confined as yet to very few in South Wennock. He had casually heard such people were living in Tupper’s cottage, but he supposed them to be entire strangers.
The boy was in bed up-stairs, and Mrs. Smith was putting her house to rights, for she had sent the girl for some milk. She had not expected the doctor so early. He passed quickly up the stairs; he had not a minute to lose, leaving her to follow. The little fellow, in his restlessness, had got one arm out of his nightgown sleeve, leaving it exposed. Sir Stephen’s attention was caught by a mark on the arm, underneath the shoulder. He looked at it attentively; it was a very peculiar mark, a sort of mole, almost black, and as large as a speckled bean. He was talking to the child when Mrs. Smith came up.
“Is there any hope, sir?” she whispered, after Sir Stephen had examined the child and was preparing to go down.
“Not the least. He won’t be here long.”
Mrs. Smith paused. “At any rate, you tell it me plump enough, sir,” she said presently, in a resentful tone. “There’s not much soothing in that to a mother’s feelings.”
“Why should I not tell it you?” rejoined Sir Stephen. “You said you wished for my candid opinion, and I gave it. You are not his mother.”
“Not his mother!” she echoed.
“That you are not. That child’s one of mine.”
“Whatever do you mean?” she exclaimed in astonishment.
“I mean that I brought that child into the world. Look here,” he added, retracing his steps to the bed, and pulling aside the night gown to show the mark. “I know the child by that, and could swear to him among a thousand.”
She made no reply. They descended to the kitchen, where Frederick was waiting. Sir Stephen talked as he went down.
“The mother of that child was the unfortunate lady who died at the Widow Gould’s in Palace Street some years ago: Mrs. Crane. I have cause to remember it, if nobody else has.”
The widow fixed her eyes on Sir Stephen. “I asked Mrs. Pepperfly—who was the attendant nurse upon that lady—whether the infant was born with any mark upon it, and she told me it had none.”
“I don’t care what Mrs. Pepperfly told you,” returned Sir Stephen. “She may have forgotten the mark, or may possibly not have seen it at the time, for her faculties of perception are sometimes obscured by gin. I tell you that it is the same child.”
Frederick Grey was listening with all his ears, in doubt whether he might believe them. He scarcely understood. Mrs. Smith gave in the point: at least so far as that she did not dispute it further.
“You are the gentleman, sir, who attended that lady? Mr.—Mr.———"
“Mr. Stephen Grey, then: Sir Stephen, now. I am; and I am he against whom was brought the accusation of having carelessly mixed poison with her draught.”
“And you did not do it?” she whispered.
“I! My good woman, what you may be to that dead lady, I know not; but you may put perfect faith in this, that I tell you. Over her poor corpse, and in the presence of her Maker and mine, I took an oath that the draught went out of my hands a proper and wholesome mixture, that no poison was impregnated with it: and I again swear it to you now, within shadow of her dying child.”
“Who did do it?” continued the woman, catching up her breath.
“Nay, I know not,” replied Sir Stephen, as he wrote a prescription with his pencil, ink not being at hand. “Smith! Smith!” he repeated to himself, the name, in connection with the past, striking upon his memory. “You must be the Mrs. Smith who came to take away the child!”
Possibly Mrs. Smith saw no further use in denying it; possibly she no longer cared to do so. “And what if I am, sir?”
“What if you are!” echoed Sir Stephen, sitting down on one of the wooden chairs, and regarding her in his astonishment. “Why, my good woman, do you know that pretty nearly the whole world was searched to find you? Nobody connected with the affair was wanted so much as you were.”
“What for?”
“To give what testimony you could; to throw some light upon the mystery; to declare who and what the young lady was,” reiterated Sir Stephen, speaking very fast.
“But if I couldn’t?” rejoined Mrs. Smith.
“But I don’t suppose you couldn’t. I expect you could.”
“Then, sir, you expect wrong. I declare to Goodness that I know no more who the lady was—that is, what her family was or what her connections wore—than that baby up-stairs knows. I have come down to South Wennock now to find out; and I never knew that Mrs. Crane was dead until after I got here.”
Sir Stephen Grey was surprised. Frederick, who was leaning his elbow on the back of a high chair, carelessly played with his watchchain.
“Where’s her husband?” asked Sir Stephen.