
another week. Yet there came no more letters and
no discovery.
" Oh, Dick, and I have been waiting day after day ! "
" We must change the advertisement. The anony-
mous letter proves pretty clearly that there is reason
for concealment. Else, why did not the writer sign
her name ? It was in a lady's handwriting — not a ser-
vant's. The adoption, therefore, to put it kindly, was
not generally known. Let us alter the advertisement.
We will now put in a few more details. We will
leave the mother out ; and we will no longer address
the lady."
In consequence of this resolution, the following
advertisement appeared next day : —
"Whereas, in the month of February, 1874, in the city of
Birmingham, a child, adopted by a lady to take the place of
her own, recently dead, was taken to the railway station ; was
The First Move. 177
there delivered to the lady and carried to London ;— a reward
of TWO THOUSAND GUINEAS will be given to any per-
son who will give such information as may lead to the discovery
and identity of the child. Nothing will be given for proffered
information which does not lead to such discovery and identity.
No advance will be made for expenses of travelling, or any other
expenses. And no person will be received who offers verbal
information. Address, by writing only, to R. W., care of the
Hall porter, Dumfries Flats."
I dare say that many of my readers will remember
the interest — nay, the racket — created by the appear-
ance of this strange series of advertisements, which
were never explained. The mystery is still referred
to as an illustration of romance in upper circles.
Some of the American papers quoted it as another
proof of the profligacy of an aristocracy, concluding
that it was the substitution of a gutter child for the
Scion of a Baronial Stock.
This time there were shoals of answers. They
came by hundreds ; they came from all parts of the
country. One would think that adoption by purchase
was a recognized form of creating heirs to an estate.
One railway porter wrote from Birmingham, stating
that he remembered the affair perfectly well, because
the lady gave him sixpence ; that he saw the lady
into the carriage, carrying the baby, which was dressed
in white clothes with a woollen thing over its face ;
that on receipt of travelling money, and a trifle of
;i^5 on account, he would run up to London and
identify the baby. Another person conveyed the
startling intelligence that she herself was the mother
of the child ; that she could tell by whom it was
adopted. " My child," she said, " is now a belted earl.
N
178 The Changeling.
But my conscience upbraids me. Better a crust with
the reward, than the pricks of a guilty conscience."
A third wrote with the warmth of a man of the world.
Did the advertiser believe that he was such a juggins
as to give away the story without making sure of the
reward ? If so But the writer preferred to'think
that he was dealing with a man of honour as well as
a man of business — therefore he would propose a sure
and certain plan. There must be in delicate affairs
a certain amount of confidence on both sides. The
writer knew the whole history, which was curious and
valuable, and concerned certain noble houses; he
had the proofs in his hands : he was prepared to send
up the story, with the proofs, which nobody could
question after once reading them, by return of post.
But there must be some show of confidence on both
sides. For himself, he was ready to confide in their
promise to pay the reward. Let them confide to
some extent in him. A mere trifle would do — the
twentieth part of the reward — say a hundred pounds.
Let the advertiser send this sum to him in registered
letter, care of the Dog and Duck, Aston Terrace, Bir-
mingham, in ten-pound notes, and by return post
would follow the proofs.
Or if, as might happen — the writer thought it best
in such matters to be extremely prudent — the adver-
tiser did not trust this plan, he had a brother in a
respectable way in a coffee-house and lodgings for
single men, Kingsland Road. Let the money be
deposited in his hands, to be held until the proofs and
vouchers had been received. Nothing could be
fairer than the proposal.
The First Move. 179
And so on. And so on. Richard greatly enjoyed
these letters. Human faces, he said, may differ ; legs
are long or short ; eyes are straight or skew ; but the
human mind, when two thousand pounds are involved,
is apparently always the same. Meantime, which was
disappointing, he was not a bit advanced in his
inquiry.
Sir Robert read this advertisement as well. " She
is well advised," he said. " She's going the right way
to work. They calculate that servants know, and
they ofifcr a big reward. If that doesn't fetch them,
there'll be a bigger. But it's no good — it's no good.
Nobody knows what I know."
He thought it best, however, to reassure Lady
Woodroffe.
" I hoped," he said, " that we should have no
further occasion to speak about a certain transaction.
I suppose, however, that you have heard of certain
advertisements ? "
" I have. Do you think } "
" I do not think. Nay, I am certain. Lady Wood-
roffe, remember that there is only one person who
knows the two women engaged in that transaction.
I stood between them. I am not going to bring them
together unless you desire me to do so. I came to
say this, in case you should be in the least degree
uneasy."
"Thank you. Sir Robert," she answered humbly.
She trusted in that square-jawed, beetle-browed man;
yet she was humiliated. " I certainly confide in
you."
He got up. " Then I will waste your time no
i8o The Changeling.
longer. You are always at work — I see and read and
hear — always at work — good works — good works."
Her lips parted, but she was silent. Did he mean a
reflection on the one work that had not been quite so
good ? But he was gone.
The advertisement was repeated in all the papers,
England, Scotland, Ireland, the Colonies, knew
about this adoption, and the anxiety of the mother to
recover her son.
At this stage of the investigation, the subject began
to be generally talked about. The newspapers had
leading articles on the general subject of adoption. It
was an opportunity for the display of classical scholar-
ship ; of mediaeval scholarship ; of historical scholar-
ship ; cases of pretence, of substitution, are not
uncommon. There are noble houses about which
things are whispered — things which must not be
bruited abroad. The subject of adoption, open or
concealed, proved fertile and fruitful to the leader-
writer. One man, for instance, projected himself in
imagination into the situation, and speculated on the
effect which would be produced on a young man of
culture and fine feeling, of finding out, at five and
twenty, that he belonged to quite another family, with
quite another set of traditions, prejudices, and ideas.
Thus a young man born in the purple, or near it ;
brought up in great respect for birth, connections, and
family history, with a strong prejudice in favour of an
aristocratic caste ; suddenly discovers that his people
belong to the lowest grade of those who can call
themselves of the middle class, and that he has no
kind of connection with the folk to whom he has
The First Move. iBl
always believed himself attached. What would be
the effect upon an educated and a sensitive mind ?
What would be the effect upon his affections .-' How
would he regard his new mother — probably a vulgar
old woman — or his new brothers and sisters — probably
preposterous in their vulgarity ? What effect would
the discovery have upon his views of life? What
upon his politics ? What upon his opinions as to
small trade, and the mean and undignified and sordid
employments by which the bulk of mankind have to
live ?
At dinner-tables people talked about this mysterious
adoption. What could it mean .-* Why did not the
lady come forward ? Was it, as some of the papers
argued, clearly a case of fraudulent substitution ? If
not, why did she not come forward } She was dead,
perhaps. If so, why did not some one else come
forward ? If, however, it really was a case of sub-
stitution, then the position was intelligible. For
instance, the case quoted the day before yesterday
by the Daily News; that was, surely, a similar case.
And so on ; all the speakers wise with the knowledge
derived from yesterday's paper. Are we sufficiently
grateful to our daily papers and our leader-writers,
fcr providing us with subjects of conversation ?
The subject was handled with great vigour one
night at Lady Woodroffe's own table. Sir Robert
was present ; he argued, with ability, that there was
no reason to suppose any deception at all ; that in
his view, the lady had adopted the child, and had
resolved to bring up the child in complete ignorance
of its relatives, who were presumably of the lowlier
1 82 The Changeling.
sort ; that she had seen no reason to take her servants
into her confidence, or her friends ; and that she now
saw no reason to let the young man learn who his
real relations were. And he drew a really admirable
sketch of the disgust with which the young man
would receive his new cousins. Lady Woodroffe,
while this agreeable discussion was continued, sat at
the head of her table, calm, pale, and collected.
Then there appeared a third advertisement. It
was just like the second, except that it now raised
the reward to ten thousand guineas. It also included
the fact that the child had been received at the
Birmingham station by an Indian ayah.
This advertisement caused searchings of heart in
all houses where there had been at any time an
Indian ayah. The suggestion in every one of these
houses was that a child had died, and another had
been substituted. The matter was discussed in the
servants' hall at Lady Woodroffe's, The butler had
been in service with Sir Humphrey and his house-
hold for thirty years.
" I came home," he said, " from India with Sir
Humphrey. We came to this house. My lady and
the ayaJi — she that died six or seven years ago — were
already here with the child — now Sir Humphrey."
" Did you know the child again ? "
" Know the child ? I'd know Sir Humphrey's child
anywhere. Why, I saw him every day till he was
six months old. A lovely child he was, with his
light hair and his blue eyes."
" Did my lady come from Birmingham ? "
" What would my lady be doing at Birmingham ?
The First Move. 183
She came straight through from Scotland from
her noble pa, Lord Dunedin. The ayah told
us so."
The page, who was listening, resigned, with a sigh,
the prospect of getting that reward of ten thousand
guineas.
Lady Woodroffe, upstairs, read the third advertise-
ment, and grew faint and sick with fear.
Sir Robert read the advertisement. " Very good,"
he said. "Very good indeed. But if there had been
any one who knew anything at all, there would have
been an answer to the offer of two thousand pounds.
Let them offer a million, if they like."
" Dick," said Molly, " it seemed very clever at first.
But, you see, nothing has come of it."
" On the contrary, something has come of it.
Mind you, the whole world is talking about the case.
If it was a genuine adoption, the unknown woman
would certainly have come forward."
" Why ? "
"Because there could be no reason for conceal-
ment. As it is, she remains silent. Why ? Because
there has been substitution instead of adoption. She
has put forward another baby in the place and in the
name of the dead child."
" How can you prove that ? "
" I don't know, Molly. I believe I have missed my
vocation. I am a sleuth-hound. Give me a clue ; put
me on the scent, and let me rip,"
His face hardened ; his features grew sharper ; his
eyes keener ; he bent his neck forward ; he was no
184 The Changeling.
longer the musician ; he was the bloodhound looking
for the scent. The acting instinct in him made him
while he spoke adapt his face and his expression to
the new part he played. To look the part is, if you
consider, essential.
CHAPTER XV.
TWO JUMPS AND A CONCLUSION.
The advertisements produced no answer except from
persons hoping to make money by the case — such as
the raihvay porter, who could swear to the baby, the
lady who was really the mother, or the detective who
wanted a good long-staying job. There seemed no
hope or help from the advertisement. Well, then,
what next ?
By this time Richard Woodroffe, though never
before engaged upon this kind of business, found
himself so much interested in the subject that he
could think of nothing else. He occupied himself
with putting the case into a statement, which he kept
altering. He carried himself back in imagination to
the transference of the baby ; he saw the doctor taking
it from the mother and giving it to an ayah in the
railway station. And there he stopped.
His friend Sir Robert was the doctor — his friend
Sir Robert, who knew all the theatrical and show
folk, as well as the royal princes and the dukes and
illustrious folk. Well, he knew this physician well
enough to be certain that a secret was as safe behind
those steady, deep-set eyes as with any father con-
fessor. That square chin did not belong to a garrulous
i86 The Changeling.
temper, that big brain was a treasury of family secrets ;
he knew where all the skeletons were kept ; this was
only one of a thousand secrets ; his patients told him
everything — that was, of course, because he was a
specialist in nervous disorders, which have a good deal
to do with family and personal secrets. Fortunately,
personal secrets are not family secrets.
There is a deep-seated prejudice against the upper
ten thousand in the matter of family secrets. They
are supposed to possess a large number of these
awkward chronicles, and they are all supposed to
be scandals. Aristocratic circles are supposed to
be very much exposed to the danger of catching a
family secret, a disease which is contagious, and is
passed on from one family to another with surprising
readiness. They are supposed also to be continually
engaged in hushing up, hiding away, sending accom-
plices and servants cognizant of certain transactions
to America and the Antipodes, even dropping them
into dungeons. They are believed to be always try-
ing to forget the last scandal but one, while they are
destroying the proofs of the last scandal. For my
own part, while admitting the contagion of the dis-
order, I would submit that an earl is no more liable
to it than an alderman, a baron no more than a
butcher. Middle-class families are always either
going up or going down. With those which are
going up there is an immense quantity of things
to be forgotten. We wipe out with a sponge a
deplorable great-aunt, we look the other way when
we pass her grave ; we agree to forget a whole
family of cousins ; we do not wish ourselves to be
Two Jumps and a Conclusion. 187
remembered more than, say, thirty years back ; we
desire that no inquiry, other than general, shall be
made into our origins. In a word — if we may com-
press so great a discovery in a single sentence — the
middle class — the great middle class — backbone, legs,
brain, and tongue, as we all know, of the country —
the class to which we all, or nearly all, belong — is
really the home and haunt of the family secret.
This secret, however, was not in the ordinary run
— not those which excitable actresses pour into the
ears of physicians. Moreover, if the theory was true,
it was a secret, Richard reflected, as much of the
doctor's as of the lady's. And, again, since adoption
became substitution, although the young doctor may
have assisted in the former, the old doctor might not
be anxious for the story to get about now that it
meant the latter.
Here, however, were the facts as related by Alice
herself.
An unknown lady, according to the doctor's state-
ment, called upon him and stated that she was
anxious to adopt a child in place of her own, which
she had just lost by death.
This was early in February, 1874.
The lady stated further that she wanted a child
about fifteen months of age, light-haired, blue-eyed.
(The child she adopted was thirteen months of
age.)
(Did the child die in Birmingham? As the lady
was apparently passing through, did the child die at
a hotel .?)
Dr. Steele called upon Alice, then in great poverty
1 88 The Changeling.
and distress, and asked her if she would let the child
be adopted, or whether she would suffer it to go into
the workhouse. She chose the former alternative,
and accepted the sum of fifty pounds for her child.
The money was paid in five-pound notes. She did
not know the numbers.
There were no marks on the child by which he
might be identified.
On the child's clothes, before giving him up, the
mother pinned a paper, giving his Christian name —
Humphrey.
He was the son of Anthony Woodroffe. In the
Woodroffe family there was always a Humphrey.
Nothing else, nothing else — no clue, no suggestion,
or hint, or opening anywhere, except resemblance.
The strange likeness of this young man Humphrey
to himself haunted Dick ; he looked at himself in
the glass. Any one could see that his features, his
hair, his eyes, were those of Humphrey. Differences
there were — in stature, in expression, in carriage.
Dick was as elastic and springy as the other was
measured and slow of gait. As for that other resem-
blance, said by Alice to be even more marked — that
between Humphrey and Anthony Woodroffe, the
actor, John Anthony — it was even more remarkable.
These resemblances one may look for in sons and in
brothers, but not in cousins separated by five hundred
years. Another point which he kept to himself was
the resemblance which he found in Humphrey to
Alice, his mother by theory. It was not the same
kind of resemblance as the other — features, face, head,
all were different ; it was that resemblance which
Two Jumps and a Conclusion. 189
reminds — a resemblance not defined in words, but
unmistakable. And all day long and all night Dick
saw this resemblance.
He put down the points —
1. The strongest possible resemblance — so stated
by the mother of the adopted child — of son to father.
2. A strong resemblance as between brothers or
sons of the same father.
3. A resemblance — was it fancy of his own ? — as
between mother and son.
4. The lady who adopted the boy must have
belonged to an Indian family, because there was an
ayah with her.
5. The age of the child adopted corresponded very
nearly with the age of Sir Humphrey.
He went to the British Museum and consulted
" Debrett," He took the trouble to go there because
he did not possess the volume, and none of his friends
had ever heard of it. There he read, as the doctor
had read a few weeks before, that the present holder
of the Woodrofife baronetcy was Humphrey Arundale,
second baronet, son of the late Sir Humphrey, etc.,
born on December the 2nd, 1872.
There was nothing much to be got out of that
little paragraph. But, as Dick read it again and
again, the letters began to shift themselves. It is
astonishing how letters can, by a little shifting,
convey a very different meaning. This is what he
read now —
"Woodroffe, Humphrey, falsely calling himself
second baronet, and son of the late Sir Humphrey,
really son of one John Anthony Woodroffe, distant
190 The Changeling.
cousin of Sir Humphrey, vocalist, comedian, and
vagabond, by Alice, daughter of Tom, Dick, or Harry
Pennefather, engaged in small trade, of Hackney ;
born in 1873, sold by his mother in February, 1874,
through the agency of Sir Robert Steele, M.D.,
F.R.S., Ex-President of the Royal College of
Physicians, now of Harley Street, to Lilias, Lady
Woodroffe, daughter of the Earl of Dunedin, who
passed him off as her own child.
" Collateral branches — Richard, son of the late
John Anthony Woodroffe, by Bethia, his second
wife, after he had divorced and deserted the above
mentioned Alice, October 14, 1875 ; unmarried, has
no club, musician, singer, comedian, vagabond."
He put back the volume. " It's a very remarkable
Red Book," he said ; " nobody knows how they get
at these facts. Now, I, for my part, don't seem able
to get at the truth, however much I try ; and there
' Debrett ' has it in print, for all the world to read."
He then looked up the same work twelve years
before. He found under the name of Woodroffe the
fact that Sir Humphrey the elder retired from active
service, and returned to England early in February,
1874.
"The old man came home, then," he said, "at
the very time when the adoption was negotiated.
At that very time. How does that bear on the case ?
Well, if his own child died, there was perhaps time
to get another to take its place before he got home."
Now, Dick in a small way was a story»teller ; he
was in request by those who knew him because he
told stories very well, and also because he told
Two Jumps and a Conclusion. 191
very few, and would only work when he could
capture an idea, and when a story came of its own
accord ; he was the author of one or two comediettas ;
further, he had been on the stage, and had played
many parts. From this variegated experience he
understood the value of drawing your conclusion
first, and putting together your proofs afterwards :
perhaps the proofs might fail to arrive ; but the con-
clusion would remain. Geometry wants to build up
proofs and arrive at a conclusion which one would
not otherwise guess. Who could possibly imagine
that the square on the side opposite the right angle
is equal to the sum of the squares on the sides
containing the right angle ? Not even the sharpest
woman ever created would arrive at such a conclusion
without proofs. In law also, chiefly because men
are mostly liars, exact proof is demanded — proof
arrived at by painfully picking the truth out of the
lies. This young man, for his part, partly because
he was a story-teller and a dramatist, partly because
he was a musician, found it the best and readiest
method to jump at the truth first, and to prove it
afterwards. He arrived at this conclusion, which
perfectly satisfied him, without any reason, like a
kangaroo, by a jump. In fact, he took two jumps.
It is always a great help in cases requiring thought
and argument and construction — because every good
case is like a story in requiring construction — to
consult the feminine mind ; if you are interested in
the owner, or tenant, of a certain mind, it makes the
consultation all the better. Richard Woodroffe
consulted Molly every day. By talking over the
192 The Changeling.
case again and again, and by looking at it in company,
one becomes more critical and at the same time
clearer in one's views. There were, as you know,
many reasons why Richard should consult this young
lady, apart from her undoubted intelligence.
" Why, Molly," he asked—" why — I put it to your
feminine perceptions — why was this good lady so
profoundly moved by the mere sight of the fellow .-•
She wasn't moved by the sight of me. Yet I am
exactly hke him, I believe. It was at the theatre.
She was in a private box ; he was one of a line of
Johnnies in the stalls. She was so much affected
that she had to leave the house. She met him again
at Steele's dinner. She was affected in the same
way. Why ? She is presumed never to have seen
the fellow before ; she certainly has not seen him for
twenty-four years. Why, I ask, was she so much
affected ? She tells me that the sight of him always
affects her in exactly the same way — with the same
mysterious yearning and longing and with a sad-
ness indescribable.
" Wait a minute. Hear me out. Is it his resem-
blance to a certain man — her first husband ? But
again, I am like him, and she does not yearn after
me a bit. What can it be except an unknown sense
— the maternal instinct — which is awakened in her ?
What is it but his own identity, which she alone can
understand — with her child ? "
" Dick," said Molly, " it's a tremendous jump. Yet,
of course "
" Of course. I knew you would agree with me. The
intuitions — the conclusions — the insight of women
Two Jumps and a Conclusion. 193
are beyond everything. Molly, it is a blessed thing
that you are retained in this case. The sight of you
is to me a daily refresher ; the look of you is a heavy
fee ; and the voice of you is an encouragement,
Stand by me, Molly — and I will pull this half-brother
of mine down from that bad eminence and ask him,
when he stands beside me, with an entirely new and
most distinguished company of cousins, how he feels,
and what has become of his superiority. You shall
introduce him to the pew-opener, and I will present
him to the draper."
Again, there was the second jump. " I ask you
that, Molly. Do you imagine that the doctor is
really and truly as ignorant as he would have us
believe, of the lady's name ? He knows Lady Wood-
roffe ; he asks her son to dinner. To be sure, he
knows half the world. If he attended the dead child,
of course he would have known her name. But I
suppose he did not. If so, since the lady came to him
immediately after the death, he might have consulted
the registers, to find what children of that age had
died during a certain week in Birmingham — if the
child did die there, of which we are not certain.
Even in a great city like Birmingham there are not
many children of that age dying every day ; very
few dying in hotels ; and very few children indeed
belonging to visitors and strangers. Molly mine —
if the doctor did not know, the doctor might have
known. Is that so .-' Deny it if you can."
" I suppose so, Dick, though really I don't see
what you are driving at."
"Very well, then. We go on. Why did the doctor
O
194 The Changeling.
go out of his way to invite Humphrey to meet his
true mother ? Now, I know Dr. Steele. He's an
awfully good fellow — charitable and good-natured ;
he'll do anything for a man ; but he's a man of
science, and he's always watching and thinking and
putting things together. I've heard him talk about
heredity, and what a man gets from his ancestors.
Now, I'm quite certain, Molly — without any proof —
I don't want any proof. Hang your hard-and-fast
matter-of-fact evidence ! I am quite certain, I say,
that Steele invited Humphrey and his mother and
myself in order to look at us all and watch differences
and likenesses. You see, the case may be a beautiful
illustration of hereditary qualities. Here is a young
man separated from his own people from infancy.
There can be no imitation ; and now, after twenty
years and more, the man of science can contemplate
the son, brought up in a most aristocratic and superior
atmosphere ; the mother, who has always remained
in much the same condition except for money ; and
another son, who has been brought up like his father,
a vagabond and a wanderer — with a fiddle. It was
a lovely chance for him. I saw him looking at us
all dinner-time ; in the evening, when I was playing,
I saw him, under his bushy eyebrows, looking from
Humphrey to his mother. I wondered why. Now
I know. The doctor, Molly, is an accomplice."
"An accomplice! Oh! And a man in that
position ! "
"An accomplice after the act, not before it. My
theory is this : Dr. Steele met the lady after he came
to town. How he managed to raise himself from
Two Jumps and a Conclusion. 195
the cheap general practitioner to a leading London
physician, one doesn't know. It's like stepping from
thirty shillings a week to being a star at fifty pounds ;
no one knows how it's done. Do you think Lady
Woodrofte was useful in talking about him ? If I
wrote a story, I should make the doctor dog the
lady's footsteps and coerce her into advancing him.
But this isn't a story. However, I take it that he
met her, recognized her, and that they agreed that
nothing was to be said about this little transaction
of the past. Then, of course, when Alice turned up
unexpectedly, and asked where the child was to be
seen, there was nothing to do except to hold up his
hands and protest that he knew nothing about the
child."
" But all this is guess-work, Dick."
