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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Evil Genius, by Wilkie Collins
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Evil Genius
+
+Author: Wilkie Collins
+
+Posting Date: November 23, 2008 [EBook #1627]
+Release Date: February, 1999
+Last Updated: December 21, 2017
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EVIL GENIUS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by James Rusk
+
+
+
+
+
+THE EVIL GENIUS
+
+A DOMESTIC STORY
+
+By Wilkie Collins
+
+
+               Affectionately Dedicated
+               to Holman Hunt
+
+
+
+
+BEFORE THE STORY.
+
+Miss Westerfield’s Education
+
+1.--The Trial.
+
+THE gentlemen of the jury retired to consider their verdict.
+
+Their foreman was a person doubly distinguished among his colleagues. He
+had the clearest head, and the readiest tongue. For once the right man
+was in the right place.
+
+Of the eleven jurymen, four showed their characters on the surface. They
+were:
+
+The hungry juryman, who wanted his dinner.
+
+The inattentive juryman, who drew pictures on his blotting paper.
+
+The nervous juryman, who suffered from fidgets.
+
+The silent juryman, who decided the verdict.
+
+Of the seven remaining members, one was a little drowsy man who gave no
+trouble; one was an irritable invalid who served under protest; and
+five represented that vast majority of the population--easily governed,
+tranquilly happy--which has no opinion of its own.
+
+
+
+The foreman took his place at the head of the table. His colleagues
+seated themselves on either side of him. Then there fell upon that
+assembly of men a silence, never known among an assembly of women--the
+silence which proceeds from a general reluctance to be the person who
+speaks first.
+
+It was the foreman’s duty, under these circumstances, to treat his
+deliberative brethren as we treat our watches when they stop: he wound
+the jury up and set them going.
+
+“Gentlemen,” he began, “have you formed any decided opinion on the
+case--thus far?”
+
+Some of them said “Yes,” and some of them said “No.” The little drowsy
+man said nothing. The fretful invalid cried, “Go on!” The nervous
+juryman suddenly rose. His brethren all looked at him, inspired by the
+same fear of having got an orator among them. He was an essentially
+polite man; and he hastened to relieve their minds. “Pray don’t be
+alarmed, gentlemen: I am not going to make a speech. I suffer from
+fidgets. Excuse me if I occasionally change my position.” The hungry
+juryman (who dined early) looked at his watch. “Half-past four,” he
+said. “For Heaven’s sake cut it short.” He was the fattest person
+present; and he suggested a subject to the inattentive juryman who drew
+pictures on his blotting-paper. Deeply interested in the progress of the
+likeness, his neighbors on either side looked over his shoulders. The
+little drowsy man woke with a start, and begged pardon of everybody.
+The fretful invalid said to himself, “Damned fools, all of them!” The
+patient foreman, biding his time, stated the case.
+
+“The prisoner waiting our verdict, gentlemen, is the Honorable Roderick
+Westerfield, younger brother of the present Lord Le Basque. He is
+charged with willfully casting away the British bark _John Jerniman_,
+under his command, for the purpose of fraudulently obtaining a share
+of the insurance money; and further of possessing himself of certain
+Brazilian diamonds, which formed part of the cargo. In plain words,
+here is a gentleman born in the higher ranks of life accused of being a
+thief. Before we attempt to arrive at a decision, we shall only be doing
+him justice if we try to form some general estimate of his character,
+based on the evidence--and we may fairly begin by inquiring into his
+relations with the noble family to which he belongs. The evidence, so
+far, is not altogether creditable to him. Being at the time an officer
+of the Royal Navy, he appears to have outraged the feelings of his
+family by marrying a barmaid at a public-house.”
+
+The drowsy juryman, happening to be awake at that moment, surprised the
+foreman by interposing a statement. “Talking of barmaids,” he said, “I
+know a curate’s daughter. She’s in distressed circumstances, poor thing;
+and she’s a barmaid somewhere in the north of England. Curiously
+enough, the name of the town has escaped my memory. If we had a map of
+England--” There he was interrupted, cruelly interrupted, by one of his
+brethren.
+
+“And by what right,” cried the greedy juryman, speaking under the
+exasperating influence of hunger--“by what right does Mr. Westerfield’s
+family dare to suppose that a barmaid may not be a perfectly virtuous
+woman?”
+
+Hearing this, the restless gentleman (in the act of changing his
+position) was suddenly inspired with interest in the proceedings.
+“Pardon me for putting myself forward,” he said, with his customary
+politeness. “Speaking as an abstainer from fermented liquors, I must
+really protest against these allusions to barmaids.”
+
+“Speaking as a consumer of fermented liquors,” the invalid remarked, “I
+wish I had a barmaid and a bottle of champagne before me now.”
+
+Superior to interruption, the admirable foreman went on:
+
+“Whatever you may think, gentlemen, of the prisoner’s marriage, we have
+it in evidence that his relatives turned their backs on him from that
+moment--with the one merciful exception of the head of the family. Lord
+Le Basque exerted his influence with the Admiralty, and obtained for
+his brother (then out of employment) an appointment to a ship. All
+the witnesses agree that Mr. Westerfield thoroughly understood his
+profession. If he could have controlled himself, he might have risen to
+high rank in the Navy. His temper was his ruin. He quarreled with one of
+his superior officers--”
+
+“Under strong provocation,” said a member of the jury.
+
+“Under strong provocation,” the foreman admitted. “But provocation
+is not an excuse, judged by the rules of discipline. The prisoner
+challenged the officer on duty to fight a duel, at the first
+opportunity, on shore; and, receiving a contemptuous refusal, struck him
+on the quarter-deck. As a matter of course, Mr. Westerfield was tried by
+court-martial, and was dismissed the service. Lord Le Basque’s patience
+was not exhausted yet. The Merchant Service offered a last chance to the
+prisoner of retrieving his position, to some extent at least. He was fit
+for the sea, and fit for nothing else. At my lord’s earnest request the
+owners of the _John Jerniman_, trading between Liverpool and Rio, took
+Mr. Westerfield on trial as first mate, and, to his credit be it said,
+he justified his brother’s faith in him. In a tempest off the coast of
+Africa the captain was washed overboard and the first mate succeeded
+to the command. His seamanship and courage saved the vessel, under
+circumstances of danger which paralyzed the efforts of the other
+officers. He was confirmed, rightly confirmed, in the command of
+the ship. And, so far, we shall certainly not be wrong if we view his
+character on the favorable side.”
+
+There the foreman paused, to collect his ideas.
+
+Certain members of the assembly--led by the juryman who wanted his
+dinner, and supported by his inattentive colleague, then engaged in
+drawing a ship in a storm, and a captain falling overboard--proposed the
+acquittal of the prisoner without further consideration. But the fretful
+invalid cried “Stuff!” and the five jurymen who had no opinions of
+their own, struck by the admirable brevity with which he expressed his
+sentiments, sang out in chorus, “Hear! hear! hear!” The silent juryman,
+hitherto overlooked, now attracted attention. He was a bald-headed
+person of uncertain age, buttoned up tight in a long frockcoat, and
+wearing his gloves all through the proceedings. When the chorus of five
+cheered, he smiled mysteriously. Everybody wondered what that smile
+meant. The silent juryman kept his opinion to himself. From that moment
+he began to exercise a furtive influence over the jury. Even the foreman
+looked at him, on resuming the narrative.
+
+“After a certain term of service, gentlemen, during which we learn
+nothing to his disadvantage, the prisoner’s merits appear to have
+received their reward. He was presented with a share in the ship which
+he commanded, in addition to his regular salary as master. With these
+improved prospects he sailed from Liverpool on his last voyage to
+Brazil; and no one, his wife included, had the faintest suspicion that
+he left England under circumstances of serious pecuniary embarrassment.
+The testimony of his creditors, and of other persons with whom he
+associated distinctly proves that his leisure hours on shore had
+been employed in card-playing and in betting on horse races. After an
+unusually long run of luck, his good fortune seems to have deserted him.
+He suffered considerable losses, and was at last driven to borrowing at
+a high rate of interest, without any reasonable prospect of being able
+to repay the money-lenders into whose hands he had fallen. When he
+left Rio on the homeward voyage, there is no sort of doubt that he was
+returning to England to face creditors whom he was unable to pay. There,
+gentlemen, is a noticeable side to his character which we may call the
+gambling side, and which (as I think) was too leniently viewed by the
+judge.”
+
+He evidently intended to add a word or two more. But the disagreeable
+invalid insisted on being heard.
+
+“In plain English,” he said, “you are for finding the prisoner guilty.”
+
+“In plain English,” the foreman rejoined, “I refuse to answer that
+question.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because it is no part of my duty to attempt to influence the verdict.”
+
+“You have been trying to influence the verdict, sir, ever since you
+entered this room. I appeal to all the gentlemen present.”
+
+The patience of the long-suffering foreman failed him at last. “Not
+another word shall pass my lips,” he said, “until you find the prisoner
+guilty or not guilty among yourselves--and then I’ll tell you if I agree
+to your verdict.”
+
+He folded his arms, and looked like the image of a man who intended to
+keep his word.
+
+The hungry juryman laid himself back in his chair, and groaned. The
+amateur artist, who had thus far found a fund of amusement in his
+blotting-paper, yawned discontentedly and dropped his pen. The courteous
+gentleman who suffered from fidgets requested leave to walk up and down
+the room; and at the first turn he took woke the drowsy little man, and
+maddened the irritable invalid by the creaking of his boots. The chorus
+of five, further than ever from arriving at an opinion of their own,
+looked at the silent juryman. Once more he smiled mysteriously; and once
+more he offered no explanation of what was passing in his mind--except
+that he turned his bald head slowly in the direction of the foreman. Was
+he in sympathy with a man who had promised to be as silent as himself?
+
+In the meantime, nothing was said or done. Helpless silence prevailed in
+every part of the room.
+
+“Why the devil doesn’t somebody begin?” cried the invalid. “Have you all
+forgotten the evidence?”
+
+This startling question roused the jury to a sense of what was due to
+their oaths, if not to themselves. Some of them recollected the evidence
+in one way, and some of them recollected it in another; and each man
+insisted on doing justice to his own excellent memory, and on stating
+his own unanswerable view of the case.
+
+The first man who spoke began at the middle of the story told by the
+witnesses in court. “I am for acquitting the captain, gentlemen; he
+ordered out the boats, and saved the lives of the crew.”--“And I am for
+finding him guilty, because the ship struck on a rock in broad daylight,
+and in moderate weather.”--“I agree with you, sir. The evidence shows
+that the vessel was steered dangerously near to the land, by direction
+of the captain, who gave the course.”--“Come, come, gentlemen! let us
+do the captain justice. The defense declares that he gave the customary
+course, and that it was not followed when he left the deck. As for
+his leaving the ship in moderate weather, the evidence proves that he
+believed he saw signs of a storm brewing.”--“Yes, yes, all very well,
+but what were the facts? When the loss of the ship was reported, the
+Brazilian authorities sent men to the wreck, on the chance of saving
+the cargo; and, days afterward, there the ship was found, just as
+the captain and the crew had left her.”--“Don’t forget, sir, that the
+diamonds were missing when the salvors examined the wreck.”--“All right,
+but that’s no proof that the captain stole the diamonds; and, before
+they had saved half the cargo, a storm did come on and break the
+vessel up; so the poor man was only wrong in the matter of time, after
+all.”--“Allow me to remind you, gentlemen that the prisoner was deeply
+in debt, and therefore had an interest in stealing the diamonds.”--“Wait
+a little, sir. Fair play’s a jewel. Who was in charge of the deck when
+the ship struck? The second mate. And what did the second mate do, when
+he heard that his owners had decided to prosecute? He committed suicide!
