i can't see," hildred reasoned, "why you should find the idea so terrible."

"and i can't see," tom returned, "what it matters how i find the idea, so long as nobody is serious about it."

"oh, but they will be. it's what i told you before. they'd made up their minds they didn't want to find him; and now it's hard to unmake them again. but they're coming to it."

"i hope they're not taking the trouble on my account."

"they're taking it on their own. tad as much as said so. he said they'd stuck it out as long as they could; but they couldn't stick it out forever."

"stick it out against what?"

"against what's staring them in the face, i suppose."

"did he tell you what i said to him, that nothing would induce me to belong to the family that had produced him?"

she laughed. "oh, yes. he told me the whole thing, how you'd come into his room, how guy had got the other fellows out, and the pitched battle between you."

"and did he say how it had ended?"

[pg 397]

"he said—if you want to know exactly i'll tell you exactly—he said that when it came to talking about the war and the part he would have to play in it, you weren't as big a damn fool as he had thought you."

"and did he say how big a damn fool he was himself?"

"he admitted he had been one; but with his father on his hands, and the war, and all that, he'd have to put the brakes on himself, and pretend to be a good boy."

laughing to himself tom stretched out his legs to the blaze of the fire. hildred had sent for him because mrs. ansley was out of the way at her mothers' club. there was nothing underhand in this, since she would not conceal the fact accomplished. it avoided only a preliminary struggle. if she needed an excuse, the necessities of their good intentions toward tad would offer it.

tea being over, hildred, who was fond of embroidery, had taken up a piece of work. like many women, she found it easier to be daring in an incidental way while stitching. stitching kept her from having to look at tom as she reverted to the phase of the subject from which they had drifted away.

"the whitelaws are a perfectly honorable family. they may even be called distinguished. i don't see what it is you've got against them."

"i've got nothing against them. they rather—" he sought for a word that would express the queer primordial attraction they possessed for him—"they rather cast a spell on me. but i don't want to belong to them."

[pg 398]

"but why not, if it was proved that—?"

"for one reason, it couldn't be proved; and for another, it's too late."

the ring in his voice was strange; it made her look up at him. "too late? why do you say that?"

"because it is. you told me some time ago that it was what they thought themselves. even if it were proved, it would still be—too late."

"i don't understand you."

"i'm not sure that i understand myself. i only know that the life i've lived would make it impossible for me to go and live their life."

"oh, nonsense! their life is just the same as our life."

"well, i'm not sure that i could live yours. i could conform to it on the outside. i could talk your way and eat your way; but i couldn't think your way."

"when you say my way—"

"i mean the way of all your class. mind you, i'm not against it. i only feel that somehow—in things i can't explain and wouldn't know how to remedy—it's wrong."

"oh, but, tom—"

"it seems to be necessary that a great many people shall go without anything in order that a very few people may enjoy everything. that's as far as i go. i don't draw any conclusions; and i'm certainly not going in for any radical theories. only i can't think it right. i want to be a banker; but even if i am a banker—"

"i see what you mean," she interrupted, pensively. "i often feel that way myself. but, oh, tom, what

[pg 399]

can we do about it that—that wouldn't seem quite mad?"

he smiled ruefully. "i don't know. but if you live long enough—and work hard enough—and think straight enough—and don't do anything to put you off your nut—why, some day you may find a way out that will be sane."

"yes, but couldn't you do that and be harry whitelaw—if you are harry whitelaw—at the same time?"

"suppose we wait till the question arises? as far as i know, no one who belonged to harry whitelaw, or to whom harry whitelaw belonged, has ever brought it up."

but only a few weeks later this very thing seemed about to come to pass.

it was toward the end of march. on returning to his room one morning tom was startled by a telegram. telegrams were so rare in his life that merely to see one lying on his table gave him a thrill, partly of wonder, partly of fear. opening it, he was still more surprised to find it from philip ansley. would tom be in louisburg square for reasons of importance at four that afternoon?

that something had betrayed himself and hildred would have been his only surmise; only that there was nothing to betray. except for the few hurried words hildred had spoken on that sunday night, anything they had said they had said in looks, and even their looks had been guarded and discreet. the things most essential to them both were in what they were taking for granted. they had exchanged no letters; their intercourse was always of the kind that anyone

[pg 400]

might overhear. without recourse to explanation each recognized the fact that it would be years before either of them would be free to speak or to take a step. in the meantime their only crime was their confidence in each other; and you couldn't betray that.

nevertheless, it was with uneasiness that he rang at the door, and asked pilcher if mr. ansley were at home. pilcher was mysterious. mr. ansley was not at home, but if mr. tom would come in he would find himself expected. tea being served in the library, mr. tom was shown upstairs.

it was a gloomy afternoon outside; the room was dim. all tom saw at first was a tall man standing on the hearth rug, where the fire behind him had almost gone out. he had taken a step forward and held out his hand before tom recognized the distinguished stranger who had first hailed him in the new hampshire lake nearly three years earlier.

"do you remember me?"