" Yes. I am afraid we have nothing before us
but guess-work. Unless we get some facts to go
upon. Look here. A woman is standing on one side
of a high wall ; another woman is on the other side
of the wall. There is a door in the wall ; Sir Robert
keeps the key of that door in his pocket. There is
only one key, and he has it. Unless he consents
to unlock the door, those two women can never
meet. And so my half-brother will remain upon
his eminence,"
They fell into a gloomy silence.
Dick broke it. "Molly, what about our good
friend, the mother of this interesting changeling ? "
" She is strangely comforted by the reflection that
the matter is in your hands. Dick, you have found
favour in her sight and in her husband's."
196 The Changeling.
" Good, so far."
" And she is firmly persuaded that you will bring
the truth to light. She still clings to her dream, you
know."
" Does she talk about Humphrey ? Was she taken
with him ? "
" She says little. She lies down and shuts her
eyes. Then she is thinking of him. She likes me
to play, so that she may think about him. When
we drive out, I am sure she is looking for him in the
crowd. If he were to call, she would tell him every-
thing. And I am certain that she dreams of heaping
upon him all that a young man can possibly desire
as soon as she gets him back."
" I hope the poor soul will not meet with dis-
appointment. But I fear, Molly — I fear." He re-
lapsed into his gloomy silence. " I hold the two
ends of the chain in my hands, but I cannot connect
the ends. I might go to Steele and show him what
I suspect. He would only laugh at me. He laughs
like the Sphynx, sometimes. If I went to Lady
Woodrofife, I should be handed over to her solicitors,
and by them conducted to the High Court of Justice ;
I should hear plain speaking from the Judge on the
subject of defamation of character. Everybody would
believe that I was a black-mailer. I should be called
upon to pay large sums of money as damages ; and
I should have to go through the Court of Bank-
ruptcy."
The mind of this inquirer had never before been
exercised upon any matter more knotty than the
presentation of a simple plot, or the difficulty of
Two Jumps and a Conclusion. 197
getting people off the stage. Sometimes, in moments
of depression, he even doubted his own conclusions —
a condition of mind fatal to all discovery, because
it is quite certain that the eye of faith first perceives
what the slow piecing together of facts afterwards
proves. You must perceive the truth, somehow, first
before you can prove it. Perhaps it is not the truth
which is at first discerned. In that case, the seeker
after truth has at least an imaginary object by which
to direct his steps. It may lead him wrong ; on the
other hand, it may help him to recover the clue which
will lead him straight to the heart of things. In a
word, one wants a theory to assist all research in
things of science or in things of practice.
"Dick," said Molly, "about those registers."
" What about them ? "
"Why, that the doctor might have found the
name of the child by simply looking into the
registers."
" If the child, that is to say, died in Birmingham."
"Yes — if it died in Birmingham. Well, then, Dick
— if the doctor could search those registers "
She stopped for a moment. They always do it on
the stage, to heighten the effect.
" Well, Molly ? "
" Why can't you .? "
Dick sat down suddenly, knocked over by the shock
of this suggestion.
" Good Heavens, Molly ! Oh the depth and the
height and the spring and the leap of woman's wit !
Why can't I .-' why can't I ? Molly, I am a log, and
a lump, and a lout. I deserve that you should take
198 The Changeling.
my half-brother. No — not that! Good-bye, good-
bye, incomparable shepherdess ! " He raised her
hand and kissed it. " I fly — I hasten — on the wings
of the wind — to Birmingham — the city of Hidden
Truth — to read the Revelations of the Register."
CHAPTER XVI.
A WRETCH.
HiLARIE sat alone in the deep recesses of the western
porch of the old church. Although it was November,
this sheltered porch was still warm ; the swallows
that make the summer, and their friends the swifts,
were gone ; the leaves which still clung to the trees
were red and brown and yellow ; the grass which
clothed the graves no longer waved under the breeze
with light and shade and sunshine ; none of the old
bedesmen were walking the churchyard ; even the
children in the school were silent over their work,
as if singing only belonged to summer ; and the wind
whistled mournfully in the branches of the yew.
Her face, always so calm and restful to others, was
troubled and disturbed as she sat by herself.
She held two letters in her hand. One of them
was open. She had already read it twice ; now she
read it a third time. It was from Molly, and it ran
as follows : —
" Dearest President of the only college where they
teach sweet thoughts and gracious manners and
nothing else — where they have only one professor,
who is the president and the chaplain and all the
lecturers — I have not seen you for so long a time
200 The Changeling.
that I am ashamed. Now I am going to tell you
why. I must make confession, and then I must ask
your advice. I can do this much better by writing
than by talking, so that I will write first and we will
talk afterwards. I have to tell you most unexpected
things, and most wonderful events. They are full of
temptations and quandaries.
" First, for my confession. Your ambition for me
has been that I should be ambitious for myself. I
have done my best to meet your wish ; I have tried
to be ambitious in the best way — your way. You
thought that I might make a serious attempt at
serious acting — that I might become a queen of
tragedy. Alas ! I have felt for some time that I
must abandon the attempt. I cannot portray the
emotions, I cannot feel the emotions, of tragedy ; my
nature is too shallow ; I cannot realize a great passion.
I only know that it must produce in voice, and face,
and speech, and gesture, changes and indications that
cannot be taught. As for me, when I try, I become
either stilted or wooden. The passion does not seize
me and possess me. Ambition, of a kind, is not
wanting. I like to imagine myself a great actress,
sweeping across the stage with a velvet train ; I like
to think of the people rising and applauding ; but,
as for the part, I am not moved at all. I think
about nothing but myself. If I look in the glass, I
am told that I have not the face for tragedy. If
I begin to declaim, I cannot feel the words. I am
just like the young man who kept on dreaming that
he was a great poet, until he made the disagreeable
discovery that in order to be a great poet it is
A Wretch. 20 1
absolutely necessary to write great poems. My dear
Hilarie, I must put a stop to this attempt at once.
I have been a burden to you for five long years.
Let me not load you with more than is necessary.
I don't say anything about thanks, because you know
— you know.
" Dick — you remember Dick, my father's old young
friend — the Dick that turned up on tramp that day
you three cousins met — tells me that in comedy I
should do well. You shall hear, directly, that it is
quite possible that I may change the buskin for the
sock — which he says is the classical way of putting
it. He tells me that an expressive face— mine can
screw up or be pulled out like an indiarubber face —
a tall figure, and a fairly good voice, are wanted first
of all ; and that I have all three. But you will see
directly that poor Dick is not quite a disinterested
person. Still, he may be right, and I must say that
if I am to go on the stage, I would rather make them
laugh than cry. It must be much more pleasant to
broaden their faces with smiles than to stiffen them
with terror at the sight of the blood-stained dagger.
" The stage seems the only profession open to
a girl like me, if I am to have a profession at all —
which you will understand directly is no longer
absolutely necessary. I was born behind the foot-
lights, Dick was born in the sawdust ; so there seems
a natural fitness. However, until 1 knew you all, my
acquaintances were these folk ; I have never learned
to think of myself as belonging to the world at all.
To my young imagination the world consisted of a
great many people, whose only occupation was to
204 The Changeling.
How selfish, how thoughtless of other people, how
fat and coarse and lazy, one would become ! Dick
has often spoken of the terrible effect produced upon
the mind by the possession of wealth. Perhaps he
has prejudiced me.
"The next temptation comes from a certain young
man. He besieges me — he swears he cannot live
without me. He wants me to be engaged secretly—
he says that I have promised. But I have not. As
for keeping any secrets from you, and especially a
matter of this importance, it is ridiculous. The
young man is, in fact, one of the cousins — Sir
Humphrey."
At this point Hilarie started, laid down the letter,
looked up ; read the words again ; went on, with a
red spot in either cheek.
"I confess humbly that the position which he
offers attracts me. That so humble a person as
myself should be elevated without any warning, so
to speak, to this position — his mother is a great
leader in the philanthropic part of society — is a
curious freak of fortune. It is like a story-book.
As for the man — well, for my own feeling about him,
it is certainly quite true that I could very well live
without him. I certainly should not droop and
languish if he were to go somewhere else ; yet — you
know him, Hilarie. He is clever in a way. He
thinks he has ideas about Art — he paints smudges,
puts together chords, and writes lines that rhyme.
He also plays disjointed bits, and complains that
they do not appeal to me. That is harmless, how-
ever. His manners are distinguished, I suppose.
A Wretch. 205
He is quite contemptuous of everybody who has
work to do. If you talk to him about the world
below, it is like running your head against a stone
wall. He loves me, he says, for the opposites. And
what that means, I don't know. I suppose that, as
a gentleman, he could be trusted to behave with
decency and kindness to his wife. At the same time,
I have found him, more than once, of a surprising
ill temper, moody, jealous, violent, and I think that
he is selfish in the cultivated manner — that is to say,
selfish with refinement.
" I cannot and will not be guilty of a secret en-
gagement ; while a secret marriage, which he also
vehemently urges, unknown to his mother or my
friends, and to be kept in retirement, concealed from
everybody, is a degradation to which I would never
submit. I cannot understand what my lover means
by such a proposal, nor why he cannot see that the
thing is an insult and an impossibility.
" However, I have refused concealment. Meantime
a most romantic and wonderful discovery is going to
be disclosed. I must not set it down on paper, even
for your eyes, Hilarie. It is a discovery of which
Humphrey knows nothing as yet. He will learn it,
I believe, in a few days. When he does learn it, it
will necessitate a complete change in all his views of
life ; it will open the world for him ; it will take him
out of his narrow grooves ; it will try him and prove
him. Now, dear Hilarie, am I right to wait — without
his knowing why? If he receives this discovery as
he ought — if it brings out in him what is really noble
in his character, I can trust myself to him. At the
204 The Changeling.
How selfish, how thoughtless of other people, how
fat and coarse and lazy, one would become ! Dick
has often spoken of the terrible effect produced upon
the mind by the possession of wealth. Perhaps he
has prejudiced me.
"The next temptation comes from a certain young
man. He besieges me — he swears he cannot live
without me. He wants me to be engaged secretly—
he says that I have promised. But I have not. As
for keeping any secrets from you, and especially a
matter of this importance, it is ridiculous. The
young man is, in fact, one of the cousins — Sir
Humphrey."
At this point Hilarie started, laid down the letter,
looked up ; read the words again ; went on, with a
red spot in either cheek.
"I confess humbly that the position which he
offers attracts me. That so humble a person as
myself should be elevated without any warning, so
to speak, to this position — his mother is a great
leader in the philanthropic part of society — is a
curious freak of fortune. It is like a story-book.
As for the man — well, for my own feeling about him,
it is certainly quite true that I could very well hve
without him. I certainly should not droop and
languish if he were to go somewhere else ; yet — you
know him, Hilarie. He is clever in a way. He
thinks he has ideas about Art — he paints smudges,
puts together chords, and writes lines that rhyme.
He also plays disjointed bits, and complains that
they do not appeal to me. That is harmless, how-
ever. His manners are distinguished, I suppose.
A Wretch. 205
He is quite contemptuous of everybody who has
work to do. If you talk to him about the world
below, it is like running your head against a stone
wall. He loves me, he says, for the opposites. And
what that means, I don't know. I suppose that, as
a gentleman, he could be trusted to behave with
decency and kindness to his wife. At the same time,
I have found him, more than once, of a surprising
ill temper, moody, jealous, violent, and I think that
he is selfish in the cultivated manner— that is to say,
selfish with refinement.
" I cannot and will not be guilty of a secret en-
gagement ; while a secret marriage, which he also
vehemently urges, unknown to his mother or my
friends, and to be kept in retirement, concealed from
everybody, is a degradation to which I would never
submit. I cannot understand what my lover means
by such a proposal, nor why he cannot see that the
thing is an insult and an impossibility.
" However, I have refused concealment. Meantime
a most romantic and wonderful discovery is going to
be disclosed. I must not set it down on paper, even
for your eyes, Hilarie. It is a discovery of which
Humphrey knows nothing as yet. He will learn it,
I believe, in a few days. When he does learn it, it
will necessitate a complete change in all his views of
life ; it will open the world for him ; it will take him
out of his narrow grooves ; it will try him and prove
him. Now, dear Hilarie, am I right to wait — without
his knowing why? If he receives this discovery as
he ought — if it brings out in him what is really noble
in his character, I can trust myself to him. At the
2o6 The Changeling.
same time, it will deprive him of what first attracted
me in him ; but I must not tell you more.
" Lastly, my dear old Dick has been making love
to me, just as he did when I was fifteen and he was
seventeen, going about with my father, practising and
playing. Such a Conservative — so full of prejudices
is Dick. I confess to you, dear Hilarie, I would
rather marry Dick than anything else. We should
never have any money — Dick gives away all he gets.
He will not put by. * If I am ill,' he says, ' take me
to the hospital.' ' If I die,' he says, 'bury me in the
hedge, like the gipsy folk.' He never wants money,
and I should sometimes go on tramp with him, and
we should sit in the woods, and march along the
roads, and hear the skylark sing, and yearn for the
unattainable, and go on crying for we know not what,
like the little children. Oh, delightful ! And Dick
is always sweet and always good — except, perhaps,
when he speaks of Humphrey, who has angered him
by cold and superior airs. Dick is a philosopher,
except on that one side. When I think of marrying
Dick, dear Hilarie, my heart stands still. For then
I get a most lovely dream. I close my eyes to see
it better. It is a most charming vision. There is a
long road with a broad strip of turf on either side,
and a high hedge for shade and flowers, goodly trees
at intervals ; a road which runs over the hills and
down the valleys and along brooks ; crosses bridges,
and has short cuts through fields and meadows ;
overhead the lark sings ; from the trees the yellow-
hammer cries, 'A little bit of bread and no cheese ; '
clouds fly across the sky ; all kinds of queer people
A Wretch. 207
pass along — vagrants, beggars, gipsies, soldiers, — just
the common sort. On the springy turf at the side I
myself walk, carrying the fiddle — in the middle of
the road Dick tramps, going large and free ; over his
shoulders hangs the bag which contains all we want ;
now and then he bursts out singing as he goes. In
the coppice we sit down on the trunk of a tree and
take lunch out of a paper bag. Sometimes, when we
are quite alone in a coppice, far away from the world,
Dick takes his fiddle out of the case and plays to me,
all alone, music that lifts me out of myself and carries
me away, I know not whither. Who would not marry
a great magician .-' And in my dream about Dick
I am never tired. I never regret my lot — I never
want money. Dick is never savage, like Humphrey
— he despises no one ; he is loved by everybody.
Oh, Hilarie, I would ask for nothing — nothing better
than to give myself to Dick, and to follow him and
be his slave — his grateful slave ! Is this love, Hilarie?
Write to me, dear Hilarie, and tell me what I ought
to do."
Hilarie laid down the letter with a sigh. " Strange,"
she said. " Molly sees her own path of happiness quite
plainly ; yet she cannot follow it. What she does not
know is that she has shattered my own dream."
She opened another letter in her hand. " I should
have known," she said. " He is base metal, through
and through. I should have known. Yet what a son
— of what a mother ! Who would suspect ? " She
read the letter again.
" It has been my dream ever since the fortunate
day when I met you in the churchyard, to unite our
2o8 The Changeling.
branches of the house. You have thought me cold
about your very beautiful projects and illusions, I am,
perhaps, harder than yourself, because I know the
world better, and because I have always found people
extremely amiable while you are giving them things
— and exactly the reverse when you call upon them
to give to others. However, you will never find me
opposing the plans suggested by your nobility of
character. I have spoken to my mother upon this
subject " She stopped short— she tore the letter
in halves, then, with another thought, put back the
torn sheet into its envelope. " Wretch ! " she cried, "I
will keep your letter ! "
She sat there, alone, looking out upon the porch.
The sun went down and the twilight descended, and
she sat among the graves, thinking.
Presently she got up, feeling cold and numbed. " It
was a foolish dream," she said. " I ought to have
known — I ought to have known."
She walked slowly homeward. As she came out of
the coppice into her own park, she saw the old house
lit up already, and through the windows she saw
figures flitting about. They were her students, and
they were gathering for afternoon tea.
" Why," she said, " I want to be their leader, and I
dream an idle dream about a worthless man ! "
With firmer step and head erect she entered the
porch of her house, and found herself in the midst of
the girls. Her dream was shattered — she let it go :
there are other things to think about besides a
worthless man.
One knows not what were the actual intentions of
A Wretch. 209
this young man. Fate would not, as you will presently
discover, permit him to carry them out. We may,
however, allow that he was really in love with one of
the two girls — the one who attracted all mankind, not
so much by her beauty as by her manner, which was
caressing ; and by her conversation, which was
sprightly. He was in love with her after the manner
of his father, who felt the necessity for an occasional
change in the object of his affections. To desert one
woman for another was part of his inheritance — had
Hilarie known it. One should find excuses for here-
ditary tendencies ; those who knew the truth would
recognize in this treatment of women the mark of the
changeling.
As for Hilarie, she wrote a brief note to Molly.
" Let us talk over these things," she said. " Mean-
time, I implore you not to enter into any engagement,
open or secret, with a man who could venture to
propose the latter." She folded the note. She rose ;
she sighed.
"An idle dream," she said, "about a worthless
man ! "
CHAPTER XVII.
THE SECOND BLOW.
Three days after this conversation, the amateur
detective on his first job arrived in London with the
midday train from Birmingham. He was in a state
of happiness and triumph almost superhuman. For
he brought with him, as he believed, the conclusion of
the matter. Alone, single-handed, he had discovered
the plot ; the proofs were in his hands. He was on his
way to compel the guilty to submission, to subdue the
proud, to send the rich empty away. Poetical justice
would be done ; his half-brother would be restored to
his fraternal arms ; and Molly would be free.
I say there was no happier man than this poor
credulous Richard to be found anywhere than in that
third-class carriage. He wanted no paper to read ; he
sat in a kind of cloud of glorious congratulations.
Everything was proved ; there was but one step
possible — that of surrender absolute.
Two letters preceded his arrival.
One was for Molly. " Expect me to-morrow even-
ing," he said. " I bring great news ; but do not say
anything to Alice. The news should be still greater
than what I have to tell you."
The other was for Lady Woodroffe.
The Second Blow. 211
*' Madam " (he wrote)
"I have to inform you that I have made
a discovery closely connected with you. The
discovery is (i) that the only son of the late Sir
Humphrey Woodrofife, the first baronet, died at Bir-
mingham, on February 5 th, 1874, and is buried there ;
and (2) that he died at the Great Midland Hotel,
where your name is entered as being on that day
accompanied by an Indian ayah and a child. There
is a note to the effect that the child died the same
night. The child is entered in the register as born on
December the 2nd, 1872. I observe in the Peerage
that the present baronet was born on that day.
" I propose to call upon you to-morrow afternoon at
about three o'clock, in the hope of obtaining an inter-
view with you on this subject.
" I remain, madam, your obedient servant,
" Richard Woodroffe."
Now you understand why Richard Woodroffe came
to town in so buoyant and jubilant a mood. He saw
himself received with shame and confusion by a fallen
enemy. He saw himself playing, for the first time in
his life, a part requiring great dignity — that of the
conqueror. He would be chivalrous towards this
sinner ; he would utter no reproach : to lay his proofs
before her, to receive her surrender, would be enough.
Richard was not a revengeful person; wrongs he
forgot ; injuries he forgave. At the same time, he
would have been more than human if he had not
contemplated, with some kind of satisfaction, the
reduction of the second baronet to his true level,
212 The Changeling.
which would leave him with no more pride and no
more superiority.
Alas ! He was not prepared for what awaited him.
Had he asked himself what kind of woman he should
meet, he would have imagined a person broken down
by the discovery of her guilt ; throwing herself at his
feet, ready to confess everything — a woman with whom
he would be the conqueror. That the tables would
be turned upon him, he never even thought possible.
Who would .'' He had discovered that the real heir
to the name and title of Sir Humphrey Woodrofife had
actually died at Birmingham twenty-four years ago.
Who, then, was the present so-called Sir Humphrey ?
" Thou art the woman ! " " Alas ! alas ! I am the
woman."
This was the pretty dialogue of conquest and con-
fession which he fondly imagined.
What happened ?
At the hour of three he called and sent in his card.
He was taken upstairs to the drawing-room, where
a lady of august presence and severe aspect, who
struck an unexpected terror into him at the outset,
was sitting at a table with a secretary. This severe
person put up her glasses curiously, and icily motioned
him to wait, while she went on dictating to the secre-
tary. When she had finished — which took several
minutes — she dismissed her assistant and turned to
her visitor, who was still standing, hat in hand,
already disconcerted by this contemptuous treatment,
and expectant of unpleasantness.
She pushed back her chair and took a paper from
the table.
The Second Blow. 213
"You sent me a letter yesterday, Mr. Woodroffe."
" I did," he said huskily. Then, with a feeling of
being cross-examined, he cleared his throat and tried
to assume an attitude of dignity.
" This is the letter, I believe. Read it, to make
sure."
" That is the letter."
" Oh ! And you are come, I suppose, to talk over
the matter, to see what you can make out of it.
Well, sir, I have taken advice upon this letter. I
was advised to have the door shut in your face ; I
was advised to send you to my lawyers ; but I am
not afraid, even of the black-mailer. I resolved to
see you. Now, sir, you may sit down, if you like."
Richard sank into a chair, his cheeks flaming. " Go
on, then," she added impatiently. " Don't waste my
time. Explain this letter, sir, instantly."
She rapped the table sharply with a paper-knife.
The triumphant detective jumped.
" I can — I can explain it." The poor young man
felt all his confidence slipping away from him. For
it looked as if she was actually going to brazen it
out — a contingency that had not occurred to him.
" One moment, Mr. Woodroffe. I am the more
inclined to give you an opportunity to explain person-
ally, because I hear that my son has already met you.
I can hardly say, made your acquaintance — met you
— and that you are, or pretend to be — it matters
nothing — a distant cousin of his. And now, sir,
having said so much, I am prepared to listen."
" I can give you the whole story. Lady Woodroffe."
'"'■ Ths whole story? 4 whole story, you mean,.
214 The Changeling.
Call things by their right names. But go on. Do
not occupy my time needlessly, and do not be
tedious."
" I will do neither, I assure you." He plucked up
some courage, thinking of his proofs, but not much.
" I even think I shall interest you. First of all, then :
my father, who was a comedian playing under the
name of Anthony, which was his Christian name,
married, as his first wife, a London girl. My father
was not a man of principle, I am sorry to say. After
a time, he deserted his wife, and left her alone with
her child in the streets of Birmingham — Birming-
ham," he repeated.
Lady Woodroffe winced. It might have been his
fancy, but she certainly seemed to wince at the
mention of that great city. She sat upright, with
hands crossed ; her face was pale, her eyes were hard,
though she still smiled.
" Go on, sir," she said ; " left his wife in Birming-
ham. I dare say I shall understand presently what
this means."
"This was twenty-four or twenty-five years ago.
The deserted wife could not believe that she had lost
his affection ; but she knew that the child's presence
annoyed him. That fact, perhaps, influenced her.
There was also the certainty of the workhouse before
her for the child ; she was therefore easily persuaded
to consent to an arrangement, by means of some
doctor of the place, to give her child into the charge
of a lady who had lost her own, and was willing to
adopt another. She did this in ignorance of the
lady's name."
