Compose yourself, sir! If I must speak, I will. You said a minute since that the lady——
Wilding. She calls my mother “the lady!” When you talk of my mother, why don’t you call her my mother?
Sally. You said just now, sir, that the lady often talked of what had passed between herself and me. Are you calm enough to remember what she told you?
Wilding. Calm or not, it is impossible that I can forget it. You told my mother that you were present when I was first received at the Foundling. You saw me christened; you heard me named Walter Wilding. You said that I was removed to the institution in the country, and that you remained at the institution in London.
Sally. All quite true then, sir—and all quite true now. But you don’t know—and at that time, I didn’t know either—what happened at our place in the country. A strange lady—one Mrs. Miller—came there, six months after the child had been removed from London. Her object was to adopt one of our foundlings; and she was provided with the necessary authority. The child she chose, was the infant whom I had seen christened—the child of the lady whose portrait hangs there.
Wilding. Why can’t you speak plainly? You mean me?
Sally. I mean the child of that lady, sir. You are not her child. (WILDING starts.) You were not received into the Foundling until three weeks after the date I am speaking of. I was absent at the time—or this would never have happened. You, in your turn, were christened at the chapel in London. There was a question of what name to give you. The name of the child who had been taken away from us, was a name to spare—and it was given to you. You, too, were taken to the country. At three years old you were brought back to the London Foundling. I was ignorant of all the circumstances. What could I conclude, when you came back to us, under the name of Walter Wilding, but that you were the child whom I had seen christened by that name? How could I know that there had been a first Walter Wilding, adopted, and taken away, and a second Walter Wilding put in his place?
Wilding. (staggering back). Is it getting dark? Are my eyes failing me? Give me a hand—I don’t know where I am.
Sally (supporting him, and placing him on the bench from which she has risen). Shall I get you some water, sir? Shall I call for help?
Wilding. Wait—give me time. (Rousing himself suddenly.) How do I know your story is true?
Sally. Should I have told it, sir, in my situation, if it had not been true?
Wilding. Oh me! oh me! I loved her so dearly! I felt so fondly I was her son!
(His head sinks. SALLY kneels by him and supports it on her bosom.)
Sally. Let it rest here, sir. This is not the first time. I have rocked you to sleep, on my bosom, many and many a time when you were a boy.
Wilding. She died, Sally, in my arms—she died blessing me as only a mother could have blessed me. Oh, if you were to speak——Why not have spoken sooner?
Sally. I only knew it myself, sir, two years since. I found the work at the Foundling too much for me, and left to take a housekeeper’s situation. I went to say good-bye to a friend at our place in the country, and there I heard it for the first time. Where was I to find the poor lady? Where was I to find you? It’s not my fault, sir. If you hadn’t forced me to it, I wouldn’t have spoken now.
Wilding. (rising). What! you would have left me ignorant of the truth? You would have left me usurping the place, enjoying the fortune that belongs to another man? He must be found! Who was the stranger who adopted the child?
Sally. The lady’s name was Mrs. Miller, sir.
Wilding. Where is she?
Sally. It’s nigh on four-and-twenty years since, sir. All that is known of her is, that she took the child to Switzerland.
Wilding. Switzerland? What part of Switzerland?
Sally. Nobody heard at the time, sir; and nobody knows now.
Enter BINTREY.
Bintrey. Well? Have you engaged the housekeeper? (Noticing WILDING’S agitation.) What’s the matter?
Wilding. (to SALLY). Tell him, in your own words—I can’t tell him in any words of mine! (SALLY and BINTREY speak apart. WILDING continues, in soliloquy.) She left me her fortune—she left me all that I possess, in the firm persuasion that I was her son. I am not her son. I have got the place, I have innocently taken the inheritance of another man. He must be found, Mr. Bintrey!
Bintrey. (leading SALLY towards the house). Wait in the house a little, and let me speak to him. (SALLY goes into the house. BINTREY turns and addresses WILDING.) This is a sad business, Mr. Wilding. But I can’t see that Sarah Goldstraw is to blame.
Wilding. To blame? She’s a good kind woman, and she shall stop here, in my service. Never mind that now! Mr. Bintrey, the lost Walter Wilding must be found!
Bintrey. After a lapse of four-and-twenty years? Not easy, to say the least of it.
Wilding. I tell you her son must be found. It may take time; I may die before it’s done——Stop! I must make my will—a will leaving everything to him—before I sleep to-night.
Bintrey. Gently! gently!
Enter GEORGE VENDALE from the house.
Wilding. Oh, George, you come at a terrible time! You don’t know what has happened!
Vendale. My dear Walter! the woman herself has told me. I saw her here on my return from the Docks, and she entreated me, as your old friend, to go and comfort you.
Wilding. Encourage me, George! Take my side. I am determined to find the lost man, and to restore everything to him—for her sake, and for the love I bear to her memory.
Bintrey. How are we to find the man, Mr. Vendale? If we advertise for him, we invite every rogue in the kingdom to set up a claim. Taking our friend’s own view—which I, for one, don’t share—this restitution is impossible. Try what way you please, Mr. Wilding, you will find this is a case of No Thoroughfare!
Wilding. (passionately). The restitution must, and shall, be made! I have got what belongs to another man. I am an Impostor!
Vendale. My good friend, that is simply absurd. No man can be an impostor without being a consenting party to the imposition. Clearly, you never were that. As to your enrichment by the lady whom you believed to be your mother, it arose out of the personal relations between you—out of the pure love she had for you, out of the pure love you had for her. A mistake for which you were neither of you responsible, can’t alter that.
Bintrey. Besides, the man may be dead.
Wilding. The man may be living! We know that the child was taken to Switzerland. That is the clue to follow. If neither of you will help me, I will go to Switzerland myself!
Vendale. Hush! hush! You know we will both help you to any object that you really have at heart.