Steampunk Prime_ A Vintage Steampunk Reader - Mike Ashley [84]
“Oh, this is terrible!” She said, suddenly springing to her feet. “I can feel for Mr. Durham from my very heart. My own little Keith is so like Robin. You would like to see my boy, would you not, Mr. Head?”
“I shall be glad to see him,” I answered. “You have spoken before of the extraordinary likeness between the children.”
“It is marvellous,” she cried; “you would scarcely know one from the other.”
She rang the bell. A servant appeared.
“Tell nurse to bring baby here,” said I Faulkner.
A moment later the door was opened — the nurse herself did not appear, but a little boy, dressed in white, rushed into the room. He ran up to Lady Faulkner, clasping his arms ecstatically round her knees.
“Mother’s own little boy,” she said. She lifted him into her arms. Her fingers were loaded with rings, and I noticed as she held the child against her heart that they were trembling. Was all this excessive emotion for Durham’s miserable fate?”
“Lady Faulkner,” I said, jumping to my feet and speaking sternly, “I will tell you the truth. I have come here in a vain hope. The loss of the child is killing the poor father — can you do anything for his relief?”
“I?” She said. “What do you mean?”
My words were unexpected, and they startled her.
“Can you do anything for his relief?” I repeated. “Let me look at that boy. He is exactly like the child who is lost.”
“I always told you there was an extraordinary likeness,” she answered. “Look round, baby, look at that gentleman — tell him you are mother’s own little boy.”
“Mummy’s boy,” lisped the baby. He looked full up into my face. The blue eyes, the mass of golden hair, the slow, lovely smile — surely I had seen them before.
Lady Faulkner unfastened her locket, opened it and gave it to me.
“Feature for feature,” she said. “Feature for feature the same. Mr. Head, this is my child. Is it possible — ” She let the child drop from her arms and stood up confronting me. Her attitude reminded me of Ellen Douglas. “Is it possible that you suspect me?” She cried.
“I will be frank with you, Lady Faulkner,” I answered. “I do suspect you.”
She seated herself with a perceptible effort.
“This is too grave a matter to be merely angry about,” she said; “but do you realize what you are saying? You suspect me — me of having stolen Robin Durham from his father?”
“God help me, I do,” I answered.
“Your reasons?”
She took the child again on her knee. He turned towards her and caught hold of her heavy gold chain. As he did so I remembered that I had seen Durham’s boy playing with that chain in the studio at Lanchester Gardens.
I briefly repeated the reasons for my fears. I told Lady Faulkner what I had overheard at the Academy. I said a few strong words with regard to Mme. Koluchy.
“To be the friend of that woman is to condemn you,” I said, at last. “Do you know what she really is?”
Lady Faulkner made no answer. During the entire narrative she had not uttered a syllable.
“When my husband returns home,” she said at last, faintly, “he will protect me from this cruel charge.”
“Are you prepared to swear that the boy sitting on your knee is your own boy?” I asked.
She hesitated, then said boldly, “I am.”
“Will you take an oath on the Bible that he is your child?”
Her face grew white.
“Surely that is not necessary,” she said.
“But will you do it?” I repeated.
She looked down again at the boy. The boy looked up at her.
“Pitty lady,�� he said, all of a sudden.
The moment he uttered the words I noticed a queer change on her face. She got up and rang the bell. A grave-looking, middle-aged woman entered the room.
“Take baby, nurse,” said Lady Faulkner.
The woman lifted the boy in her arms and conveyed him from the room.
“I will swear, Mr. Head,” said Lady Faulkner. “There is a Bible on that table — I will swear on the Bible.”
She