The Second Blow. 215
" Did she never learn the lady's name ? " The
question was a mistake. Lady Woodroffe perceived
her mistake, and set her lips tighter.
" Never. She had no means of finding out. She
went after her husband, and followed him from place
to place, till she finally caught him in some town of a
Western State. Here, as soon as she appeared on the
scene, he divorced her for alleged incompatibility of
temper. Afterwards he married again, I am the
son of the second marriage."
"Yes. This is, no doubt, an interesting story.
But I am not, really, interested in your — your pedi-
gree," she sighed. " Oh, do go on, man ! Why do
you come here with it ? "
"It is the beginning of the story which ends with
that letter of mine."
"You promised, Mr. Woodroffe" — she smiled icily,
and her eyes remained hard — "that you would
neither bore me nor waste my time. Are you sure
that you are keeping your word ? "
"Quite sure. I go back to the story. I con-
cluded from the story as it was told me, that the
lady's child had died in Birmingham — in some hotel,
probably "
"One moment. May I guess that your object is,
apparently, to find this person who bought or took
charge of the child ? "
" It is on behalf of the mother, who is now in
England. Above all things, she desires to find her
child. That is natural, is it not ? "
" Perfectly natural. Let us hope that she may
succeed. Now go on, Mr. Woodroffe. Of course.
2i6 The Changeling.
a woman who would sell her child does not deserve
to get it back again."
Perhaps the last remark was also a mistake. At
least it showed temper.
"Perhaps not. This woman, Mrs. Haveril, how-
ever, who is married to an extremely wealthy
American "
" Haveril ! Can it be the millionaire person whom
my son met — with you — at Sir Robert Steele's
house ? "
" That is the lady."
" Indeed ! I always tell my son that he should be
more careful of his company. Well, go on."
Richard smiled. The insolence of the observation
did not hurt him in the least. It lessened the power
of the presence, and gave him confidence.
"This lady," he continued, " fancies or discerns an
extraordinary resemblance to her husband, my father
—and to myself — in your son. Lady Woodroffe.
The resemblance is very striking. He has most
undoubtedly my father's face, the same colour of his
hair — his figure even more strongly, it is said, than
myself. Yet I am considered like him."
"And because there is this resemblance, she
imagined "
"Hardly imagined. She dreamed "
" Dreamed ! What have I to do with her dreams ?
Well, she has only to ascertain the real parentage of
Sir Humphrey — my son. Oh, I have your letter in
my mind ! Sir Humphrey, you said, the second
baronet. We shall come to your letter presently."
" One would think "
The Second Blow. 217
" Has she any other reason to go upon besides the
resemblance ? "
By this time it was evident that she understood
exactly what was meant.
" She had, until yesterday, no other reason. Yet,
from one or two simple facts that I have discovered
— they are in my letter — I am certain that she is
right."
" Indeed ! Do you understand, Mr. Woodrofife,
the exact meaning of those words, ' that she is right.'
Then what is my son ? "
" He would be no longer your son. He would be
her son."
" Then what am I ? "
"That, Lady Woodroffe, is not for me to say."
" I promised to give you an audience. Therefore
go on,"
" Since there was no kind of proof of this imagining
— or this dream — I thought that I would go down to
Birmingham to search the registers."
"You are a detective, or a private and secret
inquirer ? "
" No ; I am acting only for this lady."
" She is a millionairess. I hope she pays you well.
But the facts — the facts. And you found "
" A great deal more than I hoped. The facts
which I set forth in my letter."
"An entry in the register, purporting to record the
death of my son, and an entry in a hotel-book, giving
my name, — that is all ! "
" Is it not enough .-* The child was about the same
age as the one adopted. There are not many children
2i8 The Changeling.
of that age who die every week — even in Birmingham.
Again, if the child died in Birmingham at all, it must
have been at a hotel. There are not many children
of the same age likely to die in the same week in
a Birmingham hotel. I had the register of deaths
searched, and found — what I told you. Copies have
been taken. I went to the hotel nearest the station,
and had the visitors' book searched. I found — what
I told you. Copies have been taken."
" Very good. What next ? "
" I sent you that letter, and I came to hear what
you say about it."
" What should I say about it ? "
" Who is this young man who calls himself the
second baronet ? "
" He is my son."
" Then who is the child that died ? "
" How am I to tell ? You must ask some one else."
"And who was the Lady Woodroffe who came to
the hotel > "
" How do I know ? You must ask some one else."
" Oh ! "
He might have considered this attitude as possible
at least. But he had not. His face expressed be-
wilderment and surprise.
"You actually suggest to me — to 7ne, of all people
in the world ! — that I, actually I myself, a woman of
my position, bought a child in place of a dead child !
That is your meaning, is it not, sir? "
" Certainly it is," he answered with creditable
valour. " I know you did it ! There's no way out
of it but to confess 1 "
The Second Blow. 219
"Why, you miserable little counter-jumper ! "
Dick stepped back in some alarm, because it looked
as if she were going to box his ears. She was quite
capable of it, indeed, and but for the guilty con-
science that held her back, she would have done it.
As it was, her wrath was not feigned. It maddened
her to think that this man should so easily discover a
whole half of the thing she thought concealed for ever.
"You wretched little counter-jumper!" she re-
peated, with reginal gesture, tall and commanding —
taller than poor Richard, and, dear me ! how much
more commanding ! " And you pretend a trumpery
resemblance ! Why, my son is half a foot taller than
you ! My son's father was a gentleman, and his face
and manners show it. Yours But your face and
manners show what he was. Leave the house, sir ! "
Dick dropped his hat in his surprise. " If you think
to black-mail me, you are mistaken. Leave the
house ! If you dare to speak of this again, it shall be
to my lawyers."
Richard picked up his hat. The action is a trifle,
but it completed his discomfiture,
"No; stay a moment. Understand quite clearly,
that you can make any use of these entries that you
please. But you may as well understand that I have
never been in Birmingham in my life ; that persons
in my position act and move among a surrounding
troop of servants, to speak nothing of friends and
relations. That the heirs of persons like Sir
Humphrey do not die and get buried unknown to
their friends — perhaps you have not thought of all
this."
220 The Changeling.
He heard this statement with open mouth. He
was struck dumb.
" Understand at once, make your principal — who
is she ? the rich person — understand that I have never
been in Birmingham in my Hfe ; and that every hour
of my life can be accounted for."
" Who was that child, then ? "
" Find out, if you can. It has nothing to do with
me. If, twenty years ago, some woman chose, for
purposes of her own, to personate the wife of Sir
Humphrey — who was then in Scotland — while Sir
Humphrey was on his way home from India, do you
think I am going to inquire or trouble my head
about her impudence ? "
Richard murmured something indistinct. He did
not know what to say. How could this majestic
woman have done such a thing ? Yet who else could
have done it ?
Lady Woodroffe sat down again. " I have been
wrong," she said, " in getting angry over this matter.
Perhaps you are not, after all, a black-mailer."
" Indeed, I am not."
" I have heard my son," she said, in a softer voice,
"speak of you, Mr. Woodroffe. But I must warn you
that any attempt to bring this charge will be met
by my solicitors. One word more. Miss Hilarie
Woodroffe has also, I believe, taken some interest in
you. I would suggest, Mr. Woodroffe, that it would
be foolish to throw away the only respectable con-
nections you possess in a wild-goose chase, which can
lead to nothing except ignoble pay from a woman
who, by your own confession, threw away her own
The Second Blow. 221
child or sold it to a stranger. Now you can go, sir."
She did not ring the bell for the servant. She
pointed, and turned back to her desk. " Have the
goodness to shut the door behind you."
It was with greatly lowered spirits that Richard
walked down those stairs and out of the door.
CHAPTER XVIII.
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 know-
ledge 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 im-
possible. So he cursed himself for an ass ; steadied
his nerves with the reflection that she Jiad 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 humili-
ation 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 consola-
tion— " 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."
A Gracious Lady. 223
"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 per-
sonally 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 re-
semblance 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
224 The Changeling.
your child, in fact, for what he would fetch — as a
farmer body sells a pig. I do not venture to pro-
nounce 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 per-
fectly blameless life.
" Observe, if you please, that these facts can all be
proved. My father still lives ; the dates can be easily
A Gracious Lady. 225
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 persist-
ing 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, per-
sonally. Come here to-morrow afternoon about five ;
we will try to discuss the subject calmly, and without
Q
226 The Changeling.
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 Vv^rath 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.
A Gracious Lady. 227
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 surround-
ings of poverty in the Western States ; able to
command, after many years, and to enjoy, the flaunt-
ing 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 bereave-
ment. To be sure, the mind of the woman was
easily turned to this subject. It possessed her; she
228 The Changeling.
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 some-
thing 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."
A Gracious Lady. 229
" I have brought my cousin, Miss Penncfather,"
said Ah'ce. " 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 gentle-
woman. 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
230 The Changeling.
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 Beranger's Autobio-
graphy, 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 hope-
less— 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 Woodrofife glanced at
Molly. She was looking straight before her, appa-
rently 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
Woodrofife, whom you know, perhaps ; my son ; and
A Gracious Lady. 231
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 acquain-
tance— 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 dis-
graceful 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
232 The Changeling.
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 breed-
ing, 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
A Gracious Lady. 233
more question. Was your husband a man of unselfish
habits and even temper?"
" He was not."
Lady Wood ro fife 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 av\'ay
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
234 The Changeling.
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 Woodrofife 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 Woodrofife,
however, did not explain that she had copied it her-
self 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. Woodrofife says "
"Never mind Mr. Woodroffe. Listen to what I
say. You then come forward yourself, and you tell
A Gracious Lady. 235
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 trans-
action 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
236 The Changeling.
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 con-
fessed the truth and bade them defiance. Like every
A Gracious Lady. 237
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 senti-
ment. 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
238 The Changeling.
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
A Gracious Lady. 239
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.
240 The Changeling".
" 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 re-
covered 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.
" Isay 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 ! ' "
R
242 The Changeling.
*;■,
"What dc^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 "i 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
A Cabinet Council. 243
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 stufif 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 Wood-
roffe, 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
244 The Changeling.
Humphrey Woodroiife. 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 substi-
tution ? "
" 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
A Cabinet Council. 245
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 arc to
prove that so terrible an event was not even announced
in the servants' hall. But you shall hear Lady Wood-
rofife'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, bring-
ing 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 him-
self 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
246 The Changeling.
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 imme-
diately 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 ex-
plain 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 Hum-
phrey, the second baronet, in the box. You are now
A Cabinet Council. 247
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
Woodrofife, who, we maintain, was his father : could
there be a more striking resemblance.-' Here is the
respectable Richard Woodrofife, also a son — an un-
worthy 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 curi-
ously 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 other-
wise 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 ex-
plained. " ' Yes, I am now acquainted with Lady
248 The Changeling.
Woodrofife, 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 Woodrofife. 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
A Cabinet Council. 249
new relations would be a matter of some difficulty
and delicacy.
" I don't want any proof," said Alice. " I recog-
nized 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
250 The Changeling.
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 VVoodroffe 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 ail 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.
A Cabinet Council. 251
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 frojii 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
252 The Changeling.
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."
There was one other person present at this council.
It was John Haveril. He said nothing, but he listened,
with far-away eyes, like a gardener over a strawberry-
bed. When Dick concluded, he took his hands out of
his pockets and walked out of the room.
CHAPTER XX.
JOHN IIAVERIL CLEARS UP THINGS.
John Haveril was a man of few words, and these
came slowly ; but of ready action. He followed the
course of the inquiry, with doubt at first, but, as one
point after another came to light, he began to be
interested ; when the child's clothes were brought
home, he had no more doubt on this point : he became
impatient. Why should there be any more hesitation >
If the lady persisted in her denial, why not go straight
to the young man and lead him to his mother .-' As
for what might follow after that, if he thought about
it at all, should be left to Providence. Therefore,
bearing in mind the agitation and anxiety in which
his wife was kept by these delays, he resolved upon
independent action of his own. And that was the
reason why he took his hands out of his pockets
and left the room.
Humphrey Woodroffe sat in his study, getting
through the hour before dinner with the help of a
French novel. The field of human interest occupied
by the kind of French novel which he and his friends
chiefly studied, is so limited that one is surprised that
its readers never seem to tire of it or to ask for more.
The study — which was behind the dining-room — was
furnished by himself, and was an excellent example
254 The Changeling.
of the day's taste. In the higher aesthetic circles, the
members of which are very limited in number, the
first and most important rule is that true Art, and
with it, of course, the highest expression of Art,
changes from year to year ; what was last year
the one and eternal treatment, is now Philistine and
contemptible. His piano was littered with music
mostly in MSS.— his own ; weird and wonderful
daubs of colour hung upon the walls— they were
the pictures of the New School — they called them-
selves the New School— the school of to-day, of whom
he was one. His table was covered with books bound
in dainty white and gold, or grey and gold: they
were chiefly books of poets— old poets — forgotten
poets, who sang of love ; it has been reserved for our
age to disinter them, and to go into raptures over
their magnificent and fearless realism. Poetry, like
painting, music, furniture, and wall-paper, changes its
fashions for the young every year.
In a word, the study was a temple. For such a
temple her worshippers must all be young — under
seven and twenty. It is sad to think that they will
one day become old — old — old — thirty years old, and
that new poets will write, new musicians compose, new
painters paint, for younger aesthetes. Sad to reflect
that they will then be passes, their utterances
Bohemian, their views contemptible, their standards
ignoble.
John Haveril advanced into this shrine of the
aesthetic muse with more of his later than of his
earlier manner. The gardener was, perhaps, belo\y
the man of consideration.
John Haveril clears up Things. 255
"Mr. John Haveril?" Humphrey read the name
from the card as if he had never heard it before, and
received him with the studied chill which most
effectually keeps off the outsider. " I met you, I
believe, at Sir Robert Steele's? "
" Yes ; I was there."
He looked about for a chair that would bear his
weight. There was one which seemed equal to the
task. He sat down without being invited. Humphrey
remained standing, with his most repellent manner,
" I was there, young man ; I was there," John
Haveril repeated, " We had not much conversation ;
but I presume if you do meet a man once, and you
have something to say to that man, you may call
upon him."
" Surely. Though what Mr. Haveril, the man of
millions — is it twenty millions ? — and more ? — I hope
much more — can have to say to me, I cannot guess.
Briefly, sir, I have no money ; I never speculate ; and
I can take none of your shares,"
John Haveril opened his mouth twice. Then he
shook his head. " Best not to meet bad manners
with worse," he replied, with dignity quite in his best
manner. " I understand, young man, that you mean
some kind of sneer which, let me tell you, sir, ill
becomes your youth in the presence of my age."
Sir Humphrey leaned his elbow on the mantel-
shelf, and adjusted his pince-nez with his unoccupied
hand. This took time. In fact, he was thinking of
a repartee. When the operation was finished, he
turned to his visitor a face of deliberate insolence.
"You came to teach me something beside manners,
256 The Changeling.
I believe. Not, I am sure, that one could desire,
even in manners, a more competent instructor."
" I did. Perhaps it may be worth your while to
listen. Perhaps not. If it is, you may take your
elbow off the shelf, and try not to look as if you were
gazing at a chipmunk in a cage. Understand, sir
that I will receive neither your pity nor your con-
tempt. If you do not change your manner, I will
show you, by a highly practical method, that you have
made a mistake."
There was something in the man's eyes which com-
pelled obedience. Besides, although he was forty
years older than the other, there was a toughness
about his build which might be formidable.
Humphrey instantly changed both his look and his
attitude, and took a chair.
" You may go on," he said sulkily, "as soon as you
please."
" When I heard about you, sir, in connection with
the little transaction we know of, I began to inquire
secretly whether we were wise to go on. ' If he turns
out unworthy,' I said, ' we'd better stop where we are,
and take no further steps in the matter.'"
" I shall probably understand as we go along," said
Humphrey. " At present "
" You will understand, presently. I can't say,
sir, that the character I have obtained of you is
encouraging."
" Kind, however, of people to give one a character
at all." He threw back his head into his hands, and
stretched out his legs, and looked up into the ceiling.
"I don't understand," John Haveril replied, "the
John Haveril clears up Things. 257
talk that says one thing and means another. I like
plain and straightforward things. However, I hear of
you that you gamble and drink, and that you run
after dancing-girls ; and that you believe, like many
young Englishmen of fortune, that you belong to a
separate caste, and not to the world, like common
people."
"Unfortunately, Mr. Haveril, we have to belong
to the world. I assure you that I would much
rather not."
"You've got to. However, we did go on ; I have
not told the person chiefly interested all I'd heard
about you, nor the half. We've now brought our
business to an end. That is, we've proved up to
the hilt what was at first only a suspicion."
"Again, I dare say I shall understand you presently."
"The question is, whether you know the secret.
'If,' I said, 'he does know the secret, and still carries
on the pretence, the chap isn't worthy of our notice.
Let's wipe our feet on him, and go on our way.' "
" Wipe — your — feet ? You like plain and straight-
forward things, Mr. Haveril. Surely it is a poetical
and an imaginative case — 'wipe your feet' — upon —
a— 'chap.'"
'"If he carries on the pretence in ignorance,' I said,
' let us tell him, and see how he takes it. If he takes
it worthily, we shall know what to think of him.' "
"To think of him ? " murmured Humphrey.
" Yes. Well, the time has come for you to learn
the truth, if you don't know the truth already."
Humphrey smiled. " I really cannot read that
riddle. No ; I do not know the truth. Whether
S
258 The Changeling.
I shall take it worthily, as you say, or whether I shall
receive the wiping of muddy feet, I cannot foretell."
"You don't know? Well, I don't think it's my
business to tell you. Very likely some one will tell
you. Meantime, the person principally concerned
does know it, and you will understand, when you
do learn the truth, how much it has unsettled her.
Also Dick knows it."
" Who is Dick ? Fiddler Dick ? Dick the Tramp ?
Dick who goes out in white-thread gloves, like a
waiter ? "
"And Molly knows it. And I know it. Very well.
Now, I want you to remember very carefully what
I say. If you don't understand these words now,
you will later on. First of all, whatever happens,
you are no relation of mine."
"Thank you! thank you!" Humphrey changed
his position, sat up, and clasped his hands. " Thank
you, so much ! I began to fear, Mr. Haveril, that you
must be a long-lost uncle."
"And no claim can be set up on me. You are not
my son, but hers."
" That is at least true. I am hers. And I certainly
am not yours. This grows exciting."
" Hers, I say, not mine."
Humphrey jumped in his chair. " How the devil,
man, can I be your son ? What drivel is this ? "
John Haveril paid no attention to this question.
He was putting his own case in his own words.
" And not being my son, there's no claim," he
went on slowly. " But, young man, as the thing has
to come out, you will have to behave according."
John Haveril clears up Things. 259
" ' Behave according ' ? Come, Mr. Haveril, I have
given you a patient hearing. Pray, what do you
mean by 'behave according'? But please — please
tell me what you mean, or go away." He spread his
hands helplessly. " I wish some one would come,"
he murmured, " and carry off this person."
" When you learn the truth, remember what I say
now. I don't like you, nor the looks of you, nor the
language of you, nor the ways of you. But there you
are, and I'm bound to do something for you. Now,
sir, make your mother happy ; do what she wants,
make her love you. And, well, your sort, I take it,
is always wanting money ; you never make any, and
you are always spending. Make her happy, and you
shall have as much as any young man can want in
reason or out of reason. I know your manner of life,
sir, and it's an expensive manner of life. You are
in debt again ; Lady Woodroffe has already paid
your debts once or twice ; champagne and cards
and painted Jezebels — you shall have them all — all ;
I don't care what you want, you shall have every-
thing, if you only behave properly to your mother."
Humphrey heard these words with real and breath-
less astonishment. There had been, it is true, many
expostulations from his mother about extravagance
and scandals ; but could she have complained to
this rough, coarse creature ?
" I cannot for the life of me understand what you
mean."
•' Remember what I say, then."
" Mr. Haveril " — for once the young man spoke
quite plainly and unaffectedly — "I assure you,
26o The Changeling.
although you assume that I know what you mean
— I do not in the least. Can you explain why you
take such an interest in my relations with my mother,
not to speak of my personal character ? "
" No, sir. You will understand, very well, in a day
or two. Let me conclude, sir. I intended to explain
that I married late in life."
"Oh!" Humphrey groaned. "It is like a bad
dream. What does it matter to me whether you
married late in life or early ? Man alive ! Will you
take a drink — two drinks — to go ? There's whisky
in the cabinet."
" I say," John Haveril repeated slowly, " that I
married late in life. Over forty I was ; therefore I've
had but small experience of women. But of your
mother I must say she's the very best woman that
lives — the very best."
Humphrey gasped. " Good Lord ! " he cried.
" The best and the tenderest and the most pious."
" Oh ! The most pious ! "
"And the most beautiful. Pity that she keeps
fretting about you."
" Well, it is a pity. Do you mean to say that she
sent you — you — you — to tell me — me — vie that .'* "
" Otherwise, naturally a happy nature, full of sun-
shine, and well-mannered."
Humphrey laughed aloud. " Well, she is well-
mannered. That's a good shot."
"And speaks like a lady."
"Yes, yes ; she certainly does."
"Well, then " — John Haveril rose — " I believe I've
said all I came to say."
John Haveril clears up Things. 261
"I'm glad of that. Perhaps you'd like to say it
all over again. You have told me my character ;
you have assured me that I am not your son ; you
have offered me millions if I behave properly ; and
you have been so good as to praise my mother
warmly."
" I've said, I think, all I came to say," he repeated,
in his slow manner. " Don't tell your mother — when
you know the truth — what I said, nor why I came
here. Best for her to believe that you behave, as
you are going to behave, out of your own good heart
— you can pretend a bit, I suppose, without any
thought of the dollars. And when you get those
dollars, you can say to yourself, young man, that
you wouldn't have had them if it hadn't been for
your mother."
With these words John Haveril offered his hand.
Humphrey looked straight through him, taking no
notice of the proffered salute.
" I was once in the service of an English gentleman,"
he said — "in his garden. But for that I should
believe that the English aristocracy was more un-
mannerly than any New Mexican cowboy. Sir, to
use what I understand is your favourite expression
where manners are concerned, you are yourself
nothing better than a cad and an outsider. But do
not tell your mother, when you know the truth, that
I said so. Let it be a secret between ourselves that
I have found you to be a cad — an unmannerly cad."
He then departed with dignity.
Humphrey looked after him with surprise rather
than anger. To be called an outsider by a beast of
262 The Changeling.
a self-made Dives who had formerly been a gardener !
It was astonishing ; it was a new experience ; it was
ludicrous.
He ran upstairs to the drawing-room, where his
mother was alone, writing,
" If I may interrupt," he said. " Thank you. One
moment. Mother, I've had a most remarkable
visit."
" Who is your visitor .? "
" I wonder why they ever invented America," he
said. " I wonder why we tolerate Americans — rich
Americans — who have been English mechanics. Why
do we admit them into our houses ? "
" It is a mistake. But it is useless to protest. Why
do you ask ? "
" My visitor was a man who came last from
America, where he has made a great fortune —
robbed the people by the thousand, I suppose — a
man named Haveril."
« Haveril ! "
" I met the man the other night at Sir Robert
Steele's."
" Vulgar, of course."
" Not so vulgar as ignorant — say, common. He
told me he was a gardener's boy originally. Seemed
to think it was a meritorious thing."