+Is there no proof of guilt in that act?”--“You are going a little too
+fast, sir. The coroner’s jury declared that the second mate killed
+himself in a state of temporary insanity.”--“Gently! gently! we have
+nothing to do with what the coroner’s jury said. What did the judge say
+when he summed up?”--“Bother the judge! He said what they all say: ‘Find
+the prisoner guilty, if you think he did it; and find him not guilty,
+if you think he didn’t.’ And then he went away to his comfortable cup
+of tea in his private room. And here are we perishing of hunger, and our
+families dining without us.”--“Speak for yourself, sir, _I_ haven’t got
+a family.”--“Consider yourself lucky, sir; _I_ have got twelve, and
+my life is a burden to me, owing to the difficulty of making both ends
+meet.”--“Gentlemen! gentlemen! we are wandering again. Is the captain
+guilty or not? Mr. Foreman, we none of us intended to offend you. Will
+you tell us what _you_ think?”
+
+No; the foreman kept his word. “Decide for yourselves first,” was his
+only reply.
+
+In this emergency, the member afflicted with fidgets suddenly assumed a
+position of importance. He started a new idea.
+
+“Suppose we try a show of hands,” he suggested. “Gentlemen who find the
+prisoner guilty will please hold up their hands.”
+
+Three votes were at once registered in this way, including the vote
+of the foreman. After a moment of doubt, the chorus of five decided on
+following the opinion which happened to be the first opinion expressed
+in point of time. Thereupon, the show of hands for the condemnation
+of the prisoner rose to eight. Would this result have an effect on the
+undecided minority of four? In any case, they were invited to declare
+themselves next. Only three hands were held up. One incomprehensible man
+abstained from expressing his sentiments even by a sign. Is it necessary
+to say who that man was? A mysterious change had now presented itself in
+his appearance, which made him an object of greater interest than ever.
+His inexplicable smile had vanished. He sat immovable, with closed eyes.
+Was he meditating profoundly? or was he only asleep? The quick-witted
+foreman had long since suspected him of being simply the stupidest
+person present--with just cunning enough to conceal his own dullness
+by holding his tongue. The jury arrived at no such sensible conclusion.
+Impressed by the intense solemnity of his countenance, they believed him
+to be absorbed in reflections of the utmost importance to the verdict.
+After a heated conference among themselves, they decided on inviting
+the one independent member present--the member who had taken no part in
+their proceedings--to declare his opinion in the plainest possible form.
+“Which way does your view of the verdict incline, sir? Guilty or not
+guilty?”
+
+The eyes of the silent juryman opened with the slow and solemn dilation
+of the eyes of an owl. Placed between the alternatives of declaring
+himself in one word or in two, his taciturn wisdom chose the shortest
+form of speech. “Guilty,” he answered--and shut his eyes again, as if he
+had had enough of it already.
+
+An unutterable sense of relief pervaded the meeting. Enmities were
+forgotten and friendly looks were exchanged. With one accord, the jury
+rose to return to court. The prisoner’s fate was sealed. The verdict was
+Guilty.
+
+
+2.--The Sentence.
+
+
+The low hum of talk among the persons in court ceased when the jury
+returned to their places. Curiosity now found its center of attraction
+in the prisoner’s wife--who had been present throughout the trial. The
+question of the moment was: How will she bear the interval of delay
+which precedes the giving of the verdict?
+
+In the popular phrase, Mrs. Westerfield was a showy woman. Her
+commanding figure was finely robed in dark colors; her profuse light
+hair hung over her forehead in little clusters of ringlets; her
+features, firmly but not delicately shaped, were on a large scale. No
+outward betrayal of the wife’s emotion rewarded the public curiosity:
+her bold light-gray eyes sustained the general gaze without flinching.
+To the surprise of the women present, she had brought her two young
+children with her to the trial. The eldest was a pretty little girl of
+ten years old; the second child (a boy) sat on his mother’s knee. It was
+generally observed that Mrs. Westerfield took no notice of her eldest
+child. When she whispered a word from time to time, it was always
+addressed to her son. She fondled him when he grew restless; but she
+never looked round to see if the girl at her side was as weary of the
+proceedings as the boy.
+
+The judge took his seat, and the order was given to bring the prisoner
+up for judgment.
+
+There was a long pause. The audience--remembering his ghastly face when
+he first appeared before them--whispered to each other, “He’s taken
+ill”; and the audience proved to be right.
+
+The surgeon of the prison entered the witness-box, and, being duly
+sworn, made his medical statement.
+
+The prisoner’s heart had been diseased for some time past, and the
+malady had been neglected. He had fainted under the prolonged suspense
+of waiting for the verdict. The swoon had proved to be of such a serious
+nature that the witness refused to answer for consequences if a second
+fainting-fit was produced by the excitement of facing the court and the
+jury.
+
+Under these circumstances, the verdict was formally recorded, and
+sentence was deferred. Once more, the spectators looked at the
+prisoner’s wife.
+
+She had risen to leave the court. In the event of an adverse verdict,
+her husband had asked for a farewell interview; and the governor of the
+prison, after consultation with the surgeon, had granted the request. It
+was observed, when she retired, that she held her boy by the hand, and
+left the girl to follow. A compassionate lady near her offered to take
+care of the children while she was absent. Mrs. Westerfield answered
+quietly and coldly: “Thank you--their father wishes to see them.”
+
+The prisoner was dying; nobody could look at him and doubt it.
+
+His eyes opened wearily, when his wife and children approached the bed
+on which he lay helpless--the wreck of a grandly-made man. He struggled
+for breath, but he could still speak a word or two at a time. “I don’t
+ask you what the verdict is,” he said to his wife; “I see it in your
+face.”
+
+Tearless and silent, she waited by her husband’s side. He had only
+noticed her for a moment. All his interest seemed to be centered in his
+children. The girl stood nearest to him, he looked at her with a faint
+smile.
+
+The poor child understood him. Crying piteously, she put her arms around
+his neck and kissed him. “Dear papa,” she said; “come home and let me
+nurse you.”
+
+The surgeon, watching the father’s face, saw a change in him which the
+other persons present had not observed. The failing heart felt that
+parting moment, and sank under it. “Take the child away,” the surgeon
+whispered to the mother. Brandy was near him; he administered it while
+he spoke, and touched the fluttering pulse. It felt, just felt, the
+stimulant. He revived for a moment, and looked wistfully for his son.
+“The boy,” he murmured; “I want my boy.” As his wife brought the child
+to him, the surgeon whispered to her again. “If you have anything to say
+to him be quick about it!” She shuddered; she took his cold hand. Her
+touch seemed to nerve him with new strength; he asked her to stoop over
+him. “They won’t let me write here,” he whispered, “unless they see my
+letter.” He paused to get his breath again. “Lift up my left arm,” he
+gasped. “Open the wrist-band.”
+
+She detached the stud which closed the wrist-band of the shirt. On the
+inner side of the linen there was a line written in red letters--red
+of the color of blood. She saw these words: _Look in the lining of my
+trunk._
+
+“What for?” she asked.
+
+The fading light in his eyes flashed on her a dreadful look of doubt.
+His lips fell apart in the vain effort to answer. His last sigh
+fluttered the light ringlets of her hair as she bent over him.
+
+The surgeon pointed to her children. “Take the poor things home,” he
+said; “they have seen the last of their father.”
+
+Mrs. Westerfield obeyed in silence. She had her own reasons for being in
+a hurry to get home. Leaving the children under the servant’s care, she
+locked herself up in the dead man’s room, and emptied his trunk of the
+few clothes that had been left in it.
+
+The lining which she was now to examine was of the customary material,
+and of the usual striped pattern in blue and white. Her fingers were
+not sufficiently sensitive to feel anything under the surface, when she
+tried it with her hand. Turning the empty trunk with the inner side of
+the lid toward the light, she discovered, on one of the blue stripes
+of the lining, a thin little shining stain which looked like a stain of
+dried gum. After a moment’s consideration, she cut the gummed line with
+a penknife. Something of a white color appeared through the aperture.
+She drew out a folded sheet of paper.
+
+It proved to be a letter in her husband’s hand-writing. An inclosure
+dropped to the floor when she opened it, in the shape of a small slip of
+paper. She picked it up. The morsel of paper presented letters, figures,
+and crosses arranged in lines, and mingled together in what looked like
+hopeless confusion.
+
+
+3.--The Letter.
+
+
+Mrs. Westerfield laid the incomprehensible slip of paper aside, and, in
+search of an explanation, returned to the letter. Here again she
+found herself in a state of perplexity. Directed to “Mrs. Roderick
+Westerfield,” the letter began abruptly, without the customary form of
+address. Did it mean that her husband was angry with her when he wrote?
+It meant that he doubted her.
+
+In these terms he expressed himself:
+
+
+
+“I write to you before my trial takes place. If the verdict goes in my
+favor, I shall destroy what I have written. If I am found guilty, I must
+leave it to you to do what I should otherwise have done for myself.
+
+“The undeserved misfortune that has overtaken me began with the arrival
+of my ship in the port of Rio. Our second mate (his duty for the day
+being done) asked leave to go on shore--and never returned. What motive
+determined him on deserting, I am not able to say. It was my own wish
+to supply his place by promoting the best seaman on board. My owners’
+agents overruled me, and appointed a man of their own choosing.
+
+“What nation he belonged to I don’t know. The name he gave me was
+Beljames, and he was reported to be a broken-down gentleman. Whoever he
+might be, his manner and his talk were captivating. Everybody liked him.
+
+“After the two calamities of the loss of the ship and the disappearance
+of the diamonds--these last being valued at five thousand pounds--I
+returned to England by the first opportunity that offered, having
+Beljames for a companion.
+
+“Shortly after getting back to my house in London, I was privately
+warned by a good friend that my owners had decided to prosecute me for
+willfully casting away the ship, and (crueler still) for having stolen
+the missing diamonds. The second mate, who had been in command of the
+vessel when she struck on the rock, was similarly charged along with
+me. Knowing myself to be innocent, I determined, of course, to stand
+my trial. My wonder was, what Beljames would do. Would he follow my
+example? or, if he got the chance, would he try to make his escape?
+
+“I might have thought it only friendly to give this person a word of
+warning, if I had known where to find him. We had separated when the
+ship reached the port of Falmouth, in Cornwall, and had not met since. I
+gave him my address in London; but he gave me no address in return.
+
+“On the voyage home, Beljames told me that a legacy had been left to
+him; being a small freehold house and garden in St. John’s Wood, London.
+His agent, writing to him on the subject, had reported the place to be
+sadly out of repair, and had advised him to find somebody who would
+take it off his hands on reasonable terms. This seemed to point to a
+likelihood of his being still in London, trying to sell his house.
+
+“While my mind was running on these recollections, I was told that a
+decent elderly woman wanted to see me. She proved to be the landlady of
+the house in which Beljames lodged; and she brought an alarming message.
+The man was dying, and desired to see me. I went to him immediately.
