Page:Once a Week Jun to Dec 1864.pdf/289

 274 “Sir, it’s just what I should like to know. I have never heard of him since I took the baby from South Wennock.”

“But you must know in a measure who she was! You could not have come down, as you did, to take the child from an utter stranger.”

Mrs. Smith was silent. “I knew her because she lodged at my house,” she said at length. “I don’t know why I may not say it.”

“And her husband? Was he lodging with you also?”

“No. Only herself. Sir, I declare upon my sacred word that I don’t know who she really was, or who her husband, Mr. Crane, was. It’s partly because I didn’t want to be bothered with people asking me things I was unable to answer, that I have kept myself quiet here, saying nothing about its being the same child.”

“And you did not know she was dead?”

“I did not know she was dead. I have been living with the child in Scotland, where my husband was in a manufactory; and times upon times have we wondered what had become of Mrs. Crane, that she did not come for her child. We thought she must have gone to America with her husband. There was some talk of it.”

“And you know nothing about the death?—or the circumstances attending it?” reiterated Sir Stephen.

“I know nothing whatever about it,” was the reply, spoken emphatically. “Except what has been told to me since I came here this time. Mrs. Crane lodged with me in London, and left me to come to South Wennock. I got a note a day or two afterwards, saying her baby was born, and asking me to come and fetch it. It had been arranged that I should have the nursing of it. That’s all I know.”

“Do you know why she came to South Wennock?”

“To meet her husband. But there seemed to be some mystery connected with him, and she was not very communicative to me.”

It seemed that this was all Mrs. Smith knew. At least it was all she would say; and it threw little if any more light upon the past than Sir Stephen had known before. He quitted her with a recommendation to tell what she knew to the police.

“I dare say I shall,” she said. “But I must take my own time over it. I have my reasons. It won’t be my fault, sir, if the thing is not brought to light.”

Sir Stephen was half way down the garden with his son, when Mrs. Smith came running after him, asking him to stop.

“Sir, you have forgotten: you have not taken your fee.”

“I don’t take fees in South Wennock,” he smiled. “Follow my direction, and you may give the child a little ease, but nothing can save him.”

In going out at the gate they met Mr. Carlton, who was abroad early with his patients. What on earth had brought them there? was the question in his eyes, if not on his lips.

“You have been to see my patient!” he exclaimed aloud, in no conciliating tone.

“Is it your patient?” cried Sir Stephen. “I declare I thought it was Lycett’s, and I had no time to ask extraneous particulars. I have recommended a little change in the treatment and left a prescription: just to give ease; nothing else can be done.”

He spoke in the carelessly authoritative manner of a first-class physician; he meant no offence, nor dreamt of any; but it grated on the ear of Mr. Carlton.

“What brought you here at all,” he asked, really wondering what could have brought Sir Stephen to that particular place.

“Mrs. Smith sent for me,” said Sir Stephen. “I suppose you know what child it is?”

“What child it is?” repeated the surgeon, after an almost imperceptible pause. “It won’t be long here; I know that much, in spite of physician’s prescriptions.”

“It is the child of that lady who died in Palace Street, where I attended for you. She who was killed by the prussic acid.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Carlton.

“There’s no nonsense about it,” rejoined Sir Stephen. “Mrs. Smith thought to persuade me I was wrong, but I convinced her to the contrary.”

A change had crossed the face of Mr. Carlton; a peculiar expression, not unlike that of a stag at bay. Lifting his eyes, he caught those of Frederick riveted upon his.

“Is it possible to recognise an infant after the lapse of years, do you think, Sir Stephen?”

“Not unless it is born with a distinguishing mark, as this was. I should know that boy if I met him in old age in the wilds of Africa.”

“What is the mark?” asked Mr. Carlton, looking as if he doubted whether there was any.

“It’s under the right arm, near the armpit; one you can’t forget, once seen. Go and look at it.”

They parted, shaking hands. Sir Stephen turned out at the gate, Mr. Carlton towards the door of the cottage. He had all but entered it, when he heard himself called by Sir Stephen.

“You had better make it known abroad that this is the same child, Mr. Carlton; it