"It is the mock-humility of the purse-proud. But
what did he want with you ? "
" He is mighty mysterious about some secret which
is going to be sprung upon me. It is now, he said,
completely discovered."
" ' Completely discovered,' you said, my son .? "
John Haveril clears up Things. 263
" And I am to be told in a day or two. After
which, everything depends upon my behaviour."
" Oh ! Of what nature is the wonderful secret ? "
" I don't know. Then he went on with a rigmarole
about my being no relation of his — as if such a thing
were possible ! And he promises a mountain of
dollars if I obey the wishes of my mother. Have
you any special wishes, mother ? "
" None — except those which you already know,
and do not respect."
" I live as other men in my position are expected
to live."
" Go on about your mysterious visitor."
" He began to talk about you, mother. Spoke of
your good manners. I ought to have knocked him
down for his impudence."
" Did he reveal his secret ? "
"No. He gave me a warning — as I told you — and
he went away."
Lady Woodrofife looked up, with a perfectly calm
face.
" I believe I could tell you something about his
secret." Truth was stamped plainly on that marble
brow, with all the other virtues which belong to the
grande dame de par le monde. " The woman Haveril
is, I believe, crazed. The man is a fool, except in
making money, where he is, I dare say, a knave.
They are aided and abetted by a man of your name,
a Richard Woodroffe, who is clearly making money
by the conspiracy — and a girl they call Molly
Something."
"What } Is Molly in it.?"
264 The Changeling.
" Pray, are you concerned with that person as well
as ?"
"She is 2. prot(^gie of Hilarie. It was there I met
her. As for the fellow, Richard Woodroffe, he is just
a horrid little cad."
" Well. That will do. You need not worry your-
self about it, Humphrey. I am busy now." She
turned to her work, having been interrupted in an
essay on the treatment of hardened sinners, con-
sidered in connection, I believe, with the case of Jane
Cakebread.
CHAPTER XXI.
" TO BE OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE."
Once more, guest night at the college. A good
many guest nights had passed since the first. The
thoughtful and the curious no longer came ; they
were not missed by Hilarie and her friends at the
place about which there had been at first so much
discussion and derision. A college which taught
nothing, and was only a place of culture, and conso-
lation, and rest, and good breeding — a mere establish-
ment for reminding women perpetually of their very
highest functions and duties — was sure to excite
derision. Meanwhile, it went on doing its own work,
and nobody derided any longer. This is the way of
the world, and it is like one of the three— nay, four,
things which the Proverbial philosopher found too
wonderful for him— things which he knew not. A
man proposes to found, or establish, or create, some-
thing new — something which will, perhaps, cause
changes small or great in the current order and the
current talk. It is immediately fastened upon and he
is held up to derision. Nothing is so truly ridiculous
as a thing which is new ; besides, it makes admirable
" copy." If the man kicks out in return, he is jumped
upon again. The world is then called upon to
266 The Changeling.
observe how completely the creature is squelched,
how he lies flat and lifeless on the arid sand.
Presently the world observes that the man, so far
from being flat and lifeless, is going on just as if
there had been no jumping at all ; he bears no
apparent mark of bruises, no bones are broken, there
are no patches of diachylum on his head ; he just
proceeds quietly with his plan. Then comes another
but a fainter sound of derision, because, when people
do get hold of a good thing to worry, they like to
keep at it. But the dead man, twice killed, goes on,
without paying any attention. Then silence falls.
It is unwise to let the world understand that the man
you have just killed is going about alive and quite
unhurt, and that the theory you have covered with
contempt is flourishing like a vigorous vine, already
bearing blossoms and rich with promise of purple
clusters.
"Yes," said Hilarie, "my simple college is going
on ; we are quite full. We teach nothing except the
true functions of woman, and her place in the human
comedy. We admit all those who have to work.
Here they learn that work for money and a livelihood
is a kind of accident for woman. For man it is
necessary ; his nature makes him crave for activity.
For woman it is an accident, which belongs to our
imperfect social system. She ought not to work for
pay. And in the case of many women, perhaps
most, it degrades and lowers them, because it turns
them from what should be the main object of their
lives. In this place we warn, and here we daily strive
to hold before them the necessity of keeping before
"To be off with the Old Love." 267
themselves a standard. They must never lose sight
of the fact that woman is the priestess of civilization.
We do our best to prevent our girls from being
degraded by the unhappy accident of having to work
for wages. All women's work should be work for
love."
" But it is said that you pauperize them by taking
them in for nothing."
Hilarie laughed. " If the gift is a gift of love,
repaid by love, what harm .-' But there is a rule
about payment, and nobody knows except myself
who pays and who does not. They come when they
like ; they go when they like. It is a college in the
old sense of the word, not the new — a place of
residence."
She left her guests and spoke to Molly. " I have
asked my cousin Humphrey to come," she said.
" Will you give him an answer to-night ? "
" I thought I would wait to see how he would
receive "
" Yes ; you told me. It is a most wonderful story,
Molly. But I do not believe that it will be allowed to
go beyond those who know it at present. I do not
believe that he will ever be told this story at all. If
he were, I know very well how he would behave.
There is another reason, Molly dear ; you will
understand presently, when I show you a letter.
Take him into the library, when the people are going
away. Do not answer him until I come to you. I
promise you, Molly, that after I have shown you a
certain paper, you will thank God that your doubts
and your temptations were all removed."
268 The Changeling.
" But if he were to go through this ordeal ? It is a
trial that would prove the noblest nature."
"It is. But there is another ordeal. Will you
trust me ? "
" Why, Hilarie ! If I am to begin by distrusting
you ! "
Dick was present, and had brought his fiddle, on
which he presently discoursed, to the joy of every-
body except his distant cousin.
Later on Molly led Humphrey to "sit out" in the
library, where two or three other couples were already
occupied in the same selfish evasion of duty.
The young man was in a most ill temper — perhaps
on account of Dick's presence He made no
pretence at concealing this ill temper.
" I have every reason to complain," he said.
" You avoid me ; you will not answer my letters."
" I am waiting to give you your final answer."
" You gave that long ago."
" I did not. I have told you all along that I was
not certain whether the thing would tend to your
happiness or my own. Above all, I refused to have
any concealments."
" This objection to concealment is a new thing.
Before, you consented."
" No ; I never did consent. I have always told you
that I would not be hidden away, like a thing to be
ashamed of."
"And I have always told you that my only reason
was respect for my mother's prejudices."
"Let me have my own prejudices, too; and I
mean to have them respected."
"To be off with the Old Love." 269
" You know that I love you, Molly."
"That is no reason why you should insult me. If
I am ever married, it must be openly, and in the
sight of the world. I think I should ask my relations
to be present. You would like to meet the parish
clerk, and the pew-opener, and the ragged bankrupt.
Don't use bad language, Sir Humphrey. Poor and
lowly they may be, but perhaps — I'm sure I don't
know — they are virtuous as well."
" I don't mind what you say, Molly."
" Then there are the Haverils."
" The rich people ! The man called upon me the
other day, and talked conundrums. What have you
got to do with them ? "
"They are my cousins. I am a great deal with
them just now."
" Oh ! Is that what makes you so infernally
independent ? "
" Shall I become the heiress of millions, or shall I
be hidden away in a box by a husband who is
ashamed of his wife .-' I have this choice."
"Oh 1 Their heiress I If they will do that ! But
have you told them of your engagement ? "
" I am not engaged."
" Don't be silly, Molly. How can you refuse what
I offer you .'' Why did the man call on me, then } "
" Did he call .? What did he tell you ? "
"He talked about some tremendous secret — talked
about my mother. I thought he meant you and the
engagement. Then he told me — which was a most
curious thing — that if I followed the wishes of my
mother, I should have as much money as I want.
270 The Changeling.
Wishes of my mother ! Why, if I told her that I was
engaged to a lady named Pennefather, she would ask
what your county was, and with whom you were
connected, and where your people's property might
lie. And if I said — you know — why, it would be a
case of cutting me off with a shilling. Yet that
respectable Dives went on talking about my mother's
wishes."
" Perhaps you did not understand him. At all
events, he could not mean my engagement, because I
am not engaged. This is the tenth time that I have
reminded you of that fact. Sir Humphrey."
" My mother would certainly like me to back out
— I mean, not to go on."
" Pray do back out."
" I believe you want to take up with that detestable
cad — the man you call Dick — loathsome worm ! "
"You are doing your very best to be pleasant this
evening, and to ingratiate yourself! All the world
are cads, are they not ? except a small class. But it
is quite true. Dick wants me to marry him."
" You'd better, then, and go off on the tramp with
him."
" Perhaps I shall. But now, Humphrey, just to
come back to ourselves. You continually insult my
people — the class to which I belong — whenever you
open your lips to speak. You have nothing but con-
tempt for the people who work for their living, to
whom I belong, and the people outside your own
little circle. What do you want to marry me for ?
To make me happy'by having to listen to this coH'
tinual flood of contempt ? "
"To be off with the Old Love." 271
"Because, Molly" — the young man's artificial smile
vanished and his pince-nez dropped — "because you
are unlike everybody I know. None of the girls that
I know are in the least like you. It pleases me to
see you get indignant in defence of cads. It is like
coming into a different atmosphere. I like to feel
like coming down into another class. When we are
married, I mean to go on living with my mother and
her set, and to keep you apart — don't call it conceal-
ment— in some cottage away from the West End."
"And my own people?"
"Well, of course you won't have them to your
house, I suppose. You can go and see some of them,
if you like. You can't possibly want to see all "
" And my old friend Dick > "
Humphrey turned red ; he lost his repose ; he
flushed a vulgar red.
" You shall not associate with that abominable cad,
Molly. I shall forbid it altogether. You must
promise "
"When I promise anything — perhaps "
"Then you know, Molly, you are soothing to the
nerves. After seeing a bad picture, or hearing a bad
piece of music, or listening to the cheerfulness of that
— that BEAST they call Dick, only to watch you
consoles, and to talk with you restores."
" I am glad to have some qualities, in spite of my
birth."
" You have risen above that misfortune, Molly. If
you would only refuse to know these people "
" Certainly not."
"Give me your promise, Molly."
272 The Changeling.
She rose. "Well, at all events, I understand
exactly what you mean. If you are so good as to
marry me, I am to be hidden away ; I am to serve as
a soothing syrup for shattered nerves ; I am to be an
antidote to bad music ; I am to be ashamed of my
own people, and to give up my old friends. That is
understood, is it not ? "
"We exchange sacrifices — mine the sacrifice of
marrying beneath me ; yours, that of giving up an
ignoble troop of relations."
To plain persons every word that this girl had
spoken would have been a clear announcement of her
decision. To this young man no such intention was
conveyed. Still in the fulness of his self-conceit,
the sacrifice he himself proposed in actually marry-
ing a girl with such family connections seemed so
enormous, while the prospect of becoming his wife
seemed to him so dazzling, that he was totally unable
to understand any hesitation. Molly was whimsical ;
she did not like to surrender her independence. He
liked her the better for it. No meek submissive
maiden, however lovely, would be able to command
that sacrifice. And, besides, there was that strange
magic about the girl's face and eyes and voice, that
in her presence, as has been explained already, the
young man's mind was full of yearnings after trans-
ports unspeakable — after the Flowery Way, where the
dancers are, with the castanets and the champagne
and raptures that even the newest Art cannot bestow.
" Humphrey," she said, " suppose that in a moment
— all in a moment — the things you value most in the
world should vanish ? "
"To be off with the Old Love." 273
"My Art? My genius ? "
" No ; not such genius as you may possess. That
is not what you value most. I mean your birth and
rank and position in the world. Suppose that were
to vanish suddenly away ? "
" You talk nonsense."
" I say, suppose it were to vanish suddenly away —
suppose you were to become — say — one of my
cousins — born like them "
"Molly, don't waste time in talking nonsense."
"Well, perhaps Oh, here is Hilarie."
The library was now deserted, save for these two,
when Hilarie appeared at the door. Her face, always
grave, was now stern. Humphrey saw the look on
her face and coloured, conscience-stricken. With her
came his other cousin, also looking grave.
"Molly dear," said Hilarie, "has Sir Humphrey
been pressing you ? "
The young man became confused and agitated.
He understood.
" He has. He wants me to promise to go into
hiding with a secret marriage. He is unable to
understand that the sacrifice could not be com-
pensated even by his society."
Hilarie turned to Sir Humphrey. " I asked you
here to-night," she said, " in order to arrange this little
scene. Molly, you can read this letter."
Molly read it, and looked up from the page into
the shamefaced cheeks of Humphrey.
"I — I — I must go," said the double lover. "Good
night, Molly."
" No, sir. Not before Molly has read the letter."
T
274 The Changeling.
Richard moved a step towards the door.
Molly read it, and looked up amazed. She read it
again, and her cheek flamed. And a third time.
Then she returned the letter to Hilarie.
" Wretch ! " she said.
Since Hilarie used the same word to express the
same idea, there is no doubt that the dictionary ought
to have a special line on this meaning of the word
" wretch."
" Do you understand it, Molly ? "
"There can be no doubt about it, Hilarie. Won't
you make him go ? "
Hilarie pointed to the door contemptuously, as
one dismisses a messenger or a boy ; not in the
tragic vein at all, but by a little gesture of her fore-
finger. Dick threw the door open with a gesture of
command.
Humphrey obeyed, with an effort at preserving some
appearance of dignity. To be found out under such
circumstances, to be exposed in such a manner, to be
ordered off the premises so contemptuously, would
make the proudest of men leave the room with the
appearance of ignominy.
"Molly, my dear," said Hilarie, "when you think
of the man and what he is, you will never regret
him."
She laid her head upon Hilarie's shoulder with a
deep, deep sigh.
" One doesn't like a man making love to somebody
else at the same time. But I dare say I shall get over
that. And then — oh, my dear Hilarie, it is such a
relief! I cannot tell you what a relief For, you
"To be off with the Old Love." 275
know, sometimes I seem to think that I did
consent."
" And as for my other cousin here ? "
"Dick," said Molly, "the fiddle is very light to
carry. I shan't feel the weight of it — not a bit.
Are you satisfied, Dick ? "
CHAPTER XXII.
THE CLAN AGAIN.
Once more the relations met together, this time by
invitation. They would have preferred separate and
individual treatment. Each one received a letter,
inviting him or her to the hotel on the afternoon of
such a day. Each came expectant, hopeful, con-
fident ; and their faces dropped when they found,
each in turn, that all had been invited together.
They mounted the stairs ; they entered the room ;
they stood about or they sat down in silence. If
they spoke, it was to remark in murmurs on the
interesting motives of certain persons in connection
with rich cousins. The broken one, shabbier than
ever, sat hanging his head. " I wouldn't ha' come,"
he said aloud, "if I'd expected a crowd like this."
But the draper of Mare Street, Hackney, stood erect,
his hand thrust into his bosom, as one who is gently
rocked and lulled upon his own motives, as upon the
cradle of the deep.
Presently John Haveril came in, accompanied by
Dick, who attended as a kind of private secretary,
and took no part in the proceedings until the end.
John carried in his hand a bundle of papers.
"Well," he said, "you're all come, I think — all come."
The Clan again. 277
He turned over the papers, and nodded to the writer
of each letter in turn, " All come. I invited you all
to come." He spoke gravely and with dignity — in
his most dignified manner,
" First, sir" — the self-constituted spokesman offered
his hand — "we trust that you continue in good
health, in the midst of your truly colossal responsi-
bilities."
" Yes, sir, yes — I continue pretty well." Again he
looked round, " Perhaps you will all sit down."
" I, for one, should be ashamed to sit." The draper
spoke with reproach in his voice, for the rest had
taken chairs. " Ashamed, sir, while you are standing."
It was something like the old-fashioned reading of
the will, but before the funeral instead of after. They
sat expectant, hungrily expectant. Out of so many
millions, surely, surely something would come to
every one ! Would it take the form of hundreds .''
" Alma," said the pew-opener, coming along in the
omnibus, "he's got a good heart ; you can see it in
his deep blue eye. He's bound to give us what we
ask — and Alice my own first cousin and all, and you
but one removed."
" Perhaps Cousin Charles has been at him behind
our backs."
It is disheartening to observe the readiness with
which young ladies on a certain social level ascribe
and suspect the baser springs of action.
" Trust him I " The lady of the pews should have
learned more Christian charity. " But I hope he
won't be able to poison Cousin John's mind against
honest people. I call him • Cousin-John-by-marriage,'
278 The Changeling.
not ' Mr. Haveril,' and I say he took us over with Alice
when he married her. A man marries, my dear, into
his wife's family. Alma ! "
" What is it, mother ? "
" They've got no children. Somebody must have
it when they go. Why not you and me ? "
" Why not, mother ? We could make a good use
of it."
" We could. Ah ! " She closed her eyes for the
space of a furlong.
" Mother, how much did you ask for .-' "
"A hundred and twenty pounds. I could do it
for less, perhaps, because there's my own furniture.
He must give it ; he can't refuse — and me Alice's
first cousin, and you but one removed. My dear,
I've always longed to have a Margate lodging-house
since I stood upon Margate jetty as a girl, and paid a
Margate bill as a grown woman, before you were born."
" I've asked for seventy pounds. I believe I could
start respectably for less ; but seventy would be
plenty. And oh ! to sit behind your own counter,
covered with dolls and fancy-work and pretty things,
and have no work to do ! Oh ! " She clasped her
hands in ecstasy.
" Yes, Alma ; it's all very well if the people come
in to buy your things. But what do you know about
shops and what to charge .'' "
" Come to that, mother, what do you know about
keeping lodgings .-* "
It was with speculations such as these, with castles
in the air or in Spain, that the cousins beguiled their
way towards the Hotel M^tropole. The fancy of
The Clan again. 279
the broken one dwelt upon the tobacco-shop. It
seems that this kind of shop attracts many of the
best and brightest. There is so little to do ; the
money drops in all day long ; you can smoke your
own tobacco morning, noon, and night, while the
laughing hours dance along and strew the way with
roses. The bankrupt looked, indeed, as if roses
would be a change for him after his long staying
among the flagons and the apples.
"I asked you, when you were here last" — John
Haveril remained standing — " to send me letters if
you wanted me to do anything. I wanted to know
quite clearly what you wanted. You have done so.
I find, as I expected, that you all want me to give
you money."
" Excuse me, sir," said the spokesman, " we dis-
tinguish between begging and borrowing. To give —
to bestow alms — upon unworthy persons " — he looked
severely at the bankrupt, who paid no heed — " or
upon persons who are best left in their own humble
station in life" — he waved an insulting hand towards
the pew-opener — " is one thing ; to advance capital
which will be regarded as a loan, to be repaid with
interest, is quite another thing. To solicit alms, as
has been done, I fear, by some in this room, is one
thing ; to offer an investment, on the solid security
of a sterling and established place of business, is
quite another thing."
"Very true," said John Haveril. "Very true."
"Where the security is a concern — a concern, sir,
improving every day, with four and twenty young
ladies as shop-assistants "
28o The Changeling.
" Fed on scrag of mutton and margarine ! " observed
the pew-opener, aloud.
" — in a promising suburb and in a crowded highway,
with the electric light, a carriage often at the door,
and the proprietor a churchwarden — a very different
thing," he concluded, running down and forgetting
the construction of his sentence.
The others said nothing ; but the Board school
teacher examined the pictures on the wall, and was
absorbed for the moment in art criticism.
"You all want money," John Haveril repeated ;
" that is the reason why I invited you here to-day."
" Why shouldn't we ? " asked the broken one.
" You are the only one of the family who has got
any money. As for this fellow " — he indicated the
draper — "hollow, hollow! There's no stability in
him, I know. Where I am there he ought to be —
down among the dead men."
" Where a few pounds would be the making of us,
and them not so much as missed," said the pew-
opener, " why not ? "
" I don't know," continued the capitalist, " that
you've got any claim on me. You cut your cousin
Alice off — out of the family — for her first marriage."
"What else," asked the spokesman, "could we do.?
She married an actor, sir — a common actor. No
doubt she has long since repented her early choice.
How different from her second venture — her second
prize ! Ah ! a prize indeed."
" Some of us were not born then," said the Board
school teacher. " I'd as soon marry an actor as a
draper — sooner, too." She was a sharp-faced girl,
The Clan again. 281
quick and ready — perhaps too quick — with woman's
most formidable weapon. "Actors don't sweat shop-
girls."
" Ah'ce tells me," John Haveril went on slowly,
" that none of you ever made any kind of inquiry
after her, or answered her letters — except one — Will
— also an actor, who is now deceased."
" How could we, when some of us hadn't even got
into the cradle ? " asked the teacher.
" I didn't quarrel with Alice," said the bankrupt.
" I never saw her nor heard of her. And I didn't
quarrel with Cousin Will. Why," he added con-
clusively, " I borrowed money of him."
" If she had been in want," John Haveril added,
"would you have helped her because she was your
cousin ? "
" Since I, for one, never heard that she was in
want" — again the teacher — "how can I tell what I
should have done ? It's like this, Mr. Haveril — you
must know it yourself. It isn't respectable to have
cousins ragged and in want. If I could afford it, I
would give them money to go away. Look at that
Object" — she pointed to the bankrupt. "Object, I
call him."
"Object yourself! " retorted the broken one.
" Is he a credit to the family ? No ; I've got no
money to spare, or I'd pay him to go right away.
Same with Cousin Alice. Don't talk to us about
cousinly love. We like respectability."
"Very good," said John Haveril.
"Cousin Alice has brought } ou a lot of rela-
tions," Alma continued, emboldened. " Here we are,
282 The Changeling.
fawning, like Cousin Charles ; begging, like Cousin
Alfred ; and telling you the truth, like me."
"One, sir, one at least" — this was, of course, the
draper — " has ever been ready to acknowledge the
tie of blood."
" I'm sure," said the pew-opener, " if Alice had
come to my humble place, which she never did "
" Never," her daughter added.
« — there'd have been a cup of tea made in no time,
and a chair by the fire."
"You have among you" — John Haveril pointed to
the bankrupt — " a cousin who is poor and distressed.
What have you done for him ? Which of you has
helped this unfortunate man ? "
" Not one," the unfortunate replied for all ; while
Charles regarded his fallen relation vindictively.
" Not one," the bankrupt continued. " And now
your guilty hearts are exposed and your greedy
natures brought to light. Grabbers and grubbers—
every one. And this to me — to me — Mr. Haveril,
the only gentleman of the lot ! What do they care
about gentlemen ? "
" You ask me, all of you, to help you with gifts or
loans of money. On what pretence > Because I am
your cousin's husband "
" Cousin-John-by-marriage," said the pew-opener.
" You took us over as your own when you married
Alice. You married into the family. That you
can't deny."
"If that is the reason why I am to help you, why
don't you help this cousin ? "
" Hear ! hear ! " from the cousin indicated.
The Clan again. 283
" He is in the last stage of poverty and misery."
" Because it serves him right." The draper once
more stepped forward, while the rest of the family
murmured assent.
" Outside," said John, "it is raining, with a cold
wind ; he has no great-coat, — nothing but a thin
jacket ; the soles of his boots are parting "
" Help him .? He's always been a disgrace to the
family," said the pew-opener.
" You ask me, however, to help you, and you offer
no reference as to character."