"yes, sir."

they stood with hands clasped, each gazing into the other's face. tom would have withdrawn his hand, would have receded, but the other held him with a grasp both tense and tenacious. the eyes, deep-set like tom's own, and overhung with bushy outstanding eyebrows, studied him with eager penetration. not till that look was satisfied did the tall figure swing to someone who was sitting in the shadow.

"this is the boy, onora. look at him."

she was sitting out of direct range in a corner of the library darkened by buildings standing higher on the hill. the man turned tom slightly in her direc

[pg 401]

tion, where the daylight fell on him. the degree to which the woman shrank from seeing him was further marked by the fact that she partly hid her face behind a big black-feather fan for which there was no other use than concealment. she said nothing at all; but even in the obscurity tom could perceive the light of two feverish eyes.

it was the man who took the lead.

"won't you sit down?"

he placed a chair where the woman could observe its occupant, without being drawn of necessity into anything that might be said. the man himself drew up another chair, on which he sat sidewise in an easy posture close to tom. tom liked him. he liked his face, his voice, his manner, the something friendly and sympathetic he recalled from the earlier meetings. whether this were his father or not, he would have no difficulty in meeting him at any time on intimate and confidential terms.

"my wife and i wanted to see you," he began, simply, "in order to thank you for what you've done for tad."

tom was embarrassed. "oh, that wasn't anything. i just happened—"

"the dean has told me all about it. he says that tad has given him no trouble since. before that he'd given a good deal. i wish i could tell you how grateful we are, especially as things are turning out, with a war hanging over us."

tom saw an opportunity of speaking without sentiment. "that's what i thought. it seemed to me a

[pg 402]

pity that good fighting stuff should be lost just through—through too much skylarking."

"yes, it would have been. tad has good fighting stuff."

there was a catch of the woman's breath. tom recalled the staccato nervousness of their first brief meeting in gore hall. he wished they hadn't brought him there. they were strangers to him; he was a stranger to them. whatever link might have been between him and them in the past, there was no link now. it would be a mistake to try to forge one.

but in on this thought the man broke gently.

"i wonder if you'd mind telling us all about yourself that you know? i presume that you understand why i'm asking you."

"yes, sir, i do; but i don't think i can help you much."

the woman's voice, vibrating and tragic, startled him. it was as if she were speaking to herself, as if something were being wrung from her in spite of her efforts to keep it back. "the likeness is extraordinary!"

taking no notice of this, the man began to question him, "where were you born?"

"in the bronx."

he made a note of this answer in a little notebook. "and when?"

"in 1897."

"what date?"

it was the crucial question, but since he meant to tell everything he knew, tom had no choice but to be exact.

[pg 403]

"i'm not very sure of the date, because my mother changed it at three different times. at first my birthday used to be on the fifth of march; but afterward she said that that had been the birthday of a little half-sister of mine who died before i was born."

"what was her name?"

"grace coburn."

"and her parents' names?"

"thomas and lucy coburn."

"and after your birthday was changed from the fifth of march—?"

"it was shifted to september, but not for very long. later my mother told me i was born on the tenth of may, and we always kept to that."

from the woman there was something like a smothered cry, but the man only took his notes.

"the tenth of may, 1897. did she ever tell you why she selected that date?"

"no, sir."

"did she ever say anything about it, about what kind of day it was, or anything at all that you can remember?"

tom hesitated. the reflection that the wisest course was to make a clean breast of everything impelled him to go on.

"she only said that it was a day when all the nursemaids had had their babies in the park, and the lilacs were in bloom."

there followed the question of which he was most afraid, because he often put it to himself.

"why should she have said that, when, if you were

[pg 404]

born in the bronx, she and her baby were miles away?"

"i don't know, sir."

"what was your mother's maiden name?"

"i don't know, sir."

"she was married to thomas coburn before she was married to theodore whitelaw, your father?"

"yes, sir."

"where were she and your father married?"

"i don't know, sir."

"what do you know about your father?"

"nothing at all. i never heard his name till she gave it at the police station, the night before she died."

"oh, at the police station! why there?"

tom told the whole story, keeping nothing back.

the man's only comment was to say, "and you never heard the name of whitelaw in connection with yourself till you heard it on that evening?"

"yes, sir, i'd heard it before that."

"when and how?"

"always when my mother was in a—in a state of nerves. you mustn't forget that she wasn't exactly in her right mind. that was the excuse for what she—she did in shops. so, once in so often, she'd say that i was never to think that my name was whitelaw, or that she'd stolen me."

there was again from the woman a little moaning gasp, but the man was outwardly self-possessed.

"so she said that?"

"yes, sir."

"and have you any explanation why?"

"i didn't have then; i've worked one out. you see,

[pg 405]

my name really being whitelaw, and her mind a little unbalanced, she was afraid she might be suspected of—your little boy's case had got so much publicity—and she a friendless woman, with no husband or relations—"

"so that you don't think she did—steal you?"

he answered firmly. "no, sir. i don't"

"why don't you?"

"for one thing, i don't want to."