+
+“Few words are best, when one has to write about one’s own troubles.
+
+“Beljames had heard of the intended prosecution. How he had been made
+aware of it, death left him no time to tell me. The miserable wretch had
+poisoned himself--whether in terror of standing his trial, or in remorse
+of conscience, it is not any business of mine to decide. Most unluckily
+for me, he first ordered the doctor and the landlady out of the room;
+and then, when we two were alone, owned that he had purposely altered
+the course of the ship, and had stolen the diamonds.
+
+“To do him justice, he was eager to save me from suffering for his
+fault.
+
+“Having eased his mind by confession, he gave me the slip of paper
+(written in cipher) which you will find inclosed in this. ‘There is my
+note of the place where the diamonds are hidden,’ he said. Among the
+many ignorant people who know nothing of ciphers, I am one--and I
+told him so. ‘That’s how I keep my secret,’ he said; ‘write from my
+dictation, and you shall know what it means. Lift me up first.’ As I did
+it, he rolled his head to and fro, evidently in pain. But he managed to
+point to pen, ink, and paper, on a table hard by, on which his doctor
+had been writing. I left him for a moment, to pull the table nearer to
+the bed--and in that moment he groaned, and cried out for help. I ran
+to the room downstairs where the doctor was waiting. When we got back to
+him he was in convulsions. It was all over with Beljames.
+
+“The lawyers who are to defend me have tried to get Experts, as they
+call them, to interpret the cipher. The Experts have all failed. They
+will declare, if they are called as witnesses, that the signs on the
+paper are not according to any known rules, and are marks made at
+random, meaning nothing.
+
+“As for any statement, on my part, of the confession made to me, the law
+refuses to hear it, except from the mouth of a witness. I might prove
+that the ship’s course was changed, contrary to my directions, after I
+had gone below to rest, if I could find the man who was steering at the
+time. God only knows where that man is.
+
+“On the other hand, the errors of my past life, and my being in debt,
+are circumstances dead against me. The lawyers seem to trust almost
+entirely in a famous counsel, whom they have engaged to defend me. For
+my own part, I go to my trial with little or no hope.
+
+“If the verdict is guilty, and if you have any regard left for my
+character, never rest until you have found somebody who can interpret
+these cursed signs. Do for me, I say, what I cannot do for myself.
+Recover the diamonds; and, when you restore them, show my owners this
+letter.
+
+“Kiss the children for me. I wish them, when they are old enough, to
+read this defense of myself and to know that their father, who loved
+them dearly, was an innocent man. My good brother will take care of you,
+for my sake. I have done.
+
+“RODERICK WESTERFIELD.”
+
+
+Mrs. Westerfield took up the cipher once more. She looked at it as if it
+were a living thing that defied her.
+
+“If I am able to read this gibberish,” she decided, “I know what I’ll do
+with the diamonds!”
+
+4.--The Garret.
+
+One year exactly after the fatal day of the trial, Mrs. Westerfield
+(secluded in the sanctuary of her bedroom) celebrated her release from
+the obligation of wearing widow’s weeds.
+
+The conventional graduations in the outward expression of grief, which
+lead from black clothing to gray, formed no part of this afflicted
+lady’s system of mourning. She laid her best blue walking dress and her
+new bonnet to match on the bed, and admired them to her heart’s content.
+Her discarded garments were left on the floor. “Thank Heaven, I’ve done
+with you!” she said--and kicked her rusty mourning out of the way as she
+advanced to the fireplace to ring the bell.
+
+“Where is my little boy?” she asked, when the landlady entered the room.
+
+“He’s down with me in the kitchen, ma’am; I’m teaching him to make a
+plum cake for himself. He’s so happy! I hope you don’t want him just
+now?”
+
+“Not the least in the world. I want you to take care of him while I am
+away. By-the-by, where’s Syd?”
+
+The elder child (the girl) had been christened Sydney, in compliment
+to one of her father’s female relatives. The name was not liked by her
+mother--who had shortened it to Syd, by way of leaving as little of
+it as possible. With a look at Mrs. Westerfield which expressed
+ill-concealed aversion, the landlady answered: “She’s up in the
+lumber-room, poor child. She says you sent her there to be out of the
+way.”
+
+“Ah, to be sure, I did.”
+
+“There’s no fireplace in the garret, ma’am. I’m afraid the little girl
+must be cold and lonely.”
+
+It was useless to plead for Syd--Mrs. Westerfield was not listening.
+Her attention was absorbed by her own plump and pretty hands. She took
+a tiny file from the dressing-table, and put a few finishing touches to
+her nails. “Send me some hot water,” she said; “I want to dress.”
+
+The servant girl who carried the hot water upstairs was new to the ways
+of the house. After having waited on Mrs. Westerfield, she had been
+instructed by the kind-hearted landlady to go on to the top floor. “You
+will find a pretty little girl in the garret, all by herself. Say you
+are to bring her down to my room, as soon as her mamma has gone out.”
+
+Mrs. Westerfield’s habitual neglect of her eldest child was known
+to every person in the house. Even the new servant had heard of it.
+Interested by what she saw, on opening the garret door, she stopped on
+the threshold and looked in.
+
+The lumber in the room consisted of two rotten old trunks, a broken
+chair, and a dirty volume of sermons of the old-fashioned quarto size.
+The grimy ceiling, slanting downward to a cracked window, was stained
+with rain that had found its way through the roof. The faded wall-paper,
+loosened by damp, was torn away in some places, and bulged loose in
+others. There were holes in the skirting-board; and from one of them
+peeped the brightly timid eyes of the child’s only living companion
+in the garret--a mouse, feeding on crumbs which she had saved from her
+breakfast.
+
+Syd looked up when the mouse darted back into its hole, on the opening
+of the door. “Lizzie! Lizzie!” she said, gravely, “you ought to have
+come in without making a noise. You have frightened away my youngest
+child.”
+
+The good-natured servant burst out laughing. “Have you got a large
+family, miss?” she inquired, humoring the joke.
+
+Syd failed to see the joke. “Only two more,” she answered as gravely as
+ever--and lifted up from the floor two miserable dolls, reduced to the
+last extremity of dirt and dilapidation. “My two eldest,” this strange
+child resumed, setting up the dolls against one of the empty trunks.
+“The eldest is a girl, and her name is Syd. The other is a boy, untidy
+in his clothes, as you see. Their kind mamma forgives them when they are
+naughty, and buys ponies for them to ride on, and always has something
+nice for them to eat when they are hungry. Have you got a kind mamma,
+Lizzie? And are you very fond of her?”
+
+Those innocent allusions to the neglect which was the one sad experience
+of Syd’s young life touched the servant’s heart. A bygone time was
+present to her memory, when she too had been left without a playfellow
+to keep her company or a fire to warm her, and she had not endured it
+patiently.
+
+“Oh, my dear,” she said, “your poor little arms are red with cold. Come
+to me and let me rub them.”
+
+But Syd’s bright imagination was a better protection against the cold
+than all the rubbing that the hands of a merciful woman could offer.
+“You are very kind, Lizzie,” she answered. “I don’t feel the cold when
+I am playing with my children. I am very careful to give them plenty of
+exercise, we are going to walk in the Park.”
+
+She gave a hand to each of the dolls, and walked slowly round and round
+the miserable room, pointing out visionary persons of distinction and
+objects of interest. “Here’s the queen, my dears, in her gilt coach,
+drawn by six horses. Do you see her scepter poking out of the carriage
+window? She governs the nation with that. Bow to the queen. And now look
+at the beautiful bright water. There’s the island where the ducks live.
+Ducks are happy creatures. They have their own way in everything, and
+they’re good to eat when they’re dead. At least they used to be good,
+when we had nice dinners in papa’s time. I try to amuse the poor little
+things, Lizzie. Their papa is dead. I’m obliged to be papa and mamma to
+them, both in one. Do you feel the cold, my dears?” She shivered as she
+questioned her imaginary children. “Now we are at home again,” she said,
+and led the dolls to the empty fireplace. “Roaring fires always in _my_
+house,” cried the resolute little creature, rubbing her hands cheerfully
+before the bleak blank grate.
+
+Warm-hearted Lizzie could control herself no longer.
+
+“If the child would only make some complaint,” she burst out, “it
+wouldn’t be so dreadful! Oh, what a shame! what a shame!” she cried, to
+the astonishment of little Syd. “Come down, my dear, to the nice warm
+room where your brother is. Oh, your mother? I don’t care if your mother
+sees us; I should like to give your mother a piece of my mind. There! I
+don’t mean to frighten you; I’m one of your bad children--I fly into a
+passion. You carry the dolls and I’ll carry _you_. Oh, how she shivers!
+Give us a kiss.”
+
+Sympathy which expressed itself in this way was new to Syd. Her eyes
+opened wide in childish wonder--and suddenly closed again in childish
+terror, when her good friend the servant passed Mrs. Westerfield’s door
+on the way downstairs. “If mamma bounces out on us,” she whispered,
+“pretend we don’t see her.” The nice warm room received them in safety.
+Under no stress of circumstances had Mrs. Westerfield ever been known
+to dress herself in a hurry. A good half-hour more had passed before the
+house door was heard to bang--and the pleasant landlady, peeping through
+the window, said: “There she goes. Now, we’ll enjoy ourselves!”
+
+5.--The Landlord.
+
+Mrs. Westerfield’s destination was the public-house in which she had
+been once employed as a barmaid. Entering the place without hesitation,
+she sent in her card to the landlord. He opened the parlor door himself
+and invited her to walk in.
+
+“You wear well,” he said, admiring her. “Have you come back here to be
+my barmaid again?”
+
+“Do you think I am reduced to that?” she answered.
+
+“Well, my dear, more unlikely things have happened. They tell me you
+depend for your income on Lord Le Basque--and his lordship’s death was
+in the newspapers last week.”
+
+“And his lordship’s lawyers continue my allowance.”
+
+Having smartly set the landlord right in those words, she had not
+thought it necessary to add that Lady Le Basque, continuing the
+allowance at her husband’s request, had also notified that it would
+cease if Mrs. Westerfield married again.
+
+“You’re a lucky woman,” the landlord remarked. “Well, I’m glad to see
+you. What will you take to drink?”
+
+“Nothing, thank you. I want to know if you have heard anything lately of
+James Bellbridge?”
+
+The landlord was a popular person in his own circle--not accustomed to
+restrain himself when he saw his way to a joke. “Here’s constancy!” he
+said. “She’s sweet on James, after having jilted him twelve years ago!”
+
+Mrs. Westerfield replied with dignity. “I am accustomed to be treated
+respectfully,” she replied. “I wish you good-morning.”
+
+The easy landlord pressed her back into her chair. “Don’t be a fool,”
+ he said; “James is in London--James is staying in my house. What do you
+think of that?”
+
+Mrs. Westerfield’s bold gray eyes expressed eager curiosity and
+interest. “You don’t mean that he is going to be barman here again?”
+
+“No such luck, my dear; he is a gentleman at large, who patronizes my
+house.”
+
+Mrs. Westerfield went on with her questions.
+
+“Has he left America for good?”
+
+“Not he! James Bellbridge is going back to New York, to open a saloon
+(as they call it) in partnership with another man. He’s in England,
+he says, on business. It’s my belief that he wants money for this new
+venture on bad security. They’re smart people in New York. His only
+chance of getting his bills discounted is to humbug his relations, down
+in the country.”