" Reference ? What reference do you want ? "
asked the Board school teacher. " Haven't I got a
responsible situation ? Isn't mother in a responsible
situation? Mr. Haveril, I wouldn't talk about this
poor ragamuffin, if I were you. It's beneath you.
Give him a great-coat yourself, and in ten minutes it
will be five shillings, and in an hour it will be drunk.
Help him ? I wouldn't help Cousin Alfred if I had
hundreds — nor Cousin Charles if I had millions."
"You wouldn't,'' said the bankrupt, "if it was an
angel from heaven ; you'd see him starve first."
" Some of us, my dear sir," the draper explained
sadly, "have to draw the line at disgrace. Character,
in business, goes a long way. Bankruptcy brings
disgrace even upon those members of the family who
are otherwise regarded with respect."
"You think it is a mistake to give money?"
Cousin Charles retracted. "We must distinguish
between giving and advancing. I would recommend
the advance — the advance only — of capital to those
who can help themselves."
284 The Changeling.
"My friend, if you can help yourself, you want no
help."
" In a sense, most true ; in fact, profoundly true,"
Cousin Charles replied. " I will make a note of those
words. They shall become my motto : ' Those who
can help themselves want no help.' So truly wise."
"And if so," John continued, "to help those who
cannot help themselves is throwing money away."
"It is — it is." He pointed to the bankrupt. "Why
help him? He cannot help himself I have always
felt that to help my cousin Alfred is a sin — if waste
of money is sinful. He failed, sir ; he became a
bankrupt in Mare Street, only five doors from my
place of business ; with my surname over his door.
I wonder I survived it."
" You'll survive your own failure next," said the
bankrupt.
" Come back to your own case, mister. You agree
that one should not help those who can help them-
selves. Let us lay hold on that. If you can help
yourself, why do you want help? You've helped
yourself, I understand, to a flourishing business. You
are evidently, therefore, beyond the necessity of
further help. You want me to advance you a large
sum of money. Why ? You have shown that you
can help yourself. Very well; the best thing you
can do is to go on helping yourself."
Cousin Charles changed colour. His face dropped,
to use the familiar expression.
" Sweating four and twenty girls in black with
white cuffs," murmured the teacher.
" This," John continued, slowly and with weight,
The Clan again. 285
" is my answer to your letter. Go on, as you have
already begun, trusting to yourself alone. It is best
for you. If you are on the downward grade, you
would only be saved for a time. If you are going
up, the advance you ask would not help you. That
is my answer, mister, to your letter."
The draper grew very red in the face. " Then," he
asked, "you — you — you refuse — you actually refuse
this trifling assistance ? "
"Actually."
" You hear, Charles," said the bankrupt.
" Am I in my senses ? " He looked round him.
" The husband of my cousin Alice, much loved —
* sweet Alice, Ben Bolt ' — a man of millions, refuses
me an advance, upon undeniable security, of a simple
thousand pounds. Why, the bank will do it for me
with alacrity."
*' Then go to the bank."
The poor man changed from red to white. His
cheeks became flabby. His arms, which had been
folded, dropped. He suddenly grew limp. It is
rather terrible to see a confident, aggressive man
become suddenly limp. Perhaps he had built con-
fidently on this advance ; perhaps he was not quite
so substantial as he boasted and as he seemed ;
perhaps that great shop, with four and twenty girls
in black with white cufis, all in a row, was haunted
by the spectre of which nobody talks, though it is
seen daily by so many — the grisly, threatening, lean,
gaunt, fierce-eyed ghost called Bankruptcy.
He clapped his hat on his head. He recovered a
little. He tried to smile. He assumed some show
286 The Changeling.
of dignity. He even laughed. Then he replied,
with genuine heartfelt emotion, " The Lord forgive
you ! " and walked out of the room.
John Haveril turned to the pew-opener. "Here
is your letter," he said ; " I return it to you. Why
should I give you anything ? You are fifty years of
age, you say. You have a son in good employ.
You have a daughter — this girl, I suppose — in the
School Board service. You have a reasonably good
situation."
The lady's face dropped and lengthened. " Oh ! "
she cried ; " don't refuse ! don't refuse ! It's such a
trifle to you ; you would never miss it, and never feel it.
And it would be the making of me — it would indeed."
John Haveril shook his head with the deliberation
and the expression of a bear. His mind was made
up. The woman went on, but feebly —
" You can't like to own — you so rich, and all — that
you've got a cousin in such a humble place as mine."
"You might help her to be respectable," her
daughter put in.
" You can be respectable in any situation. I am
quite as proud of you in your present situation as
if you were what you want to be— a lodging-house
keeper at Margate." He turned to her daughter.
" My dear," he said kindly, " you are a little fool."
" Why ? Oh, why ? " — and her heart sank.
" Because you want to give up the best work that
a woman can do, where there's pay enough, and holi-
days, and respect "
The girl shook her head. " You don't know," she
moaned, " the work and the drudgery."
The Clan again. 287
" And to change it for the worst work in the world.
My dear, you should be proud of being what you are.
If you were in the States, you would feel proud of
your work. What ? Give up that work for a
miserable little shop, where you must cheat to make
both ends meet? Don't be silly. Go back and
thank God, my dear, that He has put you where you
can do some good."
She sat down and pulled out her pocket-hand-
kerchief. Her mother stood beside her, her lips
moving, her cheek flaming.
" Shall I give you back your letter .? " John Haveril
asked.
She took it, tore it up, threw the fragments on the
floor, seized her mother by the arm, and dragged her
out ; whether in repentance or in anger the bystanders
could not know.
They were all gone now, except the bankrupt.
" You've got my letter, too," he said. " What are
you going to do for me ? "
" The kindest thing would be to drop you in the
river. Alice has left it to me. Well, you are a hope-
less creature. Whatever is done for you will be
money thrown away. I did think of asking your
cousin, the draper, to give you a place in his shop.
You might sweep it out and water the floor, and
carry out the parcels — or you might walk up and
down outside in uniform, and a gold band to your cap."
"Mr. Haveril — sir — I am a gentleman. Don't
insult a fallen gentleman, sir ; I've employed my own
shop-assistants."
288 The Changeling.
" But I fear he would do nothing for you."
" I came here — one day three weeks ago — you were
away — I knew that. I gave Ah'ce some secret in-
formation just for her own ear, not the kind of thing
she would tell you."
" Get on, man ! "
" I told her — you don't know, of course ; I told her
you ought to know — you suppose he's dead."
" Man ! man ! " said John.
"Alice's first husband — Anthony Woodroffe. You
think he's dead. I told her where he was."
" Where ? " Dick sat up, suddenly. " Anthony
Woodroffe ? "
" Why should I ask whether he's dead or alive ? "
•' That's what Alice said. As for me, I told her I
was astonished. 'Alice,' I said, 'I did think you
were respectable.' "
"What does this man mean.?" asked Dick.
" Anthony Woodroffe ? "
"Well, boy," said John, " this chap brought us the
news where he was. We thought, on the whole,
there was no need to tell you — so we didn't tell you.
I've been to see him. He's pretty comfortable."
" He is pretty comfortable," said Anthony's late
companion between the boards, " If Abraham's
bosom is better than the cold kerb, and softer than
the doss-house, he is quite comfortable — for he died
this morning."
" Where did he die ? " asked Dick.
" In the Marylebone Workhouse Infirmary." The
man got up and shuffled away. As he went out of
the room, he held out his hand, and there was the
chink of coin.
The Clan again. 289
" My father dead ! "
"Ay, lad, he's dead. What better for you and
everybody? I've seen him, on and off, most days.
He was a hardened sinner, if ever there was one."
" Dead ! I have been taught to regard him with a
kind of loathing ; but — we can only have one father.
Dead ! In a workhouse infirmary ! "
" He has left two sons. You are not the only one."
"Two sons. Yes" — concerning his half-brother
Dick could not choose but speak vindictively — " the
other will hear to-morrow who his father was. He
shall hear also that his father is dead. He and I
will be the mourners at the pauper's funeral."
CHAPTER XXIir.
ONE MORE ATTEMPT.
*' That man again ! " Lady Woodroffe threw the
card into the fire. "Tell him I will not see him.
No. Let him come up."
It was Richard Woodroffe, proposing to make his
last attempt. Before doing so, he had run down to
Birmingham and seen the newly-found witness. He
was a most trustworthy person ; he picked out the
photograph of Lady Woodroffe from a bundle of
photographs ; he remembered the case and the lady
perfectly well. There was, therefore, no doubt pos-
sible that she had been in Birmingham at that time,
and that she had lost her own son.
" Sir " — she sat up in her chair with angry eyes —
" this is persecution ! I have already given a patient
hearing to your most impudent story."
"You have. Lady Woodroffe." Neither her angry
looks nor her presence disconcerted him now. He
was so perfectly certain of his cause, and of her
shameless falsehood, that he stood before her at ease,
and even with some appearance of dignity.
" I even took the trouble to invite your friend, the
person for whom you profess to act, the woman with
the delusion "
One More Attempt. 291
"You did." He did not wait to be invited. He
took a chair and sat down in it.
" In order to convince her of her absurdity."
" In which you failed. Because, after all your talk,
there remained the solid fact — the death of Sir
Humphrey's son."
" Sir Humphrey had one son only, who is still
living. I was wrong in thinking that a plain state-
ment of facts could move the poor mad woman.
She brought with her a young person, who encouraged
her to insult me. They even attempted to assault
me, I believe. After the grossest abuse, they carried
off a bundle of baby-linen, and things that I had
treasured, for reasons which I fear you are incapable
of understanding."
" No, Lady Woodroffe, on the contrary, I under-
stand them very well. You brought them out on this
occasion with the intention of showing this poor lady
what I must venture to call your defiance."
" My defiance ? Certainly ; I accept the word. My
defiance. You appear to be almost as polite as your
friends, Mr. Woodroffe."
"You could not have chosen a more effective
manner of announcing your intentions. ' There ! '
you said, 'these clothes which you made with your
own fingers show that it is your boy; yet you shall not
have him, and I defy you to prove that he is yours.' "
" You are correct on one point. I do defy you to
prove that fact."
"Very well; I am here to-day to tell you that I
have advanced one more step, and a very important
step it is."
292 The Changeling.
" Important or not, I defy you to prove the fact.
This is not, however, exactly an acknowledgment.
But I shall not argue with you ; I believe I ought to
hand you over at once to my lawyers, to be dealt with
for conspiracy."
Richard Woodroffe smiled. " I wish you would,"
he said. " I should like nothing better than the
publicity of an action."
" Oh," she groaned, " the pertinacity of the black-
mailer ! "
" I shall not be insulted, whatever you say. I am
here to tell you that the proofs have now closed
round you so completely, that there is not left, I verily
believe, a single loophole of escape."
Lady Woodroffe rose with dignity. *' You talk to
me, sir — to mcf — of escape and loophole. Go, sir —
go to my solicitors."
" Certainly." Richard continued, however, to occupy
his chair. " I will go to your solicitors whenever you
please, I would rather go to them than come here.
But for the sake of others, I would prefer that you
should acknowledge the fact, and let the son go back
to his mother. He is my own half-brother, but it is
not fraternal affection that prompts me in this research,
I assure you. If you refuse to hear me, I shall have
to go to your solicitors through Mrs. Haveril's
solicitors."
" Oh, go on, then ! "
She sat down again, and crossed her hands in her
lap, assuming something of the expression of a person
bored to death by a very bad sermon.
" I have certain evidence in my hands, then " — he
One More Attempt. 293
could not avoid a smile of satisfaction — " which
connects you with the dead child — your child."
Lady Woodroffe caught her breath and started, as
if in sudden pain.
" Go on, sir."
" I will tell you what it is. You arrived one even-
ing at the Great Midland Hotel, Birmingham, with an
Indian ayah and a child. You engaged three rooms
— a sitting-room and two bedrooms ; you explained
that the child had been taken suddenly and alarm-
ingly ill in the train ; you sent out for a medical man ;
he came ; he kept the maids running about with hot
water, and the boys going out for remedies and pre-
scriptions ; he stayed with you all night, watching the
case ; in the morning your child was dead ; three days
afterwards you buried him. There is no monument
over the child's grave, because you made an arrange-
ment with the help of Dr. Robert Steele, and substi-
tuted another child for him, and you went away two
or three days after the funeral, and disappeared. The
rooms were taken in your name ; the books of the
hotel prove so much."
"Oh! This man is tedious — tedious — with his
repetitions."
" I have been down to Birmingham again. I have
now found an old waiter who remembers the circum-
stance perfectly well — Indian ayah and sick baby and
funeral. He says he remembers you, but that I doubt.
I have also found the medical man who was called in.
He not only remembers the case, which he entered at
the time in his note-bogk, but he also remembers
you — "
294 The Changeling.
"After four and twenty years ! "
" — and picked you out of a bundle of photographs.
I think you will admit that this is an important
step ? "
She made no reply. Her face was drawn and
twisted with the pain of listening.
" What is wanted now," Richard added, " is the
connection of yourself and the child. If we fail
there "
" You will fail."
"We shall ask Sir Robert."
" You will fail."
" Then we shall give publicity to the case — I don't
quite know how. All the world shall understand.
You will have to explain "
"All the world? It is the High Court of Justice
that you must address. I shall look to the judge to
protect me. Remember it is in my power to prove
that I was in Scotland at that very time."
" On that very day when the child died ? "
"On that very day," she replied, firmly and with-
out hesitation.
" Lady Woodroffe, I cannot believe what you say."
*' You can prove what you like," she repeated, " but
you cannot prove that I bought the child."
" To speak plainly, I don't believe one word about
your proving an alibi, Lady Woodroffe, any more than
I believe that remarkably bold falsehood about the
child's clothes. We shall prove the death of the child
beyond a doubt. You can then, if you please, find
out something that will amuse the world about
Humphrey. As for the publicity "
One More Attempt. 295
"Since you will only prove that a woman took my
name, I care nothing. My reputation is not likely to
be injured by such a story. Who will believe against
my word — that I — Lady Woodroffe — a leader, sir, in
a world of which you and your like know nothing —
the world which advances humanity — the world of
religion and of charity — the world which combats vice
unceasingly — should condescend to a crime so ignoble
and so purposeless .-' "
" I am not concerned with your credibilities, Lady
Woodroffe. I learn that you made a large use of them
with Mrs. Haveril, and only desisted when they proved
a failure. Then you took to defiance."
" The publicity will fall upon the fashionable
physician, the great man of science, the head of his
profession, who will have to acknowledge that he found
a child and bought it for a certain unknown person —
a noble way for a young physician to earn a fee ! The
publicity will also fall upon the now notorious lady
who has got up in the world since she sold her only
child for fifty pounds, to keep it and herself out of the
workhouse. No injurious publicity will fall upon me,
other than the discovery of some woman who once
took my name."
" You are identified by your photograph. You
forget that."
" Can I ? After four and twenty years ? Can any
woman of my age — forty-nine — be identified, by a
stranger, with another woman of twenty-five or
thereabouts? Now, Mr. Richard Woodroffe, what
else have you got to say .'' "
" I have only this to say. I came here to-day, Lady
296 The Changeling.
Woodroffe, in the hope that what I have told you
would show you the danger of your position. For the
sake of this lady, who is worn almost to death by
the anxiety of her situation, I hoped that you would
confess."
"Confess! I to confess! You speak as if I were
a common criminal."
" No," said Richard, "not common by any means."
Lady Woodroffe left her chair and stepped over to
the fireplace. She looked older, and the authority
went out of her very strangely. She laid her hand
on the shelf, as if for support, and she spoke slowly —
with no show of anger — slowly, and with sadness.
" I think, sir, I do think, that if you could consider
the meaning of this charge to a person in my position,
the suffering you inflict upon me, the mischief you
may do to me, and I know not how many more, by
persisting in this charge, you would abandon it."
" I cannot ; I am acting for another."
" You are playing a game to win, I don't accuse
you of sordid motives. You want to win."
" Perhaps I do."
" Have you asked yourself the simple question,
whether it is possible for me to commit such a crime,
and then to confess ? "
" I have to win this game, Lady Woodroffe. I
think I have won it."
*' It is not won yet. And believe me, sir, it will not
be won unless I choose."
"We can place you in a very awkward position,
anyhow."
" Mn Richard Woodroffe, you came here to make a
One More Attempt. 297
final appeal to me ; it is my turn to make a final
appeal to you. I am a woman, as perhaps you know,
of very considerable importance in the world. Such
a charge as you bring against me would not only crush
me, if it were proved, but it would dislocate or ruin a
great many associations and institutions of which I
am the very soul. Thousands of orphans, working
girls, Magdalens, and sinners, would lose their best
friend. I am their best friend ; my tongue and my
pen keep up the stream which flows in to their relief.
Is it not possible for that woman to think of these
things ? Or, there is the boy. He is partly, I suppose,
what he is by education, partly by his nature ; take
away from him his position as a gentleman of rank
and family, send him out disgraced to make his own
way in the world, and he will sink like lead. You
call him your half-brother. Well, Mr. Woodrofife, he
is not a young man of many virtues ; in fact, he has
many vices,"
" That I can well believe."
"If he has seven devils now, after this disclosure
he will have seventy-seven devils."
"That also I can well believe. But, of course, I do
not think about him."
" Then, Mr. Woodrofife, can you not persuade that
poor woman to go home, to be content with what she
has seen and you have proved ? "
" No, I cannot."
" Can you not remind her that she sold the child
on the condition that she would never trouble about
him, or seek to know where he might be living ? "
" No, I cannot. She has seen her son ; she knows
298 The Changeling.
who he is ; she wants your acknowledgment. Give
her that, and, I don't know, in fact, what will happen
afterwards."
Lady Woodroffe sat down and sighed heavily.
" Be it so," she said. " You will go on ; you will do
your worst."
Richard Woodroffe regarded her with a sense of
pity, and even of respect. The woman had supported
her position by a succession of shameless lies ; she
was now virtually confessing to him that they were
lies. But she had so much to lose — her great position
among religious and charitable people, her reputation,
the respect which her blameless life and her great
abilities had won for her. All these things were
threatened.
"Madam," he said, his face full of emotion, "if it
were only your son to be thought of, I would retire.
But there is this poor lady, who is only kept alive, I
believe, by the hope and belief that her son will be
restored to her. Believe me, if I may speak of pity
for you "
" Pity ? " She sprang to her feet with fire and
fury in her cheeks and eyes. It is, happily, the
rarest thing in the world to see a wom.an — I mean
a woman of culture — overmastered by passion. Yet
it lies there ; it is always possible. In the heart of the
meekest maiden, the most self-governed and most
highly bred woman, there lies hidden the tigress,
the fish-wife, the scold, the shrew. Formerly, when-
ever women were gathered together, they quarrelled ;
whenever they quarrelled, they fought — sometimes
with fists, cudgels, brooms, chairs, sometimes with
One More Attempt. 299
tongues. Men were so horribly frightened by the
scolding wife, that they ducked her, put her in a cage,
carried her round in a cart. The little word " pity "
was the last drop in the cup. Lady Woodroffe raged
and stormed at the unfortunate Richard. For the
time her mind was beyond control ; afterwards, he
remembered that such a fit of passion showed the
tension of her mind. He made no reply. When her
torrent of words and threats was exhausted, she
threw herself into her chair, and buried her face in
her hands.
Then Richard quietly withdrew.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A HORRID NIGHT.
Richard Woodroffe walked away with hanging
head. A second time he had learned that his proofs
might not be so convincing, after all. The defence
set up by a woman of the highest social position,
character, and personal influence, that she had never
been in Birmingham in her life, that on the day of
the alleged death of her child she was in Scotland,
that she knew nothing of the person who was said
to have assumed her name, could only be met by
evidence concerning that person by an identification
of that person with Lady Woodroffe by an old man,
speaking of an event of four and twenty years ago,
and by an alleged resemblance ; as to the packet of
clothes, that would certainly be no evidence at all.
He himself was perfectly certain of the fact ; there
was no doubt left in his own mind. But would his
proofs be accepted in a court of justice ?
As he walked along with these heavy reflections,
he was startled by a hand upon his shoulder — a thing
which, in former times, caused the sufferer to swoon
with terror, because it was the familiar greeting of
the sheriffs officer, the man with a writ. That part
of the officer's duty is now, however, gone. It was,
A Horrid Night. 301
in fact, the hand of Sir Robert Steele, who, his day's
work finished, was taking the air.
" Dick," he cried, " I haven't seen you since — since
—when ? "
" Since the day when you made a study of
heredity."
" Oh, you mean when you dined with me ? Yes,
Dick, my boy, I have heard things about you — the
Strange Adventures of a Singer."
" Of course you have. Lady Woodroffe has told
you."
" How you are fishing in troubled waters, and
catching nothing. Yes, I have seen Mrs. Haveril — a
most interesting woman ; but she ought to go home
and keep quiet. Keep her quiet, Dick. Put down
your fishing-rod, and make that good lady sit down,
and keep that good lady quiet."
" I will as soon as I have restored her son to her.
We have found him, you know."
" You tell me so. You think it is Sir Humphrey
Woodroffe, is it not ? "
" We are perfectly certain it is. Lady Woodroffe
has told you, I dare say, what we have done."
" Something — something. You are working, no
doubt, in the interests of the second baronet .-' "
" Yes, oh yes." Dick grinned. " He is my half-
brother, you know. I am anxious to restore him to
his real rank, which is mine. He shall become what
he is pleased to describe me — an outsider and a
cad."
" Two Cains and no Abel. A slaughterous pair.
Well, have you proved your case yet ? "
302 The Changeling.
" To our own satisfaction, perfectly. To the com-
plete satisfaction of the world as soon as the story is
told. For lawyers — well — there is one point lacking."
" That one point 1 That one point ! Always that
one point ! It is like connecting your family with
illustrious ancestry — always the one point wanting.
I need not ask what that point is."
" No, because you are the person who can supply
the link."
" Is that so ? " asked the doctor, dryly. " Then,
while you are waiting for that link, my dear Richard,
I advise you to tie up your papers and go back to
legitimate business." He stopped, because they were
arrived at his own door. " Come in," he said. " Now
then, my dear boy, sit down and let us have it out.
First of all, however, understand that you cannot
establish that link. You say that I am the only
person who can supply it. Well, if that is so,
remember that I shall not."
" You mean, will not."
"Just as you like. The distinction between will
and shall is sometimes too subtle for the rules of
syntax."
"But, my dear Sir Robert, just consider what a lot
I can prove. Lady Woodroffe goes to a hotel in
Birmingham. She drives in hurriedly ; her child is
ill. She sends for a medical man. She takes two
bedrooms and a sitting-room. She has an ayah.
The medical man stays with her the whole night. In
the morning the child dies "
*' How do you know all these things } "
" By the note-book of the man who was called in,
A Horrid Night. 303
by the books of the hotel, by the evidence of the
medical man himself, by the evidence of a waiter who
remembers the case, by the register of deaths."
"All this looks strong, I admit."
" So that we can actually prove the death of Sir
Humphrey's only son. And we can call upon Lady
Woodrofife to inform us who is the man calling him-
self Sir Humphrey's only son."
"You prove that a woman calling herself Lady
Woodrofife did all these things."
"And we can produce a witness who will swear to
her identity."
" After all these years I doubt if you could — if that
evidence would be received. I admit that you have
a case. As it is, you could make a cause c^l^bre.
