"All these qualities he inherits from his father, with, I imagine, a certain impatience which, when opinions differ, also, I expect, distinguished his father. From his mother he seems to inherit, if I may say so in her presence, tenacity, which may become obstinacy, and strong convictions or feelings, which may possibly degenerate into prejudice. His mother's softer qualities—her depth of affection, her warm sympathies—will doubtless come to the front when his nature, still partly undeveloped, receives its final moulding under the hands of love."
All this was very prettily put, and presented the subject in an engaging light. Molly, however, shook her head, incredulous, as one who ought to know, if any one could know, what had been the outcome of that final moulding under the hands of love.
"This is his character," the doctor went on blandly. "This is the present character as it has been developed from the raw material which we handed over to Lady Woodroffe four and twenty years ago. Next, consider his education."
"Why?" asked his mother. "Hasn't he had his schooling?"
"More schooling than you think. He has been taught that his father was a most distinguished Indian officer, in whom his son could take the greatest pride; that his mother belonged to an ancient Scotch family, his grandfather being the thirteenth baron, and his uncle the fourteenth; he was taught that there is no inheritance so valuable as that of ancient family; as a child he imbibed a pride of birth which is almost a religion; indeed, I doubt if he has any other. His school education and his associates helped him to consider himself as belonging to a superior caste, and the rest of the world as outsiders. This prejudice is now rooted in him. If he had to abandon this belief——"
"But he must abandon it," said Molly. "To-morrow he becomes an outsider."
"When you parted with your boy, you gave him, without knowing what you were doing, statesmen and captains, great lords and barons that belong to history, even kings and queens, for ancestors. Now, without warning—how could one warn a young man of such a thing?—you suddenly rob him of all these possessions. You give him for a father, a worthless scoundrel, to use plain language—a man whose record is horrible and shameful, a deceiver and deserter of women, a low-class buffoon, a fellow who met with the end which he deserved in a workhouse, after a final exhibition of himself as a sandwich-man at one and twopence a day. The mere thought of such a father is enough to reduce this unfortunate young man to madness. And for other relations, I repeat, you offer him, in place of his present cousins, who are gentlefolk of ancient birth, with all that belongs to that possession, such humble—perhaps such unworthy—people as Dick sums up under such titles as 'the pew-opener,' 'the small draper,' and 'the mendicant bankrupt.' Can you imagine Humphrey, with his pride of birth, calling upon the Hackney draper, and taking tea with the pew-opener?"
"They are my cousins, too, Sir Robert," said Molly. "And I get along without much trouble about them."
"Yours? Very likely. Why not?" he replied impatiently. "You are used to them. You were born to them. Sir Humphrey was not." He turned again to Alice. "Have you considered these things? You must consider them—in pity to your son—in pity to yourself."
Alice made no reply.