CHAPTER VIII.
SOPHY’S CLAIM EXAMINED AND CANVASSED.
“I take this moment,” said Darrell, when left alone with Waife—(ah, reader, let us keep to that familiar name to the last!)—“I take this moment,” said Darrell, “the first moment in which you can feel thoroughly assured that no prejudice against yourself clouds my judgment in reference to her whom you believe to be your grandchild, to commence, and I trust to conclude forever, the subject which twice brought you within these walls. On the night of your recent arrival here, you gave this copy of a French woman’s declaration, to the effect that two infants had been placed out with her to nurse; that one of them was my poor daughter’s infant, who was about to be taken away from her; that the other was confided to her by its parent, a French lady, whom she speaks of as a very liberal and distinguished person, but whose name is not stated in the paper.”
WAIFE.—“The confession describes that lady as an artiste; distinguished artiste is the expression-viz., a professional person—a painter—an actress—a singer—or—”
DARRELL (drily).—“An opera-dancer! I understand the French word perfectly. And I presume the name is not mentioned in the document, from motives of delicacy; the child of a distinguished French artiste is not necessarily born in wedlock. But this lady was very grateful to the nurse for the care shown to her infant, who was very sickly; and promised to take the nurse, and the nurse’s husband also, into her service. The nurse states that she herself was very poor; that the lady’s offer appeared to her like a permanent provision; that the life of this artiste’s infant was of the utmost value to her—the life of my poor daughter’s child of comparative insignificance. But the infant of the artiste died, and the nurse’s husband put it into his wife’s head to tell your son (then a widower, and who had seen so little of his child as to be easily deceived), that it was his infant who died. The nurse shortly afterwards removed to Paris, taking with her to the artiste’s house the child who in reality was my daughter’s.”
“It seems very probable, does it not—does it not?” said the ex-comedian eagerly.
“It seems to me,” replied the ex-lawyer, “very probable that a witness, entering into court with the confession of one villanous falsehood, would have little scruple to tell another. But I proceed. This rich and liberal artiste dies; the nurse’s conscience then suddenly awakens—she sees Mr. Hammond—she informs him of the fraud she has practised. A lady of rank, who had known Matilda, and had seen both the infants when both were living under the nurse’s charge, and observed them more attentively than your son had done—corroborates the woman’s story, stating that the artiste’s child had dark eyes instead of blue; that the artiste herself was never deceived—but, having taken a great fancy to the spurious infant, was willing to receive and cherish it as her own; and that she knows several persons who will depose that they heard the artiste say that the child was not her own. On this evidence your son takes to himself this child—and this child is your Sophy—and you wish me to acknowledge her as my daughter’s offspring. Do not look me so earnestly in the face, my dear and respected guest. It was when you read in my face what my lips shrank from uttering that your emotions overcame your strength, and your very mind deserted you. Now, be firmer. Your Sophy has no need of me—she is under your charge, and your name is cleared. She has found a friend—a protectress—in her own sex. Lady Montfort’s rank gives to her a position in the world as high as I could offer; and as to mere pecuniary provision for her, make your mind easy—it shall be secured. But bear with me when I add, resolutely and calmly, that this nurse’s attestation is to me a grosser and poorer attempt at imposture than I had anticipated; and I am amazed that a man of your abilities should have been contented to accept it.”
“Oh, Mr. Darrell, don’t say so! It was such a blessing to think, when my son was lost to me, that I might fill up the void in my heart with an innocent, loving child. Don’t talk of my abilities. If you, whose abilities none can question—if you had longed and yearned for such a comforter—if you had wished—if you wished now this tale to be true, you would have believed it too; you would believe it now—you would indeed. Two men look so differently at the same story—one deeply interested that it should be true—one determined, if possible, to find it false. Is it not so?”
Darrell smiled slightly, but could not be induced to assent even to so general a proposition. He felt as if he were pitted against a counsel who would take advantage of every concession.
Waife continued. “And whatever seems most improbable in this confession, is rendered probable at once—if—if—we may assume that my unhappy son, tempted by the desire to—to—”