You are able to make things horribly uncomfortable
for Lady Woodrofife ; and you are able to inspire the
young man, her son, with a lively animosity against
yourself."
" I don't mind that in the least. I shall go and
see him. I shall say, * You are my half-brother.
You are first cousin to a collection of common folk,
whose commonness will rejoice your heart. I will
introduce you to them. You shall take tea with
them — the tea of shrimps, periwinkles, and water-
cress, that you have yet to learn — and to love.' I
shall exhaust myself in congratulations."
"With the domestic affections I never interfere.
Here, however, is a difficulty. You say ' we ' will
do this and that. Who is 'we'? You yourself?
Suppose you spring all this upon the world .'' And
suppose nobody takes any notice ? "
304 The Changeling,
" I may advertise the whole history, and offer a
reward for the discovery of the identification of the
woman."
" But nobody can identify Lady Woodroffe."
" My old doctor "
"Your old doctor would break down. Lady
Woodroffe has only to deny absolutely that she is
the woman. Counsel can always suggest — man in
India — another woman — assumption of name — real
wife with her father, Lord Dunedin — letters to prove
it — old nobleman swears it. Venerable old noble-
man— ever seen him ? — rather like Abraham."
"Well, we shall find some way of forcing the
history upon the public. And a certain event has
just happened which may give me an oppor-
tunity."
"What is that.?"
" My father is dead. He died yesterday. He was
also Humphrey's father."
" Oh, I am sorry."
" No one need express any sorrow on that account.
As he left my mother when I was a baby, I have
never seen him. I did not know that he was in
England. It appears that he has been a sandwich-
man for some time. And he died in a pauper in-
firmary. As for myself, I feel neither shame nor
grief; he was to me, as to you, a stranger. But
perhaps I can use the event in order to give publicity
to our story, if we must court publicity."
"Well, let us hope But go on."
" As for Lady Woodroffe, she has actually confessed
the thing."
A Horrid Night. 305
He then proceeded to tell the story of the child's
clothes.
The doctor became thoughtful. The audacity of
showing and claiming the clothes astonished him.
" It isn't evidence, Dick," he said.
" No ; but it's complete proof to the true mother."
" Perhaps — to her."
Sir Robert, in fact, admitted everything. But at
this stage a mere admission of the kind meant nothing.
" It was a strange thing to do," said the doctor.
" There is the audacity of despair about it. She
had quite forgotten the fact that the register of
deaths contained the name of the boy. If it had
been a common name, it would have mattered little.
She did not tell me that the child died in Birming-
ham. That doctor— what is his name ? Ah ! I don't
know him. Does he knov/ the meaning and bearing
of his evidence ? "
"I believe not. He will not talk, however. He
has undertaken to preserve absolute silence until he
is called upon to speak."
" Keep the power of disclosure in your own hands,
Dick. Above all things, do that. Why did she
produce the child's clothes .-' Woman's wit is hard
to follow. 'My word against all the world,' she
meant, I believe. As if she must be believed on her
bare assertion, against all the facts that could be
brought against her. It was her pride. Like all
female leaders, she is incredibly proud. She means
to stand up and deny. On the other hand, the
situation is harassing ; there are points in the case
which make it almost impossible "
X
3o6 The Changeling.
" The goings-on of my ill-conditioned brother, I
suppose ? "
" Perhaps — perhaps. I wish she had told me when
and how the child died."
They dined together. Over an excellent bottle of
Chateau Mouton they exchanged further confidences.
" My dear Dick," said the doctor, " it's a serious
situation. You propose to cover a woman of the
highest reputation with infamy. She says, in effect,
'You are quite right. I am that infamous person.
But prove it' You want to restore to another most
amiable and honourable woman her son, and he
would break her heart in a year. You want me to
identify the lady, and thereby to confess my share in
a transaction which might be made to look like
complicity in a fraud and a conspiracy. I told her
at the time that it looked like substitution, though
she called it adoption. Well, I can imitate the
lady's frankness ; that is to say, I do not in so many
words confess the truth, but I show it ; I allow you
to conclude that the thing is true. And, like the
lady, I defy you. You will find out nothing more.
And if you were to put me in the box — if you were
to make me tell the truth about that infernal babe —
never, never would I confess to knowing the name of
the lady. And without that evidence you can never
prove your case."
As a rule, the doctor was the last man in the
world either to dream or to trouble himself with
dreams ; nevertheless, there fell upon him an incubus
of the night which was so persistent, that, though he
A Horrid Night. 307
waked a dozen times and shook off the thing, a dozen
times it came again. And so vivid was it that he
saw it still when he awoke in the morning, and heard
it, and remembered it, and felt it.
For in this dream he saw himself giving evidence
in a court of law as to his own share in the substitu-
tion of another child for the dead child.
And in the dream he saw himself losing reputation,
character, practice, everything. As the evidence was
reluctantly given, he saw the face of the judge
growing more and more severe, the faces of the jury
harder, the faces in the court more hostile. He read
in all his own condemnation.
This is what he had to say.
"In the years i8y^-i8y6 I was carrying on a
general practice in a quarter of Birmingham. I was,
in fact, a sixpenny doctor, charging that sum for
advice and medicine, and having a fairly good reputa-
tion among the poorer class of that quarter. On a
certain afternoon in February, 1874" — here the
witness referred to his books — " a lady entered the
surgery. She was deeply veiled, and in much
trouble. She told me that she wanted to adopt a
child in the place of her own, whom she had just
lost by death. She asked me, further, if I knew of
any poor woman who would give up her child. It
was to be about fifteen months old. She gave the
date of her dead child's birth as December the 2nd,
1872. And it must have light hair and blue eyes.
" Among my patients was a woman left penniless
by her husband, who had deserted her. She wanted,
above all things, money to go in search of him. As
3o8 The Changeling.
he was an actor in a small way, she thought it would
be easy to find him if she had money to travel with.
The woman was mad with grief. She was ready to
give up the child in return for the money she wanted.
At the time, she would have given up her own soul
for the money. The child was somewhere about the
required age — a month more or less mattered little ;
it had blue eyes and light hair. I made the arrange-
ment with her. I took the child, also by arrangement,
to the Great Western Railway Station, and gave it to
an Indian ayah, who carried it into a first-class
carriage, where the lady sat. Then the train went
off, and I saw nothing more of the lady or the child
for twenty-four years.
" I did not know, nor did I ask, the lady's name or
address ; only on a half-torn envelope, in which she
had placed the notes — ten five-pound notes — for the
mother of the child, was the word, ' Lady W ,' as
part of an address.
" I did not know, nor did I ask, the lady's in-
tentions. She said she wanted to adopt a child. I
arranged this for her. I took the mother the sum of
fifty pounds, and I charged the lady a fee of three
guineas. The only question we discussed was that
of heredity, and especially the danger of the child
inheriting criminal tendencies,
" Four and twenty years later I received a visit —
being then a physician practising in London — from
the mother of the child, who had remembered my
name. She was anxious to learn, if possible, what
had become of her son. She had become rich, ^nd
would willingly claim the child,
A Horrid Night. 309
" Upon her departure I began to think over the
case, which I had almost forgotten. I remembered,
first, the half-torn envelope. And then, looking at
my note-book, I remembered the date of the dead
child's birth — December 2, 1872. I took down a
Peerage, and looked through the pages. Presently I
discovered what I wanted, under the name of Wood-
roffe. The present baronet, the second, is there
described as born on December 2, 1872. Now,
the son of the first baronet, the late Sir Humphrey
Woodroffe, who died early in 1874, was born on that
day. It was so extremely unlikely that two women
enjoying the title of ' Lady W.' should have a son
born on the same day, that I naturally concluded the
second baronet and the adopted child were one and
the same person. So convinced was I of this fact
that I ventured to call upon Lady Woodroffe, and
satisfied myself that it was so.
" As, however, I had ascertained the truth in this
unexpected manner, I assured Lady Woodroffe that
the secret should remain with me until she herself
should give me permission to reveal it.
" Meantime, one of Mrs. Haveril's friends began to
make inquiries into the case. He ascertained that
the son of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe died, a child of
fifteen months old, at Birmingham, early in 1874.
He further learned that the so-called son, in person,
figure, and face, closely resembled the father of the
adopted child ; and he learned also that the medical
man who attended the dead child knew its name,
and could absolutely identify the mother as the
present Lady Woodroffe. In fact, the case was so
310 The Changeling.
far capable of proof that no reasonable person could
entertain the slightest doubt on the subject.
"It was certainly open to Lady Woodroffe to
perjure herself by denying that she had ever been in
Birmingham. This she was going to do. I took no
steps to dissuade her ; nor did I take any steps to
put an end to the fraudulent representation of this
young man as Sir Humphrey's son ; in fact, I became
a party to the conspiracy."
He looked round the court in his dream, and read
his own condemnation in all the faces.
When he awoke in the morning, the scene began
all over again.
" Confound the baby ! " he groaned. "Am I never
to get to the end of it ? "
He went down to breakfast, trying to shake off the
feeling of disquiet that possessed him.
Just as he sat down, Richard Woodroffe called.
"I am sorry to disturb you," he said, "but I have
just been called to the Hotel Metropole. Mrs.
Haveril has had a miserable night. Molly sat up
with her. She was weeping and crying all the night.
This morning she is a wreck. There is, perhaps, no
time to be lost "
" I knew something was going to happen."
" If she is to get her son back, it must be soon, or
that dream of hers will not come true."
" Sit down, Dick. I've had a horrid night too. We
will consider directly what is best to be done."
While he spoke there came a letter — " By hand.
Sir Robert Steele. Bearer waits."
A Horrid Night. 311
"Dear Sir Robert,
" Come to see me as soon as you can. I
have had the most terrible night.
" Yours,
" L. W."
"Again! Three terrible nights for the three prin-
cipal conspirators. The devil is in the business, I
believe. Now, Dick, I have to call on Lady Wood-
roffe. Before I go to see this lady "
" I sincerely hope she will treat you as she did mc.
The manners of the aristocracy never showed to such
advantage in my experience."
"Before I go to see this lady " Sir Robert
repeated.
Again Richard interrupted him. "We cannot
afford to wait any longer. Mrs. Haveril's condition
forbids it. I have determined to write to Humphrey.
I shall begin by informing him of his father's death.
I shall invite him to join me in paying his father's
debts. I shall then advertise the death of Anthony
Woodroffe in the Marylebone Infirmary as the father
of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe. That will make him
do something. If he likes to go to law, we will meet
him ; if he wishes to see me, I will tell him everything."
" Why not go to him at once without any letter } "
" Because he will thus learn, in the most dramatic
way possible, the name and the social position of his
real father."
" Dick, you make this a personal matter.''
" Yes, I do." He became suddenly vindictive.
" The scoundrel wanted Molly to marry him secretly.
312 The Changeling.
and live secretly with him — you understand that —
while he was making love to Hilarie Woodroffe."
" It is steep, certainly steep. But perhaps he did
not mean "
" Doctor, you know the kind of men they are —
this Johnnie and his friends. They have no honour,
as they have no heart ; they are rotten through and
through — rotten and corrupt."
" Dick, there are others to be considered."
" I will make the whole story public — I will write
a play on it."
" Is this revenge or justice, Dick ? "
" I don't care which. Revenge is wild justice."
" When are these letters to be written ^ "
" To-day — this morning."
" Dick " — the doctor laid a persuasive hand upon
his arm — " you don't understand what it is you are
doing. Wait till this evening. Give me, say, eight
— ten hours. Let me beg you to wait till this
evening. If I can effect nothing in twelve hours —
with the principals — the two — the three principals
concerned — you shall then do as you please."
" Well, if I must If you really think
Well, I will wait ; but I will have no compromise.
I could forgive him anything — his insolence and his
contempt, but not "
" Love has many shapes, my Richard. He may
become a soldier — but a hangman, an executioner,
he who brandishes the cat-o'-nine-tails — no, Dick, no
— that ro/e docs not suit Love. Stay thy hand "
Dick turned away. " Take your twelve hours."
" I am going, then, at once — to Lady Woodroffe."
CHAPTER XXV.
THK FIRST MOTHER.
There were once two women who claimed the same
child. The case was referred to the king, who in
that country was also lord chief justice.
" It is clear to me," said the king, after hearing the
evidence on both sides, " that the case cannot be de-
cided one way or the other ; therefore bring me the
child." So they laid the child before him. He
called his executioner. " Take thy sword," he said,
"and cut the child into two equal portions." The
executioner drew his sword. Then said the king,
'• Give one half to each of the two women ; they can
then go away content." And the woman who was
not the mother of the child said, " Great is the wisdom
of the king. O king, live for ever ! " But the
other woman, with tears and sobs, threw herself
over the child, saying that she could not endure
that the child should be killed, and she would give
it up to save its life.
Parables, like fables, belong to all time. This
parable applies to the conclusion of the story.
Sir Robert found the lady in a condition closely
resembling hysteria. She had sent away her secre-
taries ; her letters lay piled on the table. She herself
paced the room in an agony.
314 The Changeling.
" I cannot bear it," she cried ; " I cannot bear it
any longer. They persecute me. Help me to kill
myself."
" I shall help you to live, rather."
" I have resolved what to do. I will struggle no
longer."
" Above all, do not struggle."
" You have deceived me. You told me that with-
out your evidence they can prove nothing."
" That is quite true. Without my evidence they
can prove nothing."
" They have found proof that I was in Birmingham
at the time."
" Yes, yes ; I know what they have found. They
have found enough to establish a suspicion — a strong
suspicion, difficult to dissipate — which would cling
to us all."
" Cling ? Cling ? What would that mean — to
me ? "
" We must, therefore, avoid publicity, if we can.
We are threatened with public exposure. That, if
possible, I say, must be avoided. Are you listening .''
If there is still time, we must prevent scandal."
" I can no longer bear it, I say." She pressed her
hand to her forehead. " It drives me mad ! I thought,
last night, I was mad." She threw herself on a sofa,
and buried her head in her hands. '* Doctor " — she
started up again — "that man has been here again.
He has found some one — I don't know — I forget —
some one who remembers me — who recognizes me."
" So I believe — and then ? "
" Day and night the thought is always with me.
The First Mother. 31 5
How can I bear the disclosure? The papers will
ring with it."
" I hope there will be no disclosure. Believe me,
Lady Woodrofife, no one can be more anxious than
myself to avoid disclosures and scandals."
Lady Woodroffe, this calm, cold, austere person,
whose spoken words moved the conscience of her
audience, if not their hearts, whose printed papers
carried conviction, if not enthusiasm, gave way
altogether, and sobbed and cried like a young girl.
"It is all lost!" she moaned. "All that I have
worked for — my position in the world, my leadership,
my career — everything is lost. I shall have shame
and disgrace, instead of honour and respect. Oh, I
am punished — I am punished ! No woman has ever
been more punished."
" Perhaps," said the physician, "your punishment is
finished. Four and twenty years is a long time."
" I have written out a confession of the whole
business," she said wearily : " I had to. I got up
in the middle of the night. My husband stood beside
me. Oh, I saw him and I heard him. ' Lilias,' he
said, 'what you did was in pity and in tenderness to
me. I forgive you. AH shall be forgiven you if
you will confess.' So I sat down and wrote ; and
here it is." She gave him a paper, which he placed
in his inner pocket. " You know what I had to say,
doctor. I was young, and I was in agony : my child
was dead — oh, my child was dead ! No one knows
— no man can tell — what it is to lose your only
child. All the time I wrote, my husband stood over
me, his noble face stern and serious as when he was
3i6 The Changeling.
lieutenant-governor. When I finished, he laid his
hand upon my head — I felt it, doctor, I tell you I
felt it — and he said, ' Lilias, it is forgiven.' And so
he vanished. And now you have got my confession."
"Yes, I have it. Give me — I ask your leave —
permission to speak."
'• Oh, speak ! Cry aloud ! Go to the house-top,
and call it out ! Sing it in the streets ! I shall
become a byword and a mockery ! " She walked
about, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. " My
friends will have no more to do with me. I have
brought shame on my own people ! " She panted
and gasped; her words came in jerks. "Doctor, I
am resolved. I will turn Roman Catholic, and enter
a convent. It is for such women as myself that they
make convents. There I shall live out the rest of my
life, hearing nothing and knowing nothing. And
none of the scorn and shame that they will heap
upon my name will reach the walls of my retreat."
" You must not think only of yourself, my dear
madam. What about Humphrey? "
" He must do what he pleases — what he can.
What does it matter what he does ? Sir Robert, I
assure you that he is a selfish wretch, the most
hardened, the most heartless ; he thinks about
nothing but his own pleasure ; under the guise of
following Art, he is a cold sensualist. I have never
detected in him one single generous thought or word ;
I have never known him do one single unselfish
action. I have never cared for him — now, I declare
that it costs me not one single pang to think that he
will lose everything. Let the wretch who has made
The First Mother. 317
me suffer so much go back to the gutter — his native
slime ! "
" Stop ! stop ! my dear madam. Remember, in
adopting the boy, you undertook to look after him.
Every year that you have had him has increased
your responsibilities. You owe it to him that since
he was brought up as Sir Humphrey's son, you must
make him Sir Humphrey's heir. In other words,
whatever happens, you must not let him suffer in
fortune."
Lady Woodroffe was silent.
" Do you understand what I mean ? You adopted
him. He is yours. It is not his fault that he is
yours. He may be robbed of his father by this
discovery ; he cannot be robbed of his education and
of the ideas which belong to your position ; he may
have to recognize for his father a most unworthy,
shameful man instead of a most honourable man.
Selfish — callous — as he may be, that will surely be
misery enough. He must not, at the same time, be
deserted by the woman who adopted him."
" I don't care, I tell you, what becomes of him,"
she replied sullenly.
"Then, madam, I retire." He rose as if about to
carry the threat into execution. " Here is your
confession." He threw it on the table. " Use it as
you please. I am free to speak as I please. And
things must take their own course." He moved
towards the door.
" Oh ! " — she flung out her arms — " do what you
please — say what you please."
" The one thing that remains is to soften the blow,
3i8 The Changeling.
if that is possible. Do you wish me to attempt that
task ? "
" Soft or hard, I care nothing. Only, for Heaven's
sake, take away that wretched boy — that living
fraud — that impostor "
** Who made him an impostor ? It is not Humphrey
that is a living fraud. It is yourself — yourself, Lady
Woodroffe," he repeated sternly. " And I am your
accomplice."
" Well, take him out of my sight. His footstep is
like a knife in my side. I could shriek even to hear
his voice. Oh, doctor ! doctor ! " — her own voice
sank to a moan — "if I could tell you — oh, if I could
only tell you ! — how I have always hated the boy.
Take him back — the gutter brat — take him back to
that creature, his mother. He is worthy of her."
Sir Robert sat down again and took her hand in
his. " Dear lady " — his voice was soft and soothing,
and yet commanding ; his hand was large and com-
forting, yet strong ; his eyes were kindly, yet
masterful — " your position is very trying. You want
rest. In an hour or two, I hope, we shall settle this
business. Then you will be easy in your mind again.
Come. I shall send you news that will be worth the
whole pharmacopoeia, if I know the heart of woman."
She burst again into sobs and tears. " Oh, if you
knew — if you knew ! "
" Yes, I know. Now I am going. You will be
better when I am gone. Once there were two
mothers," he murmured, " in the parable." He looked
down upon her bowed head. " One thought of
herself — the other I go to see the other."
The First Mother. 319
On the stairs he met Humphrey.
" Sir Robert ? Been to see my mother ? She's
not ill, I hope?"
"Best not go to her just now. She is a little
troubled about herself."
" Nothing serious, I hope ? " He spoke with the
cold show of interest in which one might speak of a
servant.
"Anything may become serious ; but we will hope
that in this case "
" Come into my room for a moment, if you can
spare the time." He led the way to his study. " I
want to ask you about a man I met at your house —
that fellow with the money, who says he was a
gardener once, and looks it still."
" What about him ? "
" He's been here. He called here the other day.
Sat half an hour — said he wasn't used to my kind of
conversation."
" Well, he isn't— is he > "
"I dare say not. But as we don't regulate our
discourse by the acquirements of gardeners, it doesn't
matter. However, I asked him what he came for,
and hinted that I wasn't going to take any shares, if
that was what he wanted. Then he began to talk
conundrums."
" What did he tell you ? "
"Told me nothing. Hinted that there was a lot
that I ought to know."
" He didn't give you any hint of what that was ? "
"No. Why? I thought that you, who know
everything, might know what he meant."
320 The Changeling.
" My young friend, I learn a good deal about the
private affairs of many people. They remain private
affairs."
"Very good. This fellow seemed mad. He
informed me, among other things, that he was no
relation of mine."
" Unnecessary."
" Quite so. Then he began to speak in high terms
of my mother, for which I ought to have kicked him."
"Of your mother?"
" Then he said that if I followed the wishes of my
mother, there would be any amount of money for me.
That was to come after I learned the truth. What is
the truth ? "
" How am I to know what he meant ? Perhaps he
called on the wrong Woodroffe. There's another
man of your name, you know — Richard Woodroffe."
" I know. Little cad ! Perhaps that may explain
the whole thing. It never does to treat those out-
siders as if they were gentlemen born, does it ? Once
in the gutter, always in the gutter, eh ? "
" I don't know."
" Look here, Sir Robert, you come here a good
deal. My mother says she knew you years ago "
" Very slightly."
"Well, there's something going on. She's miser-
able. I had hints from Molly — from a girl — as well
as this gardener fellow — that there's something going
on. Is it a smash ? Has my mother chucked her
fortune? The girl said something about losing
everything. I can't get my mother to attend to
business, and I must have some money soon. You're
The First Mother. 321
a man of the world, Sir Robert. There's a row on,
you know."
"Another? Why, man, I hear you were engaged
to Miss Woodroffe and to Miss Pennefather at the
same time. There are the materials for a pretty row.
Is there another ? "
" Well, if my mother has got into a mess, I was
thinking that it might be as well to make it up with
Molly, and stand in with the gardener, and get as
much as I can out of him."
" Perhaps — perhaps." He considered a little.
" Look here, Sir Humphrey, I am on my way to see
Mrs. Haveril. Be here — don't go away — I shall
come back in an hour or two, with something to tell
you."
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE SECOND MOTHER.
When we are waiting for the call to do something —
to say something — of cardinal importance ; some-
thing that will affect the whole of our life, all that
remains of it : when we are uncertain what will happen
after or before we have said or done that som.ething ;
then the very air round us is charged with the uncer-
tainty of the time. Even the hall and the staircase
of the Hotel Metropole, when Molly entered that
humble guest-house, seemed trembling with anxiety.
Her cousin's rooms were laden with anxiety as with
electricity.
" Come in, Molly," said Alice. " No, I am not any
better ; I try to rest, but I cannot. I keep saying to
myself, ' I shall get my son back ; I shall get my son
back.' How long shall I have to wait .'' "
" I hope — to-morrow. Dick has prepared a way to
tell him."
" Will he be ready to go away with his own mother,
to America, do you think, Molly dear } "
" Perhaps. But you must remember. He has his
own friends and his own occupations. And we don't
know yet "
" He will be glad — oh, how glad ! — to get his true
The Second Mother. 323
mother back. He's a handsome boy, isn't he, Molly ?
As tall as his father — Dick isn't nearly so tall — and
stout and strong, like my family. He's like Cousin
Charles."
" Don't tell him so, Alice."