+
+“When does he go to the country?”
+
+“He’s there now.”
+
+“When does he come back?”
+
+“You’re determined to see him, it appears. He comes back to-morrow.”
+
+“Is he married?”
+
+“Aha! now we’re coming to the point. Make your mind easy. Plenty of
+women have set the trap for him, but he has not walked into it yet.
+Shall I give him your love?”
+
+“Yes,” she said, coolly. “As much love as you please.”
+
+“Meaning marriage?” the landlord inquired.
+
+“And money,” Mrs. Westerfield added.
+
+“Lord Le Basque’s money.”
+
+“Lord Le Basque’s money may go to the Devil!”
+
+“Hullo! Your language reminds me of the time when you were a barmaid.
+You don’t mean to say you have had a fortune left you?”
+
+“I do! Will you give a message to James?”
+
+“I’ll do anything for a lady with a fortune.”
+
+“Tell him to come and drink tea with his old sweetheart tomorrow, at six
+o’clock.”
+
+“He won’t do it.”
+
+“He will.”
+
+With that difference of opinion, they parted.
+
+6.--The Brute.
+
+To-morrow came--and Mrs. Westerfield’s faithful James justified her
+confidence in him.
+
+“Oh, Jemmy, how glad I am to see you! You dear, dear fellow. I’m yours
+at last.”
+
+“That depends, my lady, on whether I want you. Let go of my neck.”
+
+The man who entered this protest against imprisonment in the arms of a
+fine woman, was one of the human beings who are grown to perfection on
+English soil. He had the fat face, the pink complexion, the hard blue
+eyes, the scanty yellow hair, the smile with no meaning in it, the
+tremendous neck and shoulders, the mighty fists and feet, which are seen
+in complete combination in England only. Men of this breed possess a
+nervous system without being aware of it; suffer affliction without
+feeling it; exercise courage without a sense of danger; marry without
+love; eat and drink without limit; and sink (big as they are), when
+disease attacks them, without an effort to live.
+
+Mrs. Westerfield released her guest’s bull-neck at the word of command.
+It was impossible not to submit to him--he was so brutal. Impossible not
+to admire him--he was so big.
+
+“Have you no love left for me?” was all she ventured to say.
+
+He took the reproof good-humoredly. “Love?” he repeated. “Come! I like
+that--after throwing me over for a man with a handle to his name. Which
+am I to call you: ‘Mrs?’ or ‘My Lady’?”
+
+“Call me your own. What is there to laugh at, Jemmy? You used to be fond
+of me; you would never have gone to America, when I married Westerfield,
+if I hadn’t been dear to you. Oh, if I’m sure of anything, I’m sure of
+that! You wouldn’t bear malice, dear, if you only knew how cruelly I
+have been disappointed.”
+
+He suddenly showed an interest in what she was saying: the brute became
+cheery and confidential. “So he made you a bad husband, did he? Up with
+his fist and knocked you down, I daresay, if the truth was known?”
+
+“You’re all in the wrong, dear. He would have been a good husband if
+I had cared about him. I never cared about anybody but you. It wasn’t
+Westerfield who tempted me to say Yes.”
+
+“That’s a lie.”
+
+“No, indeed it isn’t.”
+
+“Then why did you marry him?”
+
+“When I married him, Jemmy, there was a prospect--oh, how could I resist
+it? Think of being one of the Le Basques! Held in honor, to the end of
+my life, by that noble family, whether my husband lived or died!”
+
+To the barman’s ears, this sounded like sheer nonsense. His experience
+in the public-house suggested an explanation. “I say, my girl, have you
+been drinking?”
+
+Mrs. Westerfield’s first impulse led her to rise and point indignantly
+to the door. He had only to look at her--and she sat down again a tamed
+woman. “You don’t understand how the chance tempted me,” she answered,
+gently.
+
+“What chance do you mean?”
+
+“The chance, dear, of being a lord’s mother.”
+
+He was still puzzled, but he lowered his tone. The true-born Briton
+bowed by instinct before the woman who had jilted him, when she
+presented herself in the character of a lord’s mother. “How do you make
+that out, Maria?” he asked politely.
+
+She drew her chair nearer to him, when he called her by her Christian
+name for the first time.
+
+“When Westerfield was courting me,” she said, “his brother (my lord) was
+a bachelor. A lady--if one can call such a creature a lady!--was living
+under his protection. He told Westerfield he was very fond of her, and
+he hated the idea of getting married. ‘If your wife’s first child turns
+out to be a son,’ he said, ‘there is an heir to the title and estates,
+and I may go on as I am now.’ We were married a month afterward--and
+when my first child was born it was a girl. I leave you to judge what
+the disappointment was! My lord (persuaded, as I suspect, by the woman
+I mentioned just now) ran the risk of waiting another year, and a year
+afterward, rather than be married. Through all that time, I had no other
+child or prospect of a child. His lordship was fairly driven into
+taking a wife. Ah, how I hate her! _Their_ first child was a boy--a
+big, bouncing, healthy brute of a boy! And six months afterward, my poor
+little fellow was born. Only think of it! And tell me, Jemmy, don’t
+I deserve to be a happy woman, after suffering such a dreadful
+disappointment as that? Is it true that you’re going back to America?”
+
+“Quite true.”
+
+“Take me back with you.”
+
+“With a couple of children?”
+
+“No. Only with one. I can dispose of the other in England. Wait a little
+before you say No. Do you want money?”
+
+“You couldn’t help me, if I did.”
+
+“Marry me, and I can help you to a fortune.”
+
+He eyed her attentively and saw that she was in earnest. “What do you
+call a fortune?” he asked.
+
+“Five thousand pounds,” she answered.
+
+His eyes opened; his mouth opened; he scratched his head. Even his
+impenetrable nature proved to be capable of receiving a shock. Five
+thousand pounds! He asked faintly for “a drop of brandy.”
+
+She had a bottle of brandy ready for him.
+
+“You look quite overcome,” she said.
+
+He was too deeply interested in the restorative influence of the brandy
+to take any notice of this remark. When he had recovered himself he was
+not disposed to believe in the five thousand pounds.
+
+“Where’s the proof of it?” he said, sternly.
+
+She produced her husband’s letter. “Did you read the Trial of
+Westerfield for casting away his ship?” she asked.
+
+“I heard of it.”
+
+“Will you look at this letter?”
+
+“Is it long?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then suppose you read it to me.”
+
+He listened with the closest attention while she read. The question
+of stealing the diamonds (if they could only be found) did not trouble
+either of them. It was a settled question, by tacit consent on both
+sides. But the value in money of the precious stones suggested a doubt
+that still weighed on his mind.
+
+“How do you know they’re worth five thousand pounds?” he inquired.
+
+“You dear old stupid! Doesn’t Westerfield himself say so in his letter?”
+
+“Read that bit again.”
+
+She read it again: “After the two calamities of the loss of the ship,
+and the disappearance of the diamonds--these last being valued at five
+thousand pounds--I returned to England.”
+
+Satisfied so far, he wanted to look at the cipher next. She handed it to
+him with a stipulation: “Yours, Jemmy, on the day when you marry me.”
+
+He put the slip of paper into his pocket. “Now I’ve got it,” he said,
+“suppose I keep it?”
+
+A woman who has been barmaid at a public-house is a woman not easily
+found at the end of her resources.
+
+“In that case,” she curtly remarked, “I should first call in the police,
+and then telegraph to my husband’s employers in Liverpool.”
+
+He handed the cipher back. “I was joking,” he said.
+
+“So was I,” she answered.
+
+They looked at each other. They were made for each other--and they both
+felt it. At the same time, James kept his own interests steadily in
+view. He stated the obvious objection to the cipher. Experts had already
+tried to interpret the signs, and had failed.
+
+“Quite true,” she added, “but other people may succeed.”
+
+“How are you to find them?”
+
+“Leave me to try. Will you give me a fortnight from to-day?”
+
+“All right. Anything else?”
+
+“One thing more. Get the marriage license at once.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“To show that you are in earnest.”
+
+He burst out laughing. “It mightn’t be much amiss,” he said, “if I took
+you back with me to America; you’re the sort of woman we want in our new
+saloon. I’ll get the license. Good-night.”
+
+As he rose to go, there was a soft knock at the door. A little girl, in
+a shabby frock, ventured to show herself in the room.
+
+“What do you want here?” her mother asked sharply.
+
+Syd held out a small thin hand, with a letter in it, which represented
+her only excuse. Mrs. Westerfield read the letter, and crumpled it up
+in her pocket. “One of your secrets?” James asked. “Anything about the
+diamonds, for instance?”
+
+“Wait till you are my husband,” she said, “and then you may be as
+inquisitive as you please.” Her amiable sweetheart’s guess had actually
+hit the mark. During the year that had passed, she too had tried her
+luck among the Experts, and had failed. Having recently heard of a
+foreign interpreter of ciphers, she had written to ask his terms.
+The reply (just received) not only estimated his services at an
+extravagantly high rate, but asked cautious questions which it was not
+convenient to answer. Another attempt had been made to discover the
+mystery of the cipher, and made in vain.
+
+James Bellbridge had his moments of good-humor, and was on those rare
+occasions easily amused. He eyed the child with condescending curiosity.
+“Looks half starved,” he said--as if he were considering the case of a
+stray cat. “Hollo, there! Buy a bit of bread.” He tossed a penny to Syd
+as she left the room; and took the opportunity of binding his bargain
+with Syd’s mother. “Mind! if I take you to New York, I’m not going to be
+burdened with both your children. Is that girl the one you leave behind
+you?”
+
+Mrs. Westerfield smiled sweetly, and answered: “Yes, dear.”
+
+7.--The Cipher.
+
+An advertisement in the newspapers, addressed to persons skilled in
+the interpretation of ciphers, now represented Mrs. Westerfield’s only
+chance of discovering where the diamonds were hidden. The first answer
+that she received made some amends for previous disappointment. It
+offered references to gentlemen, whose names were in themselves a
+sufficient guarantee. She verified the references nevertheless, and paid
+a visit to her correspondent on the same day.
+
+His personal appearance was not in his favor--he was old and dirty,
+infirm and poor. His mean room was littered with shabby books. None of
+the ordinary courtesies of life seemed to be known to him; he neither
+wished Mrs. Westerfield good-morning nor asked her to take a seat. When
+she attempted to enter into explanations relating to her errand, he
+rudely interrupted her.
+
+“Show me your cipher,” he said; “I don’t promise to study it unless I
+find it worth my while.”
+
+Mrs. Westerfield was alarmed.
+
+“Do you mean that you want a large sum of money?” she asked.
+
+“I mean that I don’t waste my time on easy ciphers invented by fools.”
+
+She laid the slip of paper on his desk.
+
+“Waste your time on _that_,” she said satirically, “and see how you like
+it!”
+
+He examined it--first with his bleared red-rimmed eyes; then with a
+magnifying-glass. The only expression of opinion that escaped him was
+indicated by his actions. He shut up his book, and gloated over
+the signs and characters before him. On a sudden he looked at Mrs.
+Westerfield. “How did you come by this?” he asked.
+
+“That’s no business of yours.”
