Walter Besant

When we are waiting for the call to do something—to say something—of cardinal importance; something 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 something; then the very air round us is charged with the uncertainty of the time. Even the hall and the staircase of the HÔtel MÉtropole, 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 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 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 remember our present position, and what we owe to ourselves. Think of that. There are three of us concerned."

"Oh!" cried Molly. "Then you own it at last!"

"First, there is Lady Woodroffe. 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 forgiveness with me."

"Oh, Sir Robert!" said Molly. "She will forgive you too, if you restore her son."

"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 'substitution,' I held my tongue until proofs had been discovered 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 delightful 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 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 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 produced 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 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 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."

"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 Woodroffe—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 produce 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, 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 composition."

"I have heard him sing a song of his own composition," 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, furniture——"

"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 qualities—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 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 Woodroffe four and twenty years ago. Next, consider 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?—you suddenly rob him of all these possessions. You give him for a father, a worthless 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 unworthy—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 discovery. 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."

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 streaming 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. 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. Humphrey 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."