" Why not ? His face is his father's — and his voice.
Oh, Molly ! will he come to-morrow ? "
" Dick was going to send his letter to-morrow."
Her heart sank as she thought of the contents of that
letter, which would reach its destination, not as a
peace-offering or a message of love at all. The poor
mother ! Would her son fly to her arms on the wings
of affection ?
Their discourse was interrupted or diverted — there
was but one topic possible that day — by the arrival
of Sir Robert Steele.
As a skilful diplomatist, he began with the second
of the two mothers where the first ended. That is to
say, he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, and
held it, talking in a soft, persuasive voice.
" We are such old — old friends, dear lady," he began
— " friends of four and ^twenty years — that I have
taken a great liberty. That is — I am sure you will
forgive me — I have consented to act as ambassador
on a delicate mission."
" He comes from Lady Woodroffe," thought Molly,
"or perhaps from Humphrey."
" Yes," the doctor went on, his voice being like the
melodious cooing of the stock-dove — "yes. As a
friend of the past, I thought you would forgive this
interference. Things have changed, with both of us,
since that time, have they not ? I was then at the
324 The Changeling.
bottom of the profession — I am now at the top. I
was then a sixpenny doctor — fill your own bottle
with physic, you know ; with a red lamp, and a
dispensary open from six to ten every evening. Now
I am what you know. You are a great lady — rich
— a leader. I am sure you sometimes think that
' not more than others we deserve ' "
" 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 remem-
ber our present position, and what we owe to ourselves.
Think of that. There are three of us concerned."
" Oh ! " cried ]\Iolly. " Then you own it at last ! "
" First, there is Lady Woodrofife. 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 forgive-
ness with me."
" Oh, Sir Robert ! " said Molly. " She will forgive
you too, if you restore her son."
The Second Mother. 325
" 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 ' substi-
tution,' I held my tongue until proofs had been dis-
covered 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 delight-
ful 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
326 The Changeling.
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
The Second Mother. 327
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 pro-
duced 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
328 The Changeling.
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
The Second Mother. 329
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."
330 The Changeling.
" 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
Woodrofife — 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 pro-
duce 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.
"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,
The Second Mother. 331
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 com-
position."
" I have heard him sing a song of his own compo-
sition," 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, furni-
ture "
"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 quali-
ties— 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
332 The Changeling.
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
Woodrofife four and twenty years ago. Next, con-
sider 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 i* — you suddenly rob him of all these
possessions. You_; give him for a father, a worthless
The Second Mother. 333
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 un-
worthy— 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 dis-
covery. 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."
334 The Changeling.
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 stream-
ing 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.
The Second Mother. 335
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. Hum-
phrey 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 punish-
ment 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
Forgiveness. 337
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 —
'"Died. On Tuesday, the 13th, at the Marylebone Work-
house Infirmary, John Anthony Woodroffe, father of Sir
Humphrey Woodroffe, baronet, aged 55.'
" I hope he will like that."
" There is something more for you," said Molly.
" Lady Woodroffe confesses. There is the paper."
" Confesses.'" Dick snatched the paper, and read
it through with a hunter's sense of disappointment.
" Well," he said, " I thought better of her. I thought
she would die game. Never trust appearances. Well,
this changes these matters. Instead of sending the
letters and the advertisement, I shall now go myself
with the case and the confession, and bring him to
his "
" No, Dick," said Molly. " There is to be no shame
for him, and no humiliation."
" Whatf'
"No shame for him at all. He is to be left in
ignorance unless he has guessed anything. We shall
tell him nothing. All will go on as before."
" Oh, Molly 1 have we given in ? With victory
assured ? Don't say that ! "
" You don't understand, Dick. Everything is
changed. It is now Lady Woodroffe who would
spare him nothing. It is his mother who would save
him from everything."
Dick looked at the pale woman lying on the sofa.
z
33^ The Changeling.
Then he understood, and a tear stood in his eye.
'Twas a tender heart. He went over to the sofa and
kissed her forehead.
" Forgive me," he said.
"Oh, Dick ! " she murmured. "Would to God you
were my son ! As for him, he is what they have
made him."
*****
They had made him grumpy and obstinate. At
that moment the doctor was urging upon him com-
pliance with a simple thing.
" You want me to go to the rooms of the gardener
man who insulted me ? I am to listen to some rubbish
about his wife. What do I care about his wife } I
tell you. Sir Robert, this is trifling. I won't go, there ;
tell them so. I won't go."
"Then, Sir Humphrey, I tell you plainly, Ruin
stares you in the face. Yes ; the loss of everything
in this world that you value — everything. You will
lose all. I cannot explain what this means. But
you will have letters to-morrow which will change
your whole life — and all your thoughts. They mean,
I say, the loss of everything that you value."
"I don't believe a word "
"You wanted to know what Mr. Haveril meant,
what your mother meant, what Miss Molly Penne-
father meant. They meant Ruin — Ruin, and loss of
everything, Sir Humphrey — that and nothing else."
" Tell me more. Tell me why."
" I shall tell you no more. I shall leave it to your
— to Richard Woodroffe, whom you love so well.
He will tell you."
Forgiveness. 339
The young man hesitated. "What do you want
me to do?"
" You are to come with me to Mrs. Haveril's rooms ;
she will receive you ; she will make a communication
to you. Whatever she says you are to receive with
courtesy — with courtesy, mind. That done, you may
return, and everything will go on as usual. You can
then forget what you heard. Are you ready ? Very
well."
" If that cad, the fiddler, is there "
" Hark ye. Sir Humphrey, if you behave or speak
like a cub and a cur, I throw you over. By the
Lord ! I will have no mercy upon you. I will tell
you myself what it all means. Now ! "
*****
Molly waited, sitting beside Alice, who lay with
closed eyes. Perhaps she slept. Presently John
Haveril came home. Molly told him what had
happened.
"Ay, ay," he said. "Let him come. Let Alice
have her say. They've made a cur of him between
them. Let him come."
He sat down beside his wife, and whispered words
of consolation and of soothing. They would go home
again — out of the atmosphere of deception. They
would be happy once more in their own home on the
Pacific slope.
"John," said Alice, "it was good of you to bring
me over on the strength of a dream, and a promise of
a dream — to give over all your work "
" Nay, nay, lass. What is work compared with
thee?"
340 The Changeling.
" I shall see my son again. I have prayed for that.
I did not pray, John — I could not — for his love — that
was gone. Yet I hoped. Now I must be satisfied
only to take his hands in mine."
*' We will go home again — we will go home again."
"My dream said nothing about going home again."
She was silent for a while. "John," she said, " what
was it you were going to tell Molly and Dick ? "
They were all three standing over her.
" Why," said John, " Alice had a fancy — because
she loves you both — to see you join hands — so."
Alice laid her thin hands across their joined hands,
and her lips moved.
"And I was to tell you both that I would not give
you a single dollar out of all the pile. You are
happier without, she says. And so do I," he added.
It was a strange betrothal, with tears in the eyes of
both.
At that moment arrived the doctor, with Humphrey.
The young man looked dark and lowering ; his cheek
was flushed. He glanced round the room, bowed low
to Alice, recognized Molly by a cold inclination, Mr.
Haveril by a nod, and Dick by a blank stare, which
did not recognize even his existence — the frequent
employment of this mode of salutation had made him
greatly beloved by all outsiders.
"Ah," thought Dick, "if you knew what I've got in
my pocket, you'd change that look."
" Mrs. Haveril," said Sir Robert, " I have brought
you Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, at your request. I
believe you have something to say to him."
" Molly dear, give Sir Humphrey a chair near me —
Forgiveness. 341
so. I want to tell you, Sir Humphrey, of a very
strange dream, if I may call it — a hallucination."
" You may, madam," said the doctor, for the young
man sat down in silence.
" Which has, I fear, given your mother a great deal
of annoyance. I am, unfortunately, too weak at
present to call upon her, or to explain to her. There-
fore I have ventured to ask you to be so very kind as
to come here, so that I may send a message to Lady
Woodroffe."
•' I am here," said Sir Humphrey, ungraciously.
" I will not take up much of your time. I had an
illness in America which touched my brain, I believe.
I imagined that a child which I lost twenty-four years
ago was still living. He was the son of my first
husband, whose name was Woodroffe. He was also
the father of Richard Woodroffe here. More than
that, I fancied that one person was that child. That
person was yourself. I fancied that you were the
child. I had not lost it by death. I surrendered it
to a lady by adoption."
Humphrey started. He changed colour. He sat
up in his chair. He listened eagerly. His lip
trembled.
" He understands," Molly whispered.
" No ; he begins to understand what was meant,"
Dick returned. " He cannot guess the whole."
Yes ; he understood now that he was face to face
with a great danger. Many things became plain to
him — Molly's words, John Haveril's words. Sir Robert's
words.
He understood the nature of the danger. He
342 The Changeling.
listened, while a horrible terror seized him at the mere
prospect of that danger. He heard the rest with
a sense of relief, equalled only by his sense of the
danger.
Alice went on. " I first saw you at the theatre one
night. You were so much like my husband that I
concluded that you must be my son. I met you at
Sir Robert's. I became certain that you were my son.
We made inquiries. Please tell him, Sir Robert."
" These inquiries," said the doctor, " proved certain
things which were curious and interesting. I may
confess that they seemed to point in your direction.
This lady became too hastily convinced that they
did so. She is now as firmly convinced that they did
not."
Humphrey sighed deeply.
" It was an awkward case," Sir Robert went on —
" one that required tact."
" I gave a great deal of trouble " — Alice took up the
wondrous tale again.
"But it is all over now," the doctor added. "Do
not talk too much."
" Yes, all over. My bodily frame is weak, but my
mind is clear again. Now, Sir Humphrey, I wish you,
if you will be so kind, to go to Lady Woodroffe, and
tell her from me that the hallucination has passed
away, and give her my regrets that I disturbed her.
Sir Robert will perhaps go with you, to make the
explanation clearer, because he knows all the details."
" I will certainly call upon Lady Woodroffe this
evening," said the doctor. " Indeed, Sir Humphrey
is ignorant of certain facts connected with the case
Forgiveness. 343
which will probably incline Lady Woodroffe to forgive
and excuse the more readily."
"Will you do this, Sir Humphrey ?" asked Mrs.
Haveril.
" Yes, if that's all," he replied hoarsely. " Is that
all ? Was it, as you say, hallucination .'' Are you
quite certain ? "
The doctor felt his patient's pulse. " All hallucina-
tion," he replied. " Now, please finish this interview
as soon as you can."
" I want Sir Humphrey to give me his own forgive-
ness."
" If there were anything to forgive."
" Since there is nothing," said the doctor, sternly,
" you can even more readily go through the form."
" Well, if you wish it."
Humphrey held out his hand.
"Tell her, man," said the doctor, impatiently — "tell
her what she wants."
" Since you desire it " — Humphrey obeyed, coldly
and reluctantly — " I forgive you. Will that do ? "
Alice raised her head ; she pushed back her hair
with her left hand. Molly held her up. She gazed
upon her son's face ; it was cold and hard and pitiless.
She stooped over her son's hand ; it was cold and
hard, and seemed as pitiless as his face — there was
no warmth nor impression in the hand. She bent her
head and kissed it. Her tears fell upon it — her silent
tears. Humphrey withdrew his hand. He looked
round, as if asking what next.
Dick went to the door, and pointed to the stairs,
holding the door open.
344 The Changeling.
Alice lay back on the pillow. The doctor took her
wrist again.
" Doctor," she whispered, " I have never wholly lost
my boy till now."
Her eyes closed. Her cheek grew white.
The doctor laid down her hand. " Never," he said,
" till now."
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The Beckoning HAnd.
ThiDevil'gDie.
This Mortal Coll.
Tbe Tonte of She
Duuiare^q's Daughter.
UuchesH of Powyaland.
ulooJ Royal.
I. Greets Ma3teriiiJco.
The Suallywai;
At Market ValU3.
Under Sealed Orders
By M. A N I) lil-i SON.— Othello « Occupation
By EDWIN L. ARNOLD.
Phra the j-htenician. | Co'istable of St. Nkliolua
By ROBL.t^l BARR.
In a Steamer Chair. | A Woman Intervenes.
From Whose Bonnie. 1 };event;o !
By PRANK BARRETT.
The Woman of the Iron Bracelets.
The Harding Scandal. I A Missing Witness.
Under a Strange Mask |
By ' BELLE.' - Va.«htl and Esther.
By SirVV. BESANT and J. RICE.
KeadyMoneyMortiboy. 1 By Cella's Arbour
My Little Girl.
With Harp and Crown.
TbU Son of Vulcan.
The Golden Eutterlly.
The Monks of Xhelema
By Sir WALTER BESANT
All Sorts Cc Conditions. 1 The Holy Rose
Chaplain of tho Fleet.
The Seamy Side.
The Case of Mr. Lucraft.
In Trafalgar a Bay.
The Ten Years' Tenant.
The Captains' Room.
All in a Oarden Fair.
Dorothy Forster.
Uncle Jack.
World Went Well Then.
Children of Glbeon.
Herr Paulus.
For Faith and Freedom.
To Call Her Mine.
The Revolt of Man.
The Bell of St. Fanl's.
Armoref of Lyonesse.
S.Katherine's bv Tawer
Verbena Camellia, &c.
The Ivory Gate.
The Rebel Queen.
Beyond the Dreams of
Avarice.
The Master Craftsman.
The City of RefU2;e.
A Fountain Sealed.
The Charm.
By AMBROSE BiERCE— in Midst of Life.
By PAUL BOUROET.-A Living Lie.
By J. D. BRAYSHAW.— siumtillnoueties.
By H. A. BRYDEN.
An Exiled S<:ot.
By ROBERT BUCHANAN.
Shadow of the Sword. ] The New Abelard.
A Child of Nature. Matt. | Ea.helDone
God and the Man. Master of the Mine.
Martyrdom of Madeline The Heir of Liiine.
I.ove Me for Ever. 1 Woman and th'? Man.
Annan Water. K^d and White Heather.
Foxglove Manor. I Lady Kilpatrick.
ROB. BUCHANAN & HY, AlURRAY.
The Charlatan.
By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.
The King In Yellow.
By J. M. CHARPLE.— The Minor Chord.
By HALL CAINE.
Shadow of a Crime. | ])cf nisler. | Son of Ha^.^r.
by AUSTIN CLARE.— By Rise of River.
By ANNE COATES. — Eles Diary.
By MACLAREN COBBAN.
The Red Sultan. | Thu Burden 0/ Isabel.
Bv MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS.
Transmigration. 1 From Midnight to Mid-
Blacksmith & Schol.ar. night.
The Village Comedy. I You Play me False.
By VVILKIE COLLINS,
Armadale. I AfterDark
Ko Name. | Antonina
Basil. I Hide and Seek
The Dead Secret.
Queen of Hearts.
Uy MIscellaniei.
The Woman In White.
The Moonstone.
Man and Wife.
Poor Miss Finch.
Mi.'is or Mrs. ?
The New Ma"dalen.
The Frozen Deep.
The Two Destinies.
I Say No.'
Littlff Novels.
Tlie Evil Oeninii.
The Legacy 01 C i
A Rogue's Lil<'.
Blind I.ove.
COLQUHOUN.
Tno Law and the Lady
'I'lii! Haunted Hotel
The Fallen Leaves.
J*!zubers D.aughter.
The Black Robe.
Hcari and Science.
By M. .1
Every Inih a Soldie
By E.H.COOPER. -CcoUory H.-unilf^n
By V. C. COTES.-Two GT s nn •.. I-;..rije
By C. EGBERT CRAbDUCK.
His Vu..iishja Star.
By H. N. CRELLIN.
Romancos of the Old Seraglii>.
By MATT CR!M.
The AUvcntures of a Fair Reu.il.
By S. R. CROCKETT and others.
Tales of Oar Coast.
CROKER.
The Real LaJy Hl'da.
JTairied or Sin^ie V
'I'v.'fi Ms.sters.
In theKingdom of Ktrry
luter(erence.
A Third Person,
Beyond the Pale,
By B. M.
Diaiix Barrington.
Vi-opor Pride.
A Family Likeness.
Pretty Miss Neville.
A End of Passage.
•To Let.' I Mr. Jervis.
Village Tales.
By W. CYPLES.— Hearts of Gold.
By ALPHONSE DAUDET.
Tha Evangelist ; or, Tort salvaiion.
By H. COLEMAN DAVJDSON.
Mr. Sadler s Daughters.
By ERASMUS DAWSON.
The Fountain of Youth.
By J. DE MILLE.— A Castle in Spain.
By J. LEITH DERWENT.
Our Lady of Tears. | Circes Lovers.
Bv DICK DONOVAN.
Trackfd to Doom. I The Mystery of Jamaica
M.i.n from Manchester. 1 Terrace.
Tae Chronicles of Michael Danevitth.
The Records of Vincent Trill.
By RICHARD DOWLING.
Old Corcoran's Money.
By A. CONAN DOYLE
The Firm of Girdiestone.
By S. JEANNETTE DUNCAN.
A Danshter of To day. I Vemon s Aunt.
By A. EDVVARDES.— A Plaster Saint
By G. S. EDWARDS.-SnazeI!erP.rilIa.
By G. MANVILLE FENN
Commodore Junk,
The New Mistress.
WitneES to the Deed.
The Tiger Lily.
The 'White Virgin.
Black Blood.
Donble Cunning.
A Bap of Diamonds, &c,
A Fluttered Dovecote.
King of the Castle
Master of Ceremon:es.
Eve at the Wheel, ft.,-.
The Man vdth a Shadow
One Maid's Mis'hief
Storv of Antony Grace.
This Man's Wife.
In Jeopardy.
By PERCY FITZGERALD.-Fat.aI Zero.
By R. E. FRANCILLON.
Cue by One. I Ropes of Sand.
A Dog and his Shadow. .Tack Doyle s Daui'litcr
A Real Queen. |
By HAROLD FREDERIC.
Seth s Brother's Wife | The I awton Girl
By PAUL GAULOT.-The Red shirts.
By CHARLES GIBBON.
Robin Gray. | The Golden Shaft.
I ovine a Dream. The Braes of Yajrow.
Of UlfeUD'giee. |
53 CHAtTO & WINDUS, Publishers, nt St. Maftlii's Lanej Lcndon, W.C»
I The Golden Kock.
Tales from the V^ld.
Proti g -e of Jack
Hamlin s.
Clarence.
Barker s Luck.
Devil s Fora. [celsicr.'
The Cruaade ol the ' Ex-
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The Lost Heiress
A Fair Colonliit.
The Fossicker. i
By E. J. COODftlAN.
The Fate of Herbert Wayne
By Rev. S. BARING GOULD
Pved Spider. I Eve.
By CECIL GRIFFITH.
Corlnthia Marazion.
By SYDNEY GRUNDY.
The Days of his Vanity.
By OWEN HALL.
The Track of a Storm. | Jetsam.
By COSMO HAMILTON.
The Glamour of the Impossible.
By THOMAS HARDY.
Under the Greenwood Tree.
By BRET I1ARTE
A Waif of the Plains. " " "
A Ward of the Golden
Qate. (Springs.
A Sappho of Green
Col. Starbottle s Client.
Busy. I Sally Dowa.
UellRlnger of Angel's.
Tales of Trail and Town.
By JULIAN HAWTHORNE.
Garth. I Dust. i Beatrix Kaiidolph.
Ellice Quontln. David Polade/.ler sDia-
Sebastian Stroma. appearance.
Fortune 8 Fool. ' Spectre ot Camera.
By Sir A. HELPS.— Ivaude Biron.
By I. HENDERSON.— Agatha Page.
By Q. A. HENTY.
Kujub the Juggler. I The Queen s Cap.
Dorothy s Double. |
By JOHN HILL. The Common Ancestor.
By TIGHE HOPKINS.
Twixt Love and Duty. | Nugents of Carricor.na.
For Freedom. I The Incomplete AdveuiuicT
Incomplete Adveoturer.
By Mrs. HUNQERFORD.
Lady Verner's Flight. I Nora Cieina
The Red House Mystery An Anxious Moment.
The Three Graces. April s Lady.
Professor s Experiment. Peters Wire.
A Point of Conscience. Lovice.
Tlie Coming of CUloe.
By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT.
The Leaden Casket. | Soli Condemned.
That Other Person. I Mrs. Juliet.
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Honour of Thieves.
By R. ASHE KING.
A Drawn Game.
By GEORGE LAMBERT.
The President of Boravla.
By EDMOND LEPELLETIER.
Madame Sans Gene.
By ADAM LILBURN.
A Tragedy In Marble.
By HARRY LINDSAY.
Rhoda Roberts.
By HENRY W. LUCY.-Gldeon Flevce.
By E. LYNN LINTON.
Patricia Kemball
Viider which Lord?
' My Love I ' | lone.
Paston Carew.
Bowing the Wind
The Atonement of Leam
Dundas.
The World Well Lost.
The One Too Many.
Dulcie Evertau
With a Silken Thread.
By JUSTIN MCCARTHY
A Fair Saxon,
Uul»y Roehford.
Dear Lady Disdain.
Camiola
Waterdale Neighbours.
My Enemy s Daughter.
Muui Mlsiuthropo.
Donna Quixote.
Maid of Athens.
The Comet of a Season.
The Dictator.
Red Diamonds.
The Riddle Ein,r.
The Three Di.igracez.
By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY.
A London Legend. | The Royal Christopher.
By GEORGE MACDONALD.
Heather and Snow. i Phantasies.
By PAUL & VICTOR MARGUERITTG
The Disaster
By L. T. MEADE.
A Soldier of Fortune, j The Voice of th»
la an Iron Grip. Charmer.
Dr. Ru nsey's Patient. |
By LEONARD MERRICK.
This Stage of Fools. | Cynthia.
By BERTRAM MITFORD
The Oun Runner. I The King s Assejai.
LuckofGerardRldgeley. | Rensh. Fanning sQuest.
By J. E. MUDDOCK.
Maid Marian and Robin Hood.
Basile the Jester. I Young Lochlnvar.
By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.
The Way of the World.
BobMartin B Little Girl.
Time s Revenues.
A Wasted Crime.
In Direst Peril.
Mount Despair.
A Capful o Nails
Tales in Prose &. Vers;,
A Race for Milliuiis.
I This Little World.
A Life's Atonement,
Joseph's Coat.
Coals of Fire.
Old Blazer 8 Hero.
Val Strange. | Hearts.
A Model Father.
By the Gate of the Sea
A Bit of Human Nature
First Person Singular.
Cynic Fortune.
By MURRAY and HERrtlAN
The Bishops' Bible. I Paul Jones a Alias,
One Traveller Returns. |
By HUME NISBET.
■ Ball Up I '
By W. E. NORRIS.
Saint Ann s. | Billy Bellew.
By G. OHNET.
A Weird Gift.
By Mrs. OLIPHANT.
The Sorceress.
By OUIDA.
Held In Bondage. , In a Winter City.
Strathmore. I Chandos. ' Friendship
Under Two Flags.
Idalia. iGago.
Cecil Castlemaine s
Tricotrlu. | Puck.
Folle Farine.
A Dog of Flanders.
Pascarel. | Sljjn.a.
Princess Napraxine.
Two Wooden Shoes.
Moths. I Rnffintt.
Pipistrello | Ariiidna.
A Vill.ige ComiunUB.