+
+“In other words, you have reasons of your own for not answering my
+question?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+Drawing his own inferences from that reply, he showed his three
+last-left yellow teeth in a horrid grin. “I understand!” he said,
+speaking to himself. He looked at the cipher once more, and put another
+question: “Have you got a copy of this?”
+
+It had not occurred to her to take a copy. He rose and pointed to his
+empty chair. His opinion of the cipher was, to all appearance, forced to
+express itself by the discovery that there was no copy.
+
+“Do you know what might happen?” he asked. “The only cipher that has
+puzzled me for the last ten years might be lost--or stolen--or burned
+if there was a fire in the house. You deserve to be punished for your
+carelessness. Make the copy yourself.”
+
+This desirable suggestion (uncivilly as it was expressed) had its effect
+upon Mrs. Westerfield. Her marriage depended on that precious slip of
+paper. She was confirmed in her opinion that this very disagreeable man
+might nevertheless be a man to be trusted.
+
+“Shall you be long in finding out what it means?” she asked when her
+task was completed.
+
+He carefully compared the copy with the original--and then he replied:
+
+“Days may pass before I can find the clew; I won’t attempt it unless you
+give me a week.”
+
+She pleaded for a shorter interval. He coolly handed back her papers;
+the original and the copy.
+
+“Try somebody else,” he suggested--and opened his book again. Mrs.
+Westerfield yielded with the worst possible grace. In granting him the
+week of delay, she approached the subject of his fee for the second
+time. “How much will it cost me?” she inquired.
+
+“I’ll tell you when I’ve done.”
+
+“That won’t do! I must know the amount first.”
+
+He handed her back her papers for the second time. Mrs. Westerfield’s
+experience of poverty had never been the experience of such independence
+as this. In sheer bewilderment, she yielded again. He took back the
+original cipher, and locked it up in his desk. “Call here this day
+week,” he said--and returned to his book.
+
+“You are not very polite,” she told him, on leaving the room.
+
+“At any rate,” he answered, “I don’t interrupt people when they are
+reading.”
+
+The week passed.
+
+Repeating her visit, Mrs. Westerfield found him still seated at his
+desk, still surrounded by his books, still careless of the polite
+attentions that he owed to a lady.
+
+“Well?” she asked, “have you earned your money?”
+
+“I have found the clew.”
+
+“What is it?” she burst out. “Tell me the substance. I can’t wait to
+read.”
+
+He went on impenetrably with what he had to say. “But there are
+some minor combinations, which I have still to discover to my own
+satisfaction. I want a few days more.”
+
+She positively refused to comply with this request. “Write down the
+substance of it,” she repeated, “and tell me what I owe you.”
+
+He handed her back her cipher for the third time.
+
+The woman who could have kept her temper, under such provocation as
+this, may be found when the mathematician is found who can square
+the circle, or the inventor who can discover perpetual motion. With a
+furious look, Mrs. Westerfield expressed her opinion of the philosopher
+in two words: “You brute!” She failed to produce the slightest
+impression on him.
+
+“My work,” he proceeded, “must be well done or not done at all. This is
+Saturday, eleventh of the month. We will say the evening of Wednesday
+next.”
+
+Mrs. Westerfield sufficiently controlled herself to be able to review
+her engagements for the coming week. On Thursday, the delay exacted by
+the marriage license would expire, and the wedding might take place.
+On Friday, the express train conveyed passengers to Liverpool, to be in
+time for the departure of the steamer for New York on Saturday morning.
+Having made these calculations, she asked, with sulky submission, if she
+was expected to call again on the Wednesday evening.
+
+“No. Leave me your name and address. I will send you the cipher,
+interpreted, at eight o’clock.”
+
+Mrs. Westerfield laid one of her visiting cards on his desk, and left
+him.
+
+8.--The Diamonds.
+
+The new week was essentially a week of events.
+
+On the Monday morning, Mrs. Westerfield and her faithful James had their
+first quarrel. She took the liberty of reminding him that it was time to
+give notice of the marriage at the church, and to secure berths in
+the steamer for herself and her son. Instead of answering one way or
+another, James asked how the Expert was getting on.
+
+“Has your old man found out where the diamonds are?”
+
+“Not yet.”
+
+“Then we’ll wait till he does.”
+
+“Do you believe my word?” Mrs. Westerfield asked curtly.
+
+James Bellbridge answered, with Roman brevity, “No.”
+
+This was an insult; Mrs. Westerfield expressed her sense of it. She
+rose, and pointed to the door. “Go back to America, as soon as you
+please,” she said; “and find the money you want--if you can.”
+
+As a proof that she was in earnest she took her copy of the cipher out
+of the bosom of her dress, and threw it into the fire. “The original is
+safe in my old man’s keeping,” she added. “Leave the room.”
+
+James rose with suspicious docility, and walked out, having his own
+private ends in view.
+
+Half an hour later, Mrs. Westerfield’s old man was interrupted over his
+work by a person of bulky and blackguard appearance, whom he had never
+seen before.
+
+The stranger introduced himself as a gentleman who was engaged to marry
+Mrs. Westerfield: he requested (not at all politely) to be permitted to
+look at the cipher. He was asked if he had brought a written order to
+that effect, signed by the lady herself. Mr. Bellbridge, resting his
+fists on the writing-table, answered that he had come to look at the
+cipher on his own sole responsibility, and that he insisted on seeing it
+immediately. “Allow me to show you something else first,” was the reply
+he received to this assertion of his will and pleasure. “Do you know
+a loaded pistol, sir, when you see it?” The barrel of the pistol
+approached within three inches of the barman’s big head as he leaned
+over the writing-table. For once in his life he was taken by surprise.
+It had never occurred to him that a professed interpreter of ciphers
+might sometimes be trusted with secrets which placed him in a position
+of danger, and might therefore have wisely taken measures to protect
+himself. No power of persuasion is comparable to the power possessed by
+a loaded pistol. James left the room; and expressed his sentiments in
+language which has not yet found its way into any English Dictionary.
+
+But he had two merits, when his temper was in a state of repose. He
+knew when he was beaten; and he thoroughly appreciated the value of
+the diamonds. When Mrs. Westerfield saw him again, on the next day, he
+appeared with undeniable claims on her mercy. Notice of the marriage
+had been received at the church; and a cabin had been secured for her on
+board the steamer.
+
+Her prospects being thus settled, to her own satisfaction, Mrs.
+Westerfield was at liberty to make her arrangements for the desertion of
+poor little Syd.
+
+The person on whose assistance she could rely was an unmarried elder
+sister, distinguished as proprietor of a cheap girls’ school in one
+of the suburbs of London. This lady--known to local fame as Miss
+Wigger--had already proposed to take Syd into training as a pupil
+teacher. “I’ll force the child on,” Miss Wigger promised, “till she
+can earn her board and lodging by taking my lowest class. When she
+gets older she will replace my regular governess, and I shall save the
+salary.”
+
+With this proposal waiting for a reply, Mrs. Westerfield had only to
+inform her sister that it was accepted. “Come here,” she wrote, “on
+Friday next, at any time before two o’clock, and Syd shall be ready for
+you. P.S.--I am to be married again on Thursday, and start for America
+with my husband and my boy by next Saturday’s steamer.”
+
+The letter was posted; and the mother’s anxious mind was, to use her own
+phrase, relieved of another worry.
+
+As the hour of eight drew near on Wednesday evening, Mrs. Westerfield’s
+anxiety forced her to find relief in action of some kind. She opened the
+door of her sitting-room and listened on the stairs. It still wanted for
+a few minutes to eight o’clock, when there was a ring at the house-bell.
+She ran down to open the door. The servant happened to be in the hall,
+and answered the bell. The next moment, the door was suddenly closed
+again.
+
+“Anybody there?” Mrs. Westerfield asked.
+
+“No, ma’am.”
+
+This seemed strange. Had the old wretch deceived her, after all? “Look
+in the letter-box,” she called out. The servant obeyed, and found
+a letter. Mrs. Westerfield tore it open, standing on the stairs. It
+contained half a sheet of common note-paper. The interpretation of the
+cipher was written on it in these words:
+
+“Remember Number 12, Purbeck Road, St. John’s Wood. Go to the
+summer-house in the back garden. Count to the fourth plank in the floor,
+reckoning from the side wall on the right as you enter the summer-house.
+Prize up the plank. Look under the mould and rubbish. Find the
+diamonds.”
+
+Not a word of explanation accompanied these lines. Neither had the
+original cipher been returned. The strange old man had earned his money,
+and had not attended to receive it--had not even sent word where or
+how it might be paid! Had he delivered his letter himself? He (or his
+messenger) had gone before the house-door could be opened!
+
+A sudden suspicion of him turned her cold. Had he stolen the diamonds?
+She was on the point of sending for a cab, and driving it to his
+lodgings, when James came in, eager to know if the interpretation had
+arrived.
+
+Keeping her suspicions to herself, she merely informed him that the
+interpretation was in her hands. He at once asked to see it. She refused
+to show it to him until he had made her his wife. “Put a chisel in your
+pocket, when we go to church, to-morrow morning,” was the one hint she
+gave him. As thoroughly worthy of each other as ever, the betrothed
+lovers distrusted each other to the last.
+
+At eleven o’clock the next morning they were united in the bonds of
+wedlock; the landlord and the landlady of the public-house in which they
+had both served being the only witnesses present. The children were not
+permitted to see the ceremony. On leaving the church door, the married
+pair began their honeymoon by driving to St. John’s Wood.
+
+A dirty printed notice, in a broken window, announced that the House was
+To Let; and a sour-tempered woman informed them that they were free to
+look at the rooms.
+
+The bride was in the best of humors. She set the bridegroom the example
+of keeping up appearances by examining the dilapidated house first.
+This done, she said sweetly to the person in charge, “May we look at the
+garden?”
+
+The woman made a strange answer to this request. “That’s curious,” she
+said.
+
+James interfered for the first time. “What’s curious?” he asked roughly.
+
+“Among all the idle people who have come here, at one time or another,
+to see this house,” the woman said, “only two have wanted to look at the
+garden.”
+
+James turned on his heel, and made for the summer-house, leaving it to
+his wife to pursue the subject or not as she pleased. She did pursue the
+subject.
+
+“I am one of the persons, of course,” she said. “Who is the other?”
+
+“An old man came on Monday.”
+
+The bride’s pleasant smile vanished.
+
+“What sort of person was he?” she asked.
+
+The sour-tempered woman became sourer than ever.
+
+“Oh, how can I tell! A brute. There!”
+
+“A brute!” The very words which the new Mrs. Bellbridge had herself used
+when the Expert had irritated her. With serious misgivings, she, too,
+turned her steps in the direction of the garden.
+
+James had already followed her instructions and used his chisel. The
+plank lay loose on the floor. With both his big hands he rapidly cleared
+away the mould and the rubbish. In a few minutes the hiding-place was
+laid bare.
+
+They looked into it. They looked at each other. There was the empty
+hole, telling its own story. The diamonds were gone.
+
+
+9.--The Mother.
+
+
+Mrs. Bellbridge eyed her husband, prepared for a furious outbreak of
+rage. He stood silent, staring stupidly straight before him. The shock
+that had fallen on his dull brain had stunned it. For the time, he was a
+big idiot--speechless, harmless, helpless.
+
+She put back the rubbish, and replaced the plank, and picked up the
+chisel. “Come, James,” she said; “pull yourself together.” It was
+useless to speak to him. She took his arm and led him out to the cab
+that was waiting at the door.
