The Changeling. Walter Besant

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."

      "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 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?"

      "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 neighbourhood," 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 inexperienced in the feminine heart.

      About six o'clock that evening the lady who had 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. "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 the ardour of a young lover; he turned her face to the light.

      "Lilias!" 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