Blmbi. I V/ai.d<i.
Frescoes. | Othmar.
In Maremma,
Syrlm, I (Jiiilderoy,
Santa Barbara.
Two Offends
Glo'jv worm Taes
The Talk of the Town.
Holiday T.asks.
For Cash Only.
The Burnt Million.
The Word and the Will.
Sanny Stories
A Trying Patient.
A Modern Dljk Wait-
tington.
By MARGARET A. PAUL.
Gentle and Simple.
By JAMES PAYN.
Lost Sir Massingbcrd. Under One Roof.
Less Black than We're
Painted.
A Confidential Agent.
A Grape from a Thorn.
In Peril and Privation.
The Mystery of Mir-
By Proxy. [bridge.
The Canon's Ward.
Walter s Word.
High Spirits.
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Jerry the Dreamer.
By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED.
Outlaw and Lawmaker. I Mrs. Tregaskiss.
Christina Chard. | Nulma.
By E. C. PRICE.
Valentlna. | Foreigners. I Mrs. Lancaster's Rival
By RICHARD PRYCE.
Miss Maxwell s Attections.
By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL.
Weird Stories.
By AMELIE RIVES.
Barbara Dermg. | Mericl.
By F. W. ROBINSON.
The Hands of Justice. I Woman in the Dark.
By HERBERT RUSSELL.
True Blue.
CHAtto A W'SNDL'S, I^ublislierg. ii i St. Alaftiri's Lane, LonJori. VV.G; iq
The Piccadilly (^/6> NovKi.s—co/iiiiiMrr/.
By CHARLES RCADE
Peg WolBiigton ; and
Christie Johnstone.
Hard Cash.
Cloister <S tho Hearth.
Never Too Late to Mend
I'Be Couris of True
l.ove Never Did Run
Smooth ; ;inri Single-
heart andDouble face.
Autobiography of a
Thkf; Juck of all
Trados ; A Hero and
a Martyr ; .ml Tho
Wandering Heir.
OrlSlth Gaunt.
By W. CLARK RUSSKLI
Round th.? Galley Fire. My Shipmat? louise
Love Me Little, Love
Me Lon;.
Tlie Donbie Marriage.
Foal P).iv.
Put Yourself in His
Place.
A Terrible Temptation.
A Simpleton.
A Woman Hater.
The Jilt. >V..ih.-r;;tori.-<;:
.V Good Stories of Man
and other Animals.
A Perilous Secret.
r.eadian.T. ; and Bible
Ciiaracceri.
Alone on WideWide Sea.
The Phantom Death.
la He the Man 7
Good Shlo Mohock.'
The Cunvlot Ship,
lit art of Oak.
The Tale oi tee Ten.
tie Last Entry.
In the Middle Watch
On the Fo k -Ic Head.
A Voyage to the Cape.
Book for the Hauimuck
Mysieryof Oceau Star
The Unmance of Jenny
Harlowe.
An Ocean Tragedy.
By DORA RUSSELL.
A Country bweetheait. | The Drift of Fate.
By BAYLE ST. JOHN.
A Levantine Family.
By ADELINE SERGEANT.
Dr. Endicott s Experiment.
By GEORGE R. SIMS.
Once Upon a Christmas Time.
By HAWLEY SMART.
Without Love or Licence. I The Outsider.
The Master of Kathkelly. Beatrice & Benedick
Long Odds. I A Racing Kubber.
By T. W. SPEIGHT.
A Minion of the Moon.
The Secret of Wyvern
Towers.
A Secret of tho Sea.
The Grey Mjnk.
The Master of Trenance
The Doom of Siva.
By ALAN ST. AUBYN.
A Fellow of Trinity. i In Face of the World.
The Junior Dean. I Orchard Damercl.
Master of St. Benedict's, i The Tremle It Diamonds,
To his Own Master. Fortune's Gate.
By JOHN STAFFORD.-Dorisandl.
By RICCARDO STEPHENS.
The Ci-ui iform Mark.
By R. A. STERNDALE.
The Afghan Knife.
By R. LOUIS STEVENSON.
The Suicide Club.
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Proud Maisie. i The ViolinPlaver.
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
The Way wo Live Now. I Scarborough s Family.
Trau Frohmann. I The Land Leasuers
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Like Ships upon the I Anne Fornesa.
Sea. I Mabels Progress.
By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c.
Stories from Foreign Novelists.
By MARK TWAIN.
Mark Twain* Choice Tom Saw.cr, Detective.
Works. PuJdnhead Wilaju.
Mark Twain s Library , The Gilded Ag^.
of Humour. , Prince and tiie Paiircr.
The Innocents Abroad. ' Life on the Mie»iMii)|.l.
Roughing It ; .md The i The Advcntureu of
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A Tramp Abroad. A Yankee at the Court
TheAmerltan Claimant. ' of Kinc Arthur.
AdventurosTomSawyer Stolen Wiiite Elephant.
Tom Sawyer Abroad. £l.CCO.0;iO B nk note.
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Mistress Judith.
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Buried Diamonds. | Mrs Cirniichael's Oti,d-
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The WitohWifc. 1 bapphira
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Joan, the Curate.
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The Einres.5 Messenger.
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Her Two Millions. | A Queer Face.
Two Finches of Pnuff. | Ben Cough.
The Old Factory.
Red Kyvington
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Trust-i' oney
Bous cf Beual.
Rov of Roy s Court.
Nigel Foitescns.
Bir.;h Dene.
The Blind Musician,
Strange dimes
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The Shadow of Hilton FeraLrook.
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An E.tsy-eoin? FeUow.
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Cavalry Life and Regimental Legends.
A Soldir,r s Cliildren.
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My Flu tations.
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The Fortune of the Rongons.
The Abbe Moureta Transsrcssion
Downfall.
The Dream.
Dr. P.ascal.
Monev.
Loui'des.
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The Fat and the Thin.
His Excellency.
Ttie Dram-Shop.
Rome. I Parij.
Fruitfulneas.
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Shadow of the Sword
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Love Me for Ever.
Foxglove Manor.
The Master of the Mine
Annan Water.
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For the Love of a Lass.
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Paul FerroU.
Why Paul FerroU Klllei his Wife.
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The Cure of Souls. | The Red Sultan.
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The Bar Sinister.
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Sweet Anne Page.
Transmigration.
From Midnight to Mid
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A Fight with Fortune.
Sweet and Twenty.
The Village Comedy.
You Play me False.
Blacksmith and Scholar
Frances.
By VVILKIE COLLINS.
Armadale. | AfterDark.
No Name.
Antonina.
Baail.
Hide and Seek.
The Dead Secret.
Queen of Hearts.
Miss or Mrs. ?
The New Magdalen.
The Frozen Deep.
The L aw and the Lady
The Two Destinies.
The Haunted Hotel.
A Kogne's Life.
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Every Inch a Soldier.
By DU1T0N COOK.
Ito, I Paul Foster E Daughter.
My Misccllaules.
The Woman in White.
The Moonstone.
Man and Wife.
Poor Miss Finch.
I'he Fallen Leaves.
Jezebel's Daughter.
The Black Robe,
Heart and Science.
• I Say No I '
The Evil Genius.
Little Novels.
Legacy of Cain.
Blind Love.
By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK.
The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains.
By MATT CRIM.
The Adventure's of a Fair Rebel.
By B. 1\\. CROKER.
■Village Talcs and Jungle
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Two Masters.
Mr. Jervis.
The Ileal Lidy Hilda.
Mr.rrjod or 'single '?
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CYPLES.
Pretty Miss Mevlllc.
Diana Barrington.
"lo Let.'
A Bird of Passage,
proper Pride
A Family Likeness.
A Third Periiou.
By W.
Hearts of Gold.
By ALPHONSE DAUDET.
The Evangelist; or, I'ori halvniiun.
By ERASMUS DAWSON.
The Fountain of Youth.
By JAMES DE MILLE.
A C.a.stle in Spain.
By J. LEITH DERWENT.
Our Lady of Tears. | Circe s Lovers.
By DICK DONOVAN.
In t'jc Crrip of the Law.
From Iniormaticn iie-
ceived,
TracKed to Doom.
Link by Link
Suspicion Aroused.
Dari Deeds,
ruddles Read.
The Mar.-Hunter,
Tracked and Taken.
Caught at Last I
Wanted!
Who Poisoned Hetty
Uttnoau 7
Man irom Manchester.
A Detective's Triumphs
The Mystery of Jamaica Tj:
The Chronicles of Michael Eane\itch.
By Mrs. ANNiE EDWARDES.
A Point of Honour. | Archie Lovell.
By M. BETHAM-EDWARDS.
Felicia. I Kitty.
By EDWARD EaciLOSTON.
Roiy.
By Q. MANVILLE FENN.
The New Mistress. I The Tiger Lily.
Witness to the Deed. | The White 'Virgui.
By PERCY FITZGERALD.
Bella Donna. I Second Mrs. Tllialson.
Never Forgotten. Seventy -live Biooka
Polly. Street.
Fatal Zero. | The Lady of Er.%utomo
By P. FITZGERALD and otiiers.
Strange Secrets.
By ALBANY DE FONCLANQUE.
Filthy Lucre.
By R. E. FRANCILLON.
Olympia. j ICin; or Knave?
Cue by One. Komautes of the Law.
A Real Queen. 1 Rcp^sof Sand.
Queen Cophetua. I ADngsndhi^ Shadair.
By HAROLD FREDERIC.
Seth 3 Brother's Wife. | Tho Lawton Girl.
Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE.
Fandurang Eari.
By EDWARD GARRETT.
The Capel Girls.
By GILBERT GAUL.
A Strange Manuscript.
By CHARLES GIBBON.
Robin Gray. In Honour Bound.
F'lncy Free. | Flower oi' the Forest.
For Lack of Gold. The Braes cf Ya.-i c.w.
What will World Say 7 The Goldi.-u £:iia.t
In Love and War.
For the King.
In Pastures Green.
Queen of the Meadow.
A Heart's Problem.
The Dead Heart.
By WILllAAl GILBiSRT
Dr. Austin's Guests. I The Wr/ard oi
James Duke. | Mountan;
By ERNEST GLANVILLE.
The Lost Heiress. I The Fo>;ai< I'.tr.
A Fair Colonist. 1
Oi Hr.'h Degree.
By Me.\d anil Slrcim.
Loving a Dream.
A Hard Knot.
Heart's lie ight.
Eluod-Money.
CHATTO & WINOUS, P»blLsher5. Jt, St. Martin's Lane. London, W.C.
Two-SiiiLLiNG Novels— contuuifit.
By Rev. S. EARING GOULD,
Ked Spider. | Zva.
By HENRY ORCViLLi;.
A Noble Woman. | llikaiior.
By CliClL ORIFirri!.
Corlnthia Maraziou.
By SYDNEY QRUNDY.
The Days oi' Ma Vanity.
By JOHN HABBfiRTON.
Brueton s Bayou. | Counfriy l.uuk.
By ANDREW HALLIDAY.
Everyday PaptiiM.
By THOMAS HARDY.
Cnder the Greenwood Tree.
By JULIAN HAWTilORNE.
Garth.
EUice Quentin.
I'ortune s Fool.
Miss Cadof^na.
Sebastian Strome
Uust.
By Sir ARTHUR fSi.LFS.
Ivan de Birou.
fJy G. A. HENTY.
Rujiil) th2 Juggler.
by liJuNRY HERMAN.
A Leading Lady.
By HEADON HH^L.
Zamljra the DotectJvo.
By JOHN HILL.
Treason Felony.
By Mrs. CASMEL IIOEY.
The Lover s Creed,
By Mrs. GEORGE HOOPER.
The House of Rahy.
By Mrs. HUNGERFORO.
31
Beatrix ;i;i.riai)lph.
Love— or ■•' jSarn.s,
DavidPondcxuuj Dls-
appeariiiii
Camo
tho
A Maiden all Forloru
In Durance Vile.
Marvel.
A Mental Struijgle.
A Modern Circe.
Aprils Lady.
Peters Wife.
Bv Mr
Lady Verno.i '., Flipht
TheJled-Hor.S' IH">:(cry
The Three Gra.e,*.
Unsatisfactory i.o^ er.
Lady Patty.
Nora Creiiia.
Profes3or'.i Experiment.
ALFRED HUNT.
Thoi-nicroffs Model. I Self Condemned
That Other person. | The Le.xden CasUet
By ^V^\. JAMESON.
My Dead Self.
By HARRIETT JAY.
The Dark Colleen. | Queen of Coanausht
By MARK KERSHAW.
Colonial Facts aad Fictions.
By R. ASHE KING.
A Drawn Game. | Passion s .alave
' TMe Wearing of the Bell Bairy.
Ur.'.en.' |
By EDMONO LEPELLETICR.
LI vuaiiie Sans Gene.
By JOHN LEYS.
Tho Lindsays.
"■y E. LYNN LINTON.
Patricia Kemball
Tho V/or!d Well Lost.
1 Oder which Lord?
Paaton Carew.
' ?-Iy Love I '
lone.
With a Silken Thread
Ry HENRY W. LUCY.
Gideon Fleyce.
By JUSTIN McCarthy
Dear Lady Disdain. Iloiir,,-!, Qirxote
Waterdale fleiihbonrs. Maid of Athens
Mr Enomys Eaiighter
A Fair oa.-ion.
Linley Eochford.
Miss Misanthrope
Camiola.
By HUGH MACCOLL.
Mr. Strangers Sealed Packet.
The AtoneL'itnt of Leam
Duuda.i.
Rebel of the Family.
Sowing the Wind.
Thi" One Too Many.
Dulcie Everton.
I Tho Comet of a Season.
! Tile Dictator.
I Red Diani'iuds.
The Eiddle FJug.
By GEORGE MACDONALD.
Heather and Snow.
„ , By AONE.S MAC DON ELL.
. Quaker Cousins.
n.v'^5' KATHARINE S. MACQUOID.
The Evil Eye, | Lo.it J.oto.
By VV. H. MALLOCK.
A Romance of the Nine- I The New Kepubllc.
teenth Centnry. |
By J. MASTERMAN.
Hauadozcn Dauf^hlerK
By BRANUER MATTHEWS.
A Secret of the Sea
^^y '- r- MEADE.
A Soldier of Fortune
n-u ,.^y 'I^ONARD MERRICK.
The Man who was Good
,^ , By JEAN MIDDLEiMASS.
rouch a!id Go. | Mr liorillifi
By Mrs. MOLESWORTH.
Hathercourt Rectory.
By J. E. MUDDOCK.
Stones Weird and Won- I From the Boaom of the
derlul. Deep.
The Dead Man s Secret. I
By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.
A BitoflluroHn Nature.
First Person Kini;u)ir
BobMaitJn sliltleOiil.
Time s Revenges.
A Wasted Crime.
In Direct Peril.
Mount Des)air.
A Capful o Nai.'a
A Model Father.
•loscph s Coat.
Coals of Fire.
Val Strange. | Hearts.
Old Blazer s Hero.
The V/ay of the World
Cynic Fortune.
A Life 3 Atonement.
By the Gate of tho Sea.
By MURRAY and HERAIAN.
One rraveller E,eturn3. I The Bishops Bible
Paul Jones s Alias. |
By HENRY MURRAY.
A Game of Blutf. | A Sora of Sixpence
By HUME NISBET.
•Bail Up I ■ „ 1 nr.Bornard St. Vincent.
By W. E. NORRI5.
Saint Ann's. | Billy KeJlow
By ALICE OHANLON.
The Unforeseen. | Chance V or F.ite 7
By GEORGES OHNET.
Dr. Rameau. I A Weird yift.
A Last Love. |
By Mrs. OLIPHANT.
Whiteladies. I The Greatest Ho-ress in
The Primrose Path. | England.
By Mrs. ROBERT O'REILLY.
Phoebe s Fortunes.
By OUIDA.
Held in Bondage
Strathmore.
Chandos.
Idalia.
Under Two Flars.
Cecil Castlemaitu jGage
Tricotrin.
Puck.
Folia Farirp.
A Dog of Flanders.
Pascarel.
Signa.
Princess Napraxine.
In a Winter City.
Ariadne.
Friendship.
By MARGARET AGNES PAUL
Gentle and Pimpie.
Bv EDGAR A. POL".
The Mystery of M.arie ('..j-.-et.
By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED.
The Romance of a Station.
The Soul of Countess Adrian.
Outlaw and Lawmaker I Mis. Trc-f skisa
Christina Chard. I
Two Lit. Wooden Shoen
Moths.
Bimbi.
Piptstrello.
A Vill.ago Coinraune.
Wanda.
(Jthm.nr
Frescoes.
In Marenima.
Guilderoy.
Ruffiuo.
Syrlin.
Santa Bnrh.ara.
Two Offenders.
Oaida'g Wiodooi, Wit
and Pathos.
rentinckB Tutor.
Muvphys Master.
A Cotmtv Pamily.
At Her Mercy.
Cecils Tryst.
The Clyffarda of Clyffe
TUe roster Brothers.
Found Dead.
TUe Best of Husbands.
Walter s Word.
Halves.
FaUen Fortunes.
Humorous St.orie3.
JC'ZOO Kcward.
A Marino Residence.
Mirk Abbey
By Froxy.
Under One Roof.
High Spirits.
Carlvon 5 Year.
From Exile.
For Cash Only.
Kit- . rr.vrt
The Canon » Ward.
Thd Talk of the Town.
Holiday T.^sUs.
A Perfect Treasure.
What He Coiit Her.
A Confidential Agent.
Glow worm Xalci.
The Burnt Million.
Sunny Stories.
Lost Sir Massingberd.
A Woman's Vengeance.
The Family Sc^'^pet-rac*.
Gwendolines Harvest.
Like Father, Like Son.
Married Beneath 11 im.
Not Wooed, but Won.
Less Black than ViTo ro
Fainted.
Seme Fru'ate Views.
A Grape from a ihoii
The Mystery ot Mi--
The' word and the Wm.
A Prince of tr.e Blood.
A Trying Patient.
^^'^^^- T h„=tr,ne The Wanderms Heir,
Christie Johnstone. r,;t,j r ,=h
J^ru. Little, I^cve Go^dStorlesofKanand
Me Lone. . ,, p.,, woffington
The Cloister and the Pe^^vv^ ^^^^^
Hearth. ^ perilous Secret.
The Course of ^r"* ^ gj^pieton.
Love- Keadiana.
iS^ AuUlography cf| A Woman Hater
Weird Stories. ^.j^^ Mvslery in i'al •■ '
^r^;?^i^BT,;^^s curse.
Xlie Prince 0 wales B, i ^^^^^^
Garden f-ty;^^^ELlB RIVUS.
Barbara Benns, ROBINSON.
women ar'^^Strange. I The Woman m the Park
The Hands of J-istice I jj^^lMAN. ,
.,.i.ners1^ndihe'^^ac^.s.'Tic;hools and Scholars,
Kound'?^<^H/^^Voce-Ti..edy
By HAWLEY SMART.
Without Lo{e or Licence. 1 The Pmn^er.
Beatrice and Benedick. Long Odds.
The Master of EathkeUy. I
By T. W. SPEIGHT.
The Mysteries of Heron ^ F:^fLoud''wat.rTragedy.
^y'^^;, -.T „- -Ruruos liomance.
The Golden Hoop. | Zrttance in Full. ^
Hoodwinked. , ^ jj^gband from the Soa
By Devious way. I A^^^p^^^
A Fenow^^^Tility. , 0-rrVccTf\h'worM.
l^l^ToTsSeiM-s The Tremlett Dlar.->o.d3.
ToUi.Ow^n^M^ster^_ sVeRNDALE.
^"Tr""oU'S STEVENSON.
New Arabian Kignts. ^,.^., . c
By BERTHA THOMAS.
.,, -^ 1 The VioUnPlayer.
Cressida.
'""BrWALTER THORNBVJRV.
TalesVo^r t^ Marines. I Old Stories Ketol 1
By T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPb.
Diamond CutDiamond.^^ TROLLOPE.
Like^W uPO-the|AnnoFurne-^^
^"""rv ANTHONY TROLLOPB.
■PX. „i„ 1 The LandLeaguers.
Frau Frohmaan. in« American Senator.
ManonF.ay. Scarborough's
Kept in the DarK. Vami'T
John Caldigate ooldenLionof Granpere
■''"^''"liy J T TROWBRIDQE.
rarneu^touy^^ TURQENIEFF. &c.
s*-^-^"V;'?;Srk"twain.
«•', tKa t.Kr on the
Life on the Uississiprl-
The Prince and the
A Yankee at the Court
of King Arthur.
The £l,0au.000 B.xnk-
Note.
An uceau ii^tj — '■
Mv Shipmate Louise.
Alone oUideWid-bea.
Good Ship • Mohock.
The Phantom Dcai.u.
Is He the Man ?
On the Fo k sle Head
?,^he Middle Watch
A 'Voyage to the l-a^e-
^ Book for the Ham ^^ ^^^ _
mock. , ty^ \ Heart of Oak.
The Mystery, of ^he Hea ^^^._^^j.._
■ ocean Stai. i,. ,j j^ ,jj the Ten.
T-r.e Komance of Jenny The la^e ^^^^^_^
Harlowe.^^ DORA RUSSELL.
^«^ORGE AUGUSTUS SALA
Gaslight ^ndDayl-nt.Q^ R. SIMS.
Tb» aing o Bells.
Mary .lanes Memoirs.
Mary Jane 'Marned.
TaiPS of To d.ay.
Iirciroas of Lu«-
Tinkletop s Crime.
^'' 'Iw ARTHUR SKETCHLEV
AKaCchinlheD.rl-
Memoirs of a Landlady.
Scenes from the bhow.
The 10 Conmandmants.
Da?onct Abroad.
Ko^aes and Vagabonds.
A Pleasure Trip on the
Continent.
The Gilded Age.
Huckleberry Finn.
MarkTwain s Sketches.
Tom Sawyer.
A Trarnp Abroad.
=*°'^ljrc!c.'FRASER=TYTLER.
Mistress Judith jyTLER.
By bAKAii • "jj c„otF.>ml'y,
The Bride s Pass^ TKe BiacUhall Ghosts,
liuned Diamonds. ^^fsheCameThrough
St. Munso 3 City. w^^^^^ ^^^ t^e B5«t-
Lady »<?"•„„ Citoyenne Jaqueline.
Noblesse Oblige. | viwj.
Disappeared^ UPWARD. ^
'^y . Vn.!r„n I Pilnceof Bilkistan.
The Queen against Owen I innceo
-Cod Save the Queen ! . , , , . c
R^ AARON WATSON and LiLLlAS
By AAROr^^ vv_^j^^j^^^j^[^
■''''''Z\v\uaaIx westall.
''''tfllls. F. H. WILLIAMSON.
A Child Widow. ^jp^TP^R.
, ^.^y •'• ^' I ReJ mental Lescnds.
cavalry Life. ^ ^i ^
T,.^ P-sspnr-ei- from Scotland Yard.
By £ELtA PARKBR WOOLL A
KacLl Armstrong-, or. 1^'''"=,^ '' 'p's;
Bv EDMUND YATES.
TheFnrlonrKore. jCastawaj.
LandatLast^^j_ ZANG\V!LL.
Ghetto TrnKfSifs.
OGDKN, SMALt AND FLlli, i-
14 DAY USE
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