+
+The driver, helping him to get in, noticed a piece of paper lying on
+the front seat. Advertisements, seeking publicity under all possible
+circumstances, are occasionally sent flying into the open windows
+of vehicles. The driver was about to throw the paper away, when Mrs.
+Bellbridge (seeing it on the other side) took it out of his hand. “It
+isn’t print,” she said; “it’s writing.” A closer examination showed
+that the writing was addressed to herself. Her correspondent must have
+followed her to the church, as well as to the house in St. John’s Wood.
+He distinguished her by the name which she had changed that morning,
+under the sanction of the clergy and the law.
+
+This was what she read: “Don’t trouble yourself, madam, about the
+diamonds. You have made a mistake--you have employed the wrong man.”
+
+Those words--and no more. Enough, surely, to justify the conclusion that
+he had stolen the diamonds. Was it worth while to drive to his lodgings?
+They tried the experiment. The Expert had gone away on business--nobody
+knew where.
+
+The newspaper came as usual on Friday morning. To Mrs. Bellbridge’s
+amazement it set the question of the theft at rest, on the highest
+authority. An article appeared, in a conspicuous position, thus
+expressed:
+
+“Another of the many proofs that truth is stranger than fiction has just
+occurred at Liverpool. A highly respected firm of shipwreckers in that
+city received a strange letter at the beginning of the present week.
+Premising that he had some remarkable circumstances to communicate, the
+writer of the letter entered abruptly on the narrative which follows:
+A friend of his--connected with literature--had, it appeared, noticed a
+lady’s visiting card on his desk, and had been reminded by it (in
+what way it was not necessary to explain) of a criminal case which had
+excited considerable public interest at the time; viz., the trial of
+Captain Westerfield for willfully casting away a ship under his command.
+Never having heard of the trial, the writer, at his friend’s suggestion,
+consulted a file of newspapers--discovered the report--and became aware,
+for the first time, that a collection of Brazilian diamonds, consigned
+to the Liverpool firm, was missing from the wrecked vessel when she had
+been boarded by the salvage party, and had not been found since. Events,
+which it was impossible for him to mention (seeing that doing so
+would involve a breach of confidence placed in him in his professional
+capacity), had revealed to his knowledge a hiding-place in which these
+same diamonds, in all probability, were concealed. This circumstance had
+left him no alternative, as an honest man, but to be beforehand with the
+persons, who (as he believed) contemplated stealing the precious stones.
+He had, accordingly, taken them under his protection, until they were
+identified and claimed by the rightful owners. In now appealing to these
+gentlemen, he stipulated that the claim should be set forth in writing,
+addressed to him under initials at a post-office in London. If the
+lost property was identified to his satisfaction, he would meet--at a
+specified place and on a certain day and hour--a person accredited by
+the firm and would personally restore the diamonds, without claiming
+(or consenting to receive) a reward. The conditions being complied
+with, this remarkable interview took place; the writer of the letter,
+described as an infirm old man very poorly dressed, fulfilled his
+engagement, took his receipt, and walked away without even waiting to
+be thanked. It is only an act of justice to add that the diamonds were
+afterward counted, and not one of them was missing.”
+
+Miserable, deservedly-miserable married pair. The stolen fortune, on
+which they had counted, had slipped through their fingers. The berths in
+the steamer for New York had been taken and paid for. James had married
+a woman with nothing besides herself to bestow on him, except an
+incumbrance in the shape of a boy.
+
+Late on the fatal wedding-day his first idea, when he was himself
+again after the discovery in the summer-house, was to get back his
+passage-money, to abandon his wife and his stepson, and to escape
+to America in a French steamer. He went to the office of the English
+company, and offered the places which he had taken for sale. The season
+of the year was against him; the passenger-traffic to America was at its
+lowest ebb, and profits depended upon freights alone.
+
+If he still contemplated deserting his wife, he must also submit to
+sacrifice his money. The other alternative was (as he expressed it
+himself) to “have his pennyworth for his penny, and to turn his family
+to good account in New York.” He had not quite decided what to do when
+he got home again on the evening of his marriage.
+
+At that critical moment in her life the bride was equal to the demand on
+her resources.
+
+If she was foolish enough to allow James to act on his natural impulses,
+there were probably two prospects before her. In one state of his
+temper, he might knock her down. In another state of his temper, he
+might leave her behind him. Her only hope of protecting herself, in
+either case, was to tame the bridegroom. In his absence, she wisely
+armed herself with the most irresistible fascinations of her sex. Never
+yet had he seen her dressed as she was dressed when he came home. Never
+yet had her magnificent eyes looked at him as they looked now. Emotions
+for which he was not prepared overcame this much injured man; he stared
+at the bride in helpless surprise. That inestimable moment of weakness
+was all Mrs. Bellbridge asked for. Bewildered by his own transformation,
+James found himself reading the newspaper the next morning
+sentimentally, with his arm round his wife’s waist.
+
+
+
+By a refinement of cruelty, not one word had been said to prepare little
+Syd for the dreary change that was now close at hand in her young life.
+The poor child had seen the preparations for departure, and had tried to
+imitate her mother in packing up. She had collected her few morsels of
+darned and ragged clothing, and had gone upstairs to put them into
+one of the dilapidated old trunks in the garret play ground, when the
+servant was sent to bring her back to the sitting-room. There, enthroned
+in an easy-chair, sat a strange lady; and there, hiding behind the chair
+in undisguised dislike of the visitor, was her little brother Roderick.
+Syd looked timidly at her mother; and her mother said:
+
+“Here is your aunt.”
+
+The personal appearance of Miss Wigger might have suggested a modest
+distrust of his own abilities to Lavater, when that self-sufficient man
+wrote his famous work on Physiognomy. Whatever betrayal of her inner
+self her face might have presented, in the distant time when she was
+young, was now completely overlaid by a surface of a flabby fat which,
+assisted by green spectacles, kept the virtues (or vices) of this
+woman’s nature a profound secret until she opened her lips. When she
+used her voice, she let out the truth. Nobody could hear her speak, and
+doubt for a moment that she was an inveterately ill-natured woman.
+
+“Make your curtsey, child!” said Miss Wigger. Nature had so toned her
+voice as to make it worthy of the terrors of her face. But for her
+petticoats, it would have been certainly taken for the voice of a man.
+
+The child obeyed, trembling.
+
+“You are to go away with me,” the school-mistress proceeded, “and to be
+taught to make yourself useful under my roof.”
+
+Syd seemed to be incapable of understanding the fate that was in store
+for her. She sheltered herself behind her merciless mother. “I’m going
+away with you, mamma,” she said--“with you and Rick.”
+
+Her mother took her by the shoulders, and pushed her across the room to
+her aunt.
+
+The child looked at the formidable female creature with the man’s voice
+and the green spectacles.
+
+“You belong to me,” said Miss Wigger, by way of encouragement, “and
+I have come to take you away.” At those dreadful words, terror shook
+little Syd from head to foot. She fell on her knees with a cry of misery
+that might have melted the heart of a savage. “Oh, mamma, mamma, don’t
+leave me behind! What have I done to deserve it? Oh, pray, pray, pray
+have some pity on me!”
+
+Her mother was as selfish and as cruel a woman as ever lived. But even
+her hard heart felt faintly the influence of the most intimate and most
+sacred of all human relationships. Her florid cheeks turned pale. She
+hesitated.
+
+Miss Wigger marked (through her own green medium) that moment of
+maternal indecision--and saw that it was time to assert her experience
+as an instructress of youth.
+
+“Leave it to me,” she said to her sister. “You never did know, and you
+never will know, how to manage children.”
+
+She advanced. The child threw herself shrieking on the floor. Miss
+Wigger’s long arms caught her up--held her--shook her. “Be quiet, you
+imp!” It was needless to tell her to be quiet. Syd’s little curly
+head sank on the schoolmistress’s shoulder. She was carried into exile
+without a word or a cry--she had fainted.
+
+
+10.--The School.
+
+Time’s march moves slowly, where weary lives languish in dull places.
+
+Dating from one unkempt and unacknowledged birthday to another, Sydney
+Westerfield had attained the sixth year of her martyrdom at School. In
+that long interval no news of her mother, her brother, or her stepfather
+had reached England; she had received no letter, she had not even heard
+a report. Without friends, and without prospects, Roderick Westerfield’s
+daughter was, in the saddest sense of the word, alone in the world.
+
+
+
+The hands of the ugly old clock in the school-room were approaching
+the time when the studies of the morning would come to an end. Wearily
+waiting for their release, the scholars saw an event happen which was a
+novelty in their domestic experience. The maid-of-all-work audaciously
+put her head in at the door, and interrupted Miss Wigger conducting the
+education of the first-class.
+
+“If you please, miss, there’s a gentleman--”
+
+Having uttered these introductory words, she was reduced to silence by
+the tremendous voice of her mistress.
+
+“Haven’t I forbidden you to come here in school hours? Go away
+directly!”
+
+Hardened by a life of drudgery, under conditions of perpetual scolding,
+the servant stood her ground, and recovered the use of her tongue.
+
+“There’s a gentleman in the drawing-room,” she persisted. Miss Wigger
+tried to interrupt her again. “And here’s his card!” she shouted, in a
+voice that was the louder of the two.
+
+Being a mortal creature, the schoolmistress was accessible to the
+promptings of curiosity. She snatched the card out of the girl’s hand.
+
+_Mr. Herbert Linley, Mount Morven, Perthshire._ “I don’t know this
+person,” Miss Wigger declared. “You wretch, have you let a thief into
+the house?”
+
+“A gentleman, if ever I see one yet,” the servant asserted.
+
+“Hold your tongue! Did he ask for me? Do you hear?”
+
+“You told me to hold my tongue. No; he didn’t ask for you.”
+
+“Then who did he want to see?”
+
+“It’s on his card.”
+
+Miss Wigger referred to the card again, and discovered (faintly traced
+in pencil) these words: “To see Miss S.W.”
+
+The schoolmistress instantly looked at Miss Westerfield. Miss
+Westerfield rose from her place at the head of her class.
+
+The pupils, astonished at this daring act, all looked at the
+teacher--their natural enemy, appointed to supply them with undesired
+information derived from hated books. They saw one of Mother Nature’s
+favorite daughters; designed to be the darling of her family, and
+the conqueror of hearts among men of all tastes and ages. But Sydney
+Westerfield had lived for six weary years in the place of earthly
+torment, kept by Miss Wigger under the name of a school. Every budding
+beauty, except the unassailable beauty of her eyes and her hair, had
+been nipped under the frosty superintendence of her maternal aunt. Her
+cheeks were hollow, her delicate lips were pale; her shabby dress lay
+flat over her bosom. Observant people, meeting her when she was out
+walking with the girls, were struck by her darkly gentle eyes, and by
+the patient sadness of her expression. “What a pity!” they said to each
+other. “She would be a pretty girl, if she didn’t look so wretched and
+so thin.”
+
+At a loss to understand the audacity of her teacher in rising before the
+class was dismissed, Miss Wigger began by asserting her authority. She
+did in two words: “Sit down!”
+
+“I wish to explain, ma’am.”
+
+“Sit down.”
+
+“I beg, Miss Wigger, that you will allow me to explain.”
+
+“Sydney Westerfield, you are setting the worst possible example to your
+class. I shall see this man myself. _Will_ you sit down?”
