The Changeling

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 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 practitioner in a poor quarter of Birmingham – you asked me if I could procure a child for adoption. I understood 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 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 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 me 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."

"His mother was, I remember, tenacious, honest, and careful."

"The boy is obstinate and ill-conditioned."

"Her qualities in excess. His father was handsome, selfish, and unprincipled."

"The boy is also handsome, selfish, and unprincipled."

"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 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?"

"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 undistinguished, 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."

"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 Woodroffe. 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 eyes 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 wealth 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 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 philanthropist 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 satisfying, 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. 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-rolling!" The city magnate, reading 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 understood 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, concealment for life, flight, ruin, cruel misrepresentation, even open trial, conviction, sentence, and imprisonment 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, tenderness, pity, sympathy, belong to the success which ought to have made John Haveril happy.

The fortunate possessor of thirteen millions – 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 splendour 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 glittering 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 circumstances, 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 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?"

"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 monumental and their jackets deplorable: the ladies, both old and young, while waiting below, sniffed when they looked around them. They sniffed, and they whispered half aloud, "Shameful, my dear! and she only just come home!" – deploring the motives which led the others, not themselves, to this universal consent. The men, for their part, seemed more ashamed of themselves than of their neighbours. Their appearance betokened the small clerk or the retail tradesman. 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.

He stepped across the room, and held out his hand. "Cousin Alice," he said softly, even sadly, as thinking 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. "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!"

"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 difference 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.

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."

"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 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!" 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.

"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 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 respectability – 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 prolonged health and your perpetual happiness. We are proud of you, Mr. Haveril. The world is proud of you."