"oh!"

it was the woman again. the sound was rather queer. you could not have told whether it meant relief or indignation.

the man's sad penetrating eyes were bent on him sympathetically. "when you say that you don't want to, exactly what do you mean?"

"i'm not sure that i can say. she was my mother. she was good to me. i was fond of her. i never knew any other mother. i don't think i could—" he looked over at the woman in the shadow, letting his words fall with a certain significant spacing—"know—any other—mother—now—and so—"

rising, she took a step toward him. he too rose so that as she stood looking up at him he stood looking down at her. there and then her face was imprinted on his memory, a face of suffering, but of suffering that had not made her strong. the quivering victim of self-pity, she begged to be allowed to forget. she had suffered to her limit. she couldn't suffer any more. everything in her that was raked with the harrow protested against this bringing up again of an outlived agony.

[pg 406]

her beautiful eyes, brimming with unspilled tears, gazed at him reproachfully. as plainly as eyes could tell him anything, they told him that now, when life and time had dug between them such a gulf, she didn't want him as her son. she might have to accept him, since so many things pointed that way, but it would be hard for her. taking back a little boy would have been one thing; taking back a grown man, none of whose habits or traditions were the same as theirs, would be another. she would do it if it were forced on her, but it couldn't recompense her now for past unhappiness. it would be only a new torture, a torture which, if he hadn't drifted in among them, she might have escaped.

when swiftly and silently she had left the room the man put his hand on tom's arm.

"sit down again. you mustn't think that my wife doesn't feel all this. she does. it's because she does that she's so overwrought."

tom sat down. "yes, sir, of course!"

"she's been through it so often. for a good ten years after our child was lost boys used to be brought to us to look at every few months. and every time it meant a draining of her vitality."

"i understand that, sir; and i hope mrs. whitelaw doesn't think i've come of my own accord."

"no, she knows you haven't. we've asked you to come because—but i must go back. when my wife had been through so much—so many times—and all to no purpose—she made me promise—the doctors made me promise—that she shouldn't be called on to face it

[pg 407]

again. whenever she had to interview one of these claimants—"

"i'm not a claimant," tom put in, hastily.

"i know you're not. that's just it. it's what makes the difference. but whenever she had to do it—and decide whether a particular lad was or was not her son—it nearly killed her."

tom made an inarticulate murmur of sympathy.

"the worst times came after we'd turned down some boy of whom we hadn't been quite sure. that was as hard for me as it was for her—the fear that our little fellow had come back, and we'd sent him away. it got to be so impossible to judge. you imagined resemblances even when there were none, and any child who could speak could be drilled about the facts, as we were so well known. it was hell."

"it must have been."

"then there were our two other children. it wasn't easy for them. they grew up in an atmosphere of expecting the older brother to come back. at first it gave them a bit of excitement. but as they grew older they resented it. you can understand that. a stranger wouldn't have been welcome. whenever a new clue had to be abandoned they were glad. if the boy had been found they'd have given him an awful time. that was another worry to my wife."

"yes, it would be."

"so at last we made up our minds that he was dead. it was the only thing to do. self-protection required it. my wife took up her social life again, the life she's fond of and is fitted for. things went better.

[pg 408]

she didn't forget, but she grew more normal. in spite of the past there were a few things she could still enjoy. she'd begun to feel safe; and then—in that lake in new hampshire—i happened to see you."

"if i were you, sir, i shouldn't let that disturb me."

"it does disturb me. when i went back that year to our house at old westbury and spoke to my wife and children about it, they all implored me not to go into the thing again."

"if i could implore you, too—"

he shook his head. "it wouldn't do any good. i've come to the point where i've got to see it through. i have all the data you've given me—as well as some other things. if you're not—not my son—" he rose striding to the fireplace, where he stood pensively, his back to the smouldering fire—"if you're not my son, at least we can find out pretty certainly whose son you are."

tom also rose, so that they stood face to face. "and if you can't find out pretty certainly whose son i am—?"

"i shall be driven to the conclusion that—"

he didn't finish this sentence. tom didn't press for it. during the silence that followed it occurred to him that if there was a war the question might be shelved. it was what, he thought, he would work for.

the same idea might have come to the older man, for looking up out of his reverie, he said, with no context:

"what do you mean to be?"

[pg 409]

"i've always hoped, sir, to go into a bank. it's what i seem best fitted for."

there came into the eyes that same sudden light, like the switching on of electricity, which tom remembered from their meeting in the water.

"i could help you there."

"oh, but it would only be in a small way, sir. i'd have to begin as something—"

"all the same i could help you. i want you to promise me this, that when you're free—either after harvard, or after the war—you'll come to me before you do anything else. is that a bargain?"

to tom it was the easiest way out. "yes sir, if you like."

"then our hands on it!"

their right hands clasped. once more tom found himself held. the man's left hand came up and rested on his shoulder. the eyes searched him, searched him hungrily, with longing. whether they found what they sought or merely gave up seeking tom could hardly tell. he was only pushed away with a little weary gesture, while the tall man turned once more toward the dying fire.