+
+Pale already, Sydney turned paler still. She obeyed the word of
+command--to the delight of the girls of her class. It was then within
+ten minutes of the half hour after twelve--when the pupils were
+dismissed to the playground while the cloth was laid for dinner. What
+use would the teacher make of that half hour of freedom?
+
+In the meanwhile Miss Wigger had entered her drawing-room. With the
+slightest possible inclination of her head, she eyed the stranger
+through her green spectacles. Even under that disadvantage his
+appearance spoke for itself. The servant’s estimate of him was beyond
+dispute. Mr. Herbert Linley’s good breeding was even capable of
+suppressing all outward expression of the dismay that he felt, on
+finding himself face to face with the formidable person who had received
+him.
+
+“What is your business, if you please?” Miss Wigger began.
+
+Men, animals, and buildings wear out with years, and submit to their
+hard lot. Time only meets with flat contradiction when he ventures
+to tell a woman that she is growing old. Herbert Linley had rashly
+anticipated that the “young lady,” whom it was the object of his visit
+to see, would prove to be young in the literal sense of the word. When
+he and Miss Wigger stood face to face, if the door had been set open for
+him, he would have left the house with the greatest pleasure.
+
+“I have taken the liberty of calling,” he said, “in answer to an
+advertisement. May I ask”--he paused, and took out a newspaper from the
+pocket of his overcoat--“If I have the honor of speaking to the lady who
+is mentioned here?”
+
+He opened the newspaper, and pointed to the advertisement.
+
+Miss Wigger’s eyes rested--not on the passage indicated, but on the
+visitor’s glove. It fitted him to such perfection that it suggested the
+enviable position in life which has gloves made to order. He politely
+pointed again. Still inaccessible to the newspaper, Miss Wigger turned
+her spectacles next to the front window of the room, and discovered a
+handsome carriage waiting at the door. (Money evidently in the pockets
+of those beautiful trousers, worthy of the gloves!) As patiently
+as ever, Linley pointed for the third time, and drew Miss Wigger’s
+attention in the right direction at last. She read the advertisement.
+
+
+“A Young Lady wishes to be employed in the education of a little girl.
+Possessing but few accomplishments, and having been only a junior
+teacher at a school, she offers her services on trial, leaving it to her
+employer to pay whatever salary she may be considered to deserve, if
+she obtains a permanent engagement. Apply by letter, to S.W., 14, Delta
+Gardens, N.E.”
+
+“Most impertinent,” said Miss Wigger.
+
+Mr. Linley looked astonished.
+
+“I say, most impertinent!” Miss Wigger repeated.
+
+Mr. Linley attempted to pacify this terrible woman. “It’s very stupid of
+me,” he said; “I am afraid I don’t quite understand you.”
+
+“One of my teachers has issued an advertisement, and has referred to
+My address, without first consulting Me. Have I made myself understood,
+sir?” She looked at the carriage again, when she called him “sir.”
+
+Not even Linley’s capacity for self-restraint could repress the
+expression of relief, visible in his brightening face, when he
+discovered that the lady of the advertisement and the lady who terrified
+him were two different persons.
+
+“Have I made myself understood?” Miss Wigger repeated.
+
+“Perfectly, madam. At the same time, I am afraid I must own that the
+advertisement has produced a favorable impression on me.”
+
+“I fail entirely to see why,” Miss Wigger remarked.
+
+“There is surely,” Linley repeated, “something straightforward--I
+might almost say, something innocent--in the manner in which the writer
+expresses herself. She seems to be singularly modest on the subject
+of her own attainments, and unusually considerate of the interests of
+others. I hope you will permit me--?”
+
+Before he could add, “to see the young lady,” the door was opened: a
+young lady entered the room.
+
+Was she the writer of the advertisement? He felt sure of it, for no
+better reason than this: the moment he looked at her she interested him.
+It was an interest new to Linley, in his experience of himself. There was
+nothing to appeal to his admiration (by way of his senses) in the pale,
+worn young creature who stood near the door, resigned beforehand to
+whatever reception she might meet with. The poor teacher made him think
+of his happy young wife at home--of his pretty little girl, the spoiled
+child of the household. He looked at Sydney Westerfield with a heartfelt
+compassion which did honor to them both.
+
+“What do you mean by coming here?” Miss Wigger inquired.
+
+She answered gently, but not timidly. The tone in which the mistress had
+spoken had evidently not shaken her resolution, so far.
+
+“I wish to know,” she said, “if this gentleman desires to see me on the
+subject of my advertisement?”
+
+“Your advertisement?” Miss Wigger repeated. “Miss Westerfield! how dare
+you beg for employment in a newspaper, without asking my leave?”
+
+“I only waited to tell you what I had done, till I knew whether my
+advertisement would be answered or not.”
+
+She spoke as calmly as before, still submitting to the insolent
+authority of the schoolmistress with a steady fortitude very remarkable
+in any girl--and especially in a girl whose face revealed a sensitive
+nature. Linley approached her, and said his few kind words before Miss
+Wigger could assert herself for the third time.
+
+“I am afraid I have taken a liberty in answering you personally, when I
+ought to have answered by letter. My only excuse is that I have no time
+to arrange for an interview, in London, by correspondence. I live in
+Scotland, and I am obliged to return by the mail to-night.”
+
+He paused. She was looking at him. Did she understand him?
+
+She understood him only too well. For the first time, poor soul, in the
+miserable years of her school life, she saw eyes that rested on her
+with the sympathy that is too truly felt to be uttered in words. The
+admirable resignation which had learned its first hard lesson under
+her mother’s neglect--which had endured, in after-years, the daily
+persecution that heartless companionship so well knows how to
+inflict--failed to sustain her, when one kind look from a stranger
+poured its balm into the girl’s sore heart. Her head sank; her wasted
+figure trembled; a few tears dropped slowly on the bosom of her shabby
+dress. She tried, desperately tried, to control herself. “I beg your
+pardon, sir,” was all she could say; “I am not very well.”
+
+Miss Wigger tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the door. “Are you
+well enough to see your way out?” she asked.
+
+Linley turned on the wretch with a mind divided between wonder and
+disgust. “Good God, what has she done to deserve being treated in that
+way?” he asked.
+
+Miss Wigger’s mouth widened; Miss Wigger’s forehead developed new
+wrinkles. To own it plainly, the schoolmistress smiled.
+
+When it is of serious importance to a man to become acquainted with a
+woman’s true nature--say, when he contemplates marriage--his one poor
+chance of arriving at a right conclusion is to find himself provoked by
+exasperating circumstances, and to fly into a passion. If the lady flies
+into a passion on her side, he may rely on it that her faults are more
+than balanced by her good qualities. If, on the other hand, she exhibits
+the most admirable self-control, and sets him an example which ought to
+make him ashamed of himself, he has seen a bad sign, and he will do well
+to remember it.
+
+Miss Wigger’s self-control put Herbert Linley in the wrong, before she
+took the trouble of noticing what he had said.
+
+“If you were not out of temper,” she replied, “I might have told you
+that I don’t allow my house to be made an office for the engagement of
+governesses. As it is, I merely remind you that your carriage is at the
+door.”
+
+He took the only course that was open to him; he took his hat.
+
+Sydney turned away to leave the room. Linley opened the door for her.
+“Don’t be discouraged,” he whispered as she passed him; “you shall
+hear from me.” Having said this, he made his parting bow to the
+schoolmistress. Miss Wigger held up a peremptory forefinger, and stopped
+him on his way out. He waited, wondering what she would do next. She
+rang the bell.
+
+“You are in the house of a gentlewoman,” Miss Wigger explained. “My
+servant attends visitors, when they leave me.” A faint smell of soap
+made itself felt in the room; the maid appeared, wiping her smoking arms
+on her apron. “Door. I wish you good-morning”--were the last words of
+Miss Wigger.
+
+
+Leaving the house, Linley slipped a bribe into the servant’s hand. “I
+am going to write to Miss Westerfield,” he said. “Will you see that she
+gets my letter?”
+
+“That I will!”
+
+He was surprised by the fervor with which the girl answered him.
+Absolutely without vanity, he had no suspicion of the value which his
+winning manner, his kind brown eyes, and his sunny smile had conferred
+on his little gift of money. A handsome man was an eighth wonder of the
+world, at Miss Wigger’s school.
+
+At the first stationer’s shop that he passed, he stopped the carriage
+and wrote his letter.
+
+“I shall be glad indeed if I can offer you a happier life than the life
+you are leading now. It rests with you to help me do this. Will you send
+me the address of your parents, if they are in London, or the name of
+any friend with whom I can arrange to give you a trial as governess to
+my little girl? I am waiting your answer in the neighborhood. If any
+hinderance should prevent you from replying at once, I add the name of
+the hotel at which I am staying--so that you may telegraph to me, before
+I leave London to-night.”
+
+The stationer’s boy, inspired by a private view of half-a-crown, set off
+at a run--and returned at a run with a reply.
+
+“I have neither parents nor friends, and I have just been dismissed from
+my employment at the school. Without references to speak for me, I must
+not take advantage of your generous offer. Will you help me to bear my
+disappointment, permitting me to see you, for a few minutes only, at
+your hotel? Indeed, indeed, sir, I am not forgetful of what I owe to my
+respect for you, and my respect for myself. I only ask leave to satisfy
+you that I am not quite unworthy of the interest which you have been
+pleased to feel in--S.W.”
+
+In those sad words, Sydney Westerfield announced that she had completed
+her education.
+
+
+
+
+THE STORY
+
+
+
+
+FIRST BOOK.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter I. Mrs. Presty Presents Herself.
+
+NOT far from the source of the famous river, which rises in the
+mountains between Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond, and divides the
+Highlands and the Lowlands of Scotland, travelers arrive at the
+venerable gray walls of Mount Morven; and, after consulting their guide
+books, ask permission to see the house.
+
+What would be called, in a modern place of residence, the first
+floor, is reserved for the occupation of the family. The great hall of
+entrance, and its quaint old fireplace; the ancient rooms on the same
+level opening out of it, are freely shown to strangers. Cultivated
+travelers express various opinions relating to the family portraits,
+and the elaborately carved ceilings. The uninstructed public declines
+to trouble itself with criticism. It looks up at the towers and the
+loopholes, the battlements and the rusty old guns, which still bear
+witness to the perils of past times when the place was a fortress--it
+enters the gloomy hall, walks through the stone-paved rooms, stares at
+the faded pictures, and wonders at the lofty chimney-pieces hopelessly
+out of reach. Sometimes it sits on chairs which are as cold and as hard
+as iron, or timidly feels the legs of immovable tables which might be
+legs of elephants so far as size is concerned. When these marvels have
+been duly admired, and the guide books are shut up, the emancipated
+tourists, emerging into the light and air, all find the same social
+problem presented by a visit to Mount Morven: “How can the family live
+in such a place as that?”
