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 decided 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 secretaries; her letters lay piled on the table. She herself paced the room in an agony.

"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 without 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. How can I bear the disclosure? The papers will ring with it."

"I hope there will be no disclosure. Believe me, Lady Woodroffe, 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. All 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 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 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, 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 comforting, 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."

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."

"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 outsiders 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 miserable. 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 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."