"I never heard it, sir. I have never seen her, or heard of her, since."
"Did she say nothing when she took the child away? Search your memory. She must have said something."
"Only one thing, sir, that I can remember. It was a miserably bad season, that year; and many of the children were suffering from it. When she took the baby away, the lady said to me, laughing, 'Don't be alarmed about his health. He will be brought up in a better climate than this--I am going to take him to Switzerland.'"
"To Switzerland? What part of Switzerland?"
"She didn't say, sir."
"Only that faint clue!" said Mr. Wilding. "And a quarter of a century has passed since the child was taken away! What am I to do?"
"I hope you won't take offence at my freedom, sir," said Mrs. Goldstraw; "but why should you distress yourself about what is to be done? He may not be alive now, for anything you know. And, if he is alive, it's not likely he can be in any distress. The, lady who adopted him was a bred and born lady--it was easy to see that. And she must have satisfied them at the Foundling that she could provide for the child, or they would never have let her take him away. If I was in your place, sir--please to excuse my saying so--I should comfort myself with remembering that I had loved that poor lady whose portrait you have got there--truly loved her as my mother, and that she had truly loved me as her son. All she gave to you, she gave for the sake of that love. It never altered while she lived; and it won't alter, I'm sure, as long as you live. How can you have a better right, sir, to keep what you have got than that?"
Mr. Wilding's immovable honesty saw the fallacy in his housekeeper's point of view at a glance.
"You don't understand me," he said. "It's because I loved her that I feel it a duty--a sacred duty--to do justice to her son. If he is a living man, I must find him: for my own sake, as well as for his. I shall break down under this dreadful trial, unless I employ myself--actively, instantly employ myself--in doing what my conscience tells me ought to be done. I must speak to my lawyer; I must set my lawyer at work before I sleep to-night." He approached a tube in the wall of the room, and called down through it to the office below. "Leave me for a little, Mrs. Goldstraw," he resumed; "I shall be more composed, I shall be better able to speak to you later in the day. We shall get on well--I hope we shall get on well together--in spite of what has happened. It isn't your fault; I know it isn't your fault. There! there! shake hands; and--and do the best you can in the house--I can't talk about it now."