+
+If these strangers on their travels had been permitted to ascend to the
+first floor, and had been invited (for example) to say good-night to
+Mrs. Linley’s pretty little daughter, they would have seen the stone
+walls of Kitty’s bed-chamber snugly covered with velvet hangings which
+kept out the cold; they would have trod on a doubly-laid carpet, which
+set the chilly influences of the pavement beneath it at defiance; they
+would have looked at a bright little bed, of the last new pattern,
+worthy of a child’s delicious sleep; and they would only have discovered
+that the room was three hundred years old when they had drawn aside the
+window curtains, and had revealed the adamantine solidity of the outer
+walls. Or, if they had been allowed to pursue their investigations a
+little further, and had found their way next into Mrs. Linley’s sitting
+room, here again a transformation scene would have revealed more modern
+luxury, presented in the perfection which implies restraint within the
+limits of good taste. But on this occasion, instead of seeing the head
+of a lively little child on the pillow, side by side with the head of
+her doll, they would have encountered an elderly lady of considerable
+size, fast asleep and snoring in a vast armchair, with a book on
+her lap. The married men among the tourists would have recognized a
+mother-in-law, and would have set an excellent example to the rest; that
+is to say, the example of leaving the room.
+
+The lady composed under the soporific influence of literature was a
+person of importance in the house--holding rank as Mrs. Linley’s mother;
+and being otherwise noticeable for having married two husbands, and
+survived them both.
+
+The first of these gentlemen--the Right Honorable Joseph Norman--had
+been a member of Parliament, and had taken office under Government. Mrs.
+Linley was his one surviving child. He died at an advanced age; leaving
+his handsome widow (young enough, as she was always ready to mention,
+to be his daughter) well provided for, and an object of matrimonial
+aspiration to single gentlemen who admired size in a woman, set off by
+money. After hesitating for some little time, Mrs. Norman accepted the
+proposal of the ugliest and dullest man among the ranks of her admirers.
+Why she became the wife of Mr. Presty (known in commercial circles as a
+merchant enriched by the sale of vinegar) she was never able to explain.
+Why she lamented him, with tears of sincere sorrow, when he died after
+two years of married life, was a mystery which puzzled her nearest and
+dearest friends. And why when she indulged (a little too frequently) in
+recollections of her married life, she persisted in putting obscure Mr.
+Presty on a level with distinguished Mr. Norman, was a secret which
+this remarkable woman had never been known to reveal. Presented by
+their widow with the strictest impartiality to the general view, the
+characters of these two husbands combined, by force of contrast, the
+ideal of manly perfection. That is to say, the vices of Mr. Norman were
+the virtues of Mr. Presty; and the vices of Mr. Presty were the virtues
+of Mr. Norman.
+
+Returning to the sitting-room after bidding Kitty goodnight, Mrs. Linley
+discovered the old lady asleep, and saw that the book on her mother’s
+lap was sliding off. Before she could check the downward movement, the
+book fell on the floor, and Mrs. Presty woke.
+
+“Oh, mamma, I am so sorry! I was just too late to catch it.”
+
+“It doesn’t matter, my dear. I daresay I should go to sleep again, if I
+went on with my novel.”
+
+“Is it really as dull as that?”
+
+“Dull?” Mrs. Presty repeated. “You are evidently not aware of what the
+new school of novel writing is doing. The new school provides the public
+with soothing fiction.”
+
+“Are you speaking seriously, mamma?”
+
+“Seriously, Catherine--and gratefully. These new writers are so good to
+old women. No story to excite our poor nerves; no improper characters to
+cheat us out of our sympathies, no dramatic situations to frighten us;
+exquisite management of details (as the reviews say), and a masterly
+anatomy of human motives which--I know what I mean, my dear, but I can’t
+explain it.”
+
+“I think I understand, mamma. A masterly anatomy of human motives which
+is in itself a motive of human sleep. No; I won’t borrow your novel just
+now. I don’t want to go to sleep; I am thinking of Herbert in London.”
+
+Mrs. Presty consulted her watch.
+
+“Your husband is no longer in London,” she announced; “he has begun his
+journey home. Give me the railway guide, and I’ll tell you when he will
+be here tomorrow. You may trust me, Catherine, to make no mistakes. Mr.
+Presty’s wonderful knowledge of figures has been of the greatest use to
+me in later life. Thanks to his instructions, I am the only person in
+the house who can grapple with the intricacies of our railway system.
+Your poor father, Mr. Norman, could never understand time-tables and
+never attempted to conceal his deficiencies. He had none of the vanity
+(harmless vanity, perhaps) which led poor Mr. Presty to express positive
+opinions on matters of which he knew nothing, such as pictures and
+music. What do you want, Malcolm?”
+
+The servant to whom this question was addressed answered: “A telegram,
+ma’am, for the mistress.”
+
+Mrs. Linley recoiled from the message when the man offered it to her.
+Not usually a very demonstrative person, the feeling of alarm which had
+seized on her only expressed itself in a sudden change of color. “An
+accident!” she said faintly. “An accident on the railway!”
+
+Mrs. Presty opened the telegram.
+
+“If you had been the wife of a Cabinet Minister,” she said to her
+daughter, “you would have been too well used to telegrams to let them
+frighten you. Mr. Presty (who received his telegrams at his office) was
+not quite just to the memory of my first husband. He used to blame Mr.
+Norman for letting me see his telegrams. But Mr. Presty’s nature had
+all the poetry in which Mr. Norman’s nature was deficient. He saw the
+angelic side of women--and thought telegrams and business, and all that
+sort of thing, unworthy of our mission. I don’t exactly understand what
+our mission is--”
+
+“Mamma! mamma! is Herbert hurt?”
+
+“Stuff and nonsense! Nobody is hurt; there has been no accident.”
+
+“They why does he telegraph to me?”
+
+Hitherto, Mrs. Presty had only looked at the message. She now read it
+through attentively to the end. Her face assumed an expression of stern
+distrust. She shook her head.
+
+“Read it yourself,” she answered; “and remember what I told you, when
+you trusted your husband to find a governess for my grandchild. I said:
+‘You do not know men as I do.’ I hope you may not live to repent it.”
+
+Mrs. Linley was too fond of her husband to let this pass. “Why shouldn’t
+I trust him?” she asked. “He was going to London on business--and it was
+an excellent opportunity.”
+
+Mrs. Presty disposed of this weak defense of her daughter’s conduct by
+waving her hand. “Read your telegram,” she repeated with dignity, “and
+judge for yourself.”
+
+Mrs. Linley read:
+
+“I have engaged a governess. She will travel in the same train with
+me. I think I ought to prepare you to receive a person whom you may
+be surprised to see. She is very young, and very inexperienced; quite
+unlike the ordinary run of governesses. When you hear how cruelly the
+poor girl has been used, I am sure you will sympathize with her as I
+do.”
+
+Mrs. Linley laid down the message, with a smile.
+
+“Poor dear Herbert!” she said tenderly. “After we have been eight years
+married, is he really afraid that I shall be jealous? Mamma! Why are you
+looking so serious?”
+
+Mrs. Presty took the telegram from her daughter and read extracts from
+it with indignant emphasis of voice and manner.
+
+“Travels in the same train with him. Very young, and very inexperienced.
+And he sympathizes with her. Ha! I know the men, Catherine--I know the
+men!”
+
+
+
+Chapter II. The Governess Enters.
+
+Mr. Herbert Linley arrived at his own house in the forenoon of the next
+day. Mrs. Linley, running out to the head of the stairs to meet her
+husband, saw him approaching her without a traveling companion. “Where
+is the governess?” she asked--when the first salutes allowed her the
+opportunity of speaking.
+
+“On her way to bed, poor soul, under the care of the housekeeper,”
+ Linley answered.
+
+“Anything infectious, my dear Herbert?” Mrs. Presty inquired appearing
+at the breakfast-room door.
+
+Linley addressed his reply to his wife:
+
+“Nothing more serious, Catherine, than want of strength. She was in such
+a state of fatigue, after our long night journey, that I had to lift her
+out of the carriage.”
+
+Mrs. Presty listened with an appearance of the deepest interest. “Quite
+a novelty in the way of a governess,” she said. “May I ask what her name
+is?”
+
+“Sydney Westerfield.”
+
+Mrs. Presty looked at her daughter and smiled satirically.
+
+Mrs. Linley remonstrated.
+
+“Surely,” she said, “you don’t object to the young lady’s name!”
+
+“I have no opinion to offer, Catherine. I don’t believe in the name.”
+
+“Oh, mamma, do you suspect that it’s an assumed name?”
+
+“My dear, I haven’t a doubt that it is. May I ask another question?”
+ the old lady continued, turning to Linley. “What references did Miss
+Westerfield give you?”
+
+“No references at all.”
+
+Mrs. Presty rose with the alacrity of a young woman, and hurried to the
+door. “Follow my example,” she said to her daughter, on her way out.
+“Lock up your jewel-box.”
+
+Linley drew a deep breath of relief when he was left alone with
+his wife. “What makes your mother so particularly disagreeable this
+morning?” he inquired.
+
+“She doesn’t approve, dear, of my leaving it to you to choose a
+governess for Kitty.”
+
+“Where is Kitty?”
+
+“Out on her pony for a ride over the hills. Why did you send a telegram,
+Herbert, to prepare me for the governess? Did you really think I might
+be jealous of Miss Westerfield?”
+
+Linley burst out laughing. “No such idea entered my head,” he answered.
+“It isn’t _in_ you, my dear, to be jealous.”
+
+Mrs. Linley was not quite satisfied with this view of her character. Her
+husband’s well-intended compliment reminded her that there are occasions
+when any woman may be jealous, no matter how generous and how gentle she
+may be. “We won’t go quite so far as that,” she said to him, “because--”
+ She stopped, unwilling to dwell too long on a delicate subject. He
+jocosely finished the sentence for her. “Because we don’t know what may
+happen in the future?” he suggested; making another mistake by making a
+joke.
+
+Mrs. Linley returned to the subject of the governess.
+
+“I don’t at all say what my mother says,” she resumed; “but was it
+not just a little indiscreet to engage Miss Westerfield without any
+references?”
+
+“Unless I am utterly mistaken,” Linley replied, “you would have been
+quite as indiscreet, in my place. If you had seen the horrible woman who
+persecuted and insulted her--”
+
+His wife interrupted him. “How did all this happen, Herbert? Who first
+introduced you to Miss Westerfield?”
+
+Linley mentioned the advertisement, and described his interview with the
+schoolmistress. Having next acknowledged that he had received a visit
+from Miss Westerfield herself, he repeated all that she had been able
+to tell him of her father’s wasted life and melancholy end. Really
+interested by this time, Mrs. Linley was eager for more information. Her
+husband hesitated. “I would rather you heard the rest of it from Miss
+Westerfield,” he said, “in my absence.”
+
+“Why in your absence?”
+
+“Because she can speak to you more freely, when I am not present. Hear
+her tell her own story, and then let me know whether you think I have
+made a mistake. I submit to your decision beforehand, whichever way it
+may incline.”
+
+Mrs. Linley rewarded him with a kiss. If a married stranger had seen
+them, at that moment, he would have been reminded of forgotten days--the
+days of his honeymoon.
+
+“And now,” Linley resumed, “suppose we talk a little about ourselves. I
+haven’t seen any brother yet. Where is Randal?”
+
+“Staying at the farm to look after your interests. We expect him to
+come back to-day. Ah, Herbert, what do we not all owe to that dear good
+brother of yours? There is really no end to his kindness. The last of
+our poor Highland families who have emigrated to America have had their
+expenses privately paid by Randal. The wife has written to me, and has
+let out the secret. There is an American newspaper, among the letters
+that are waiting your brother’s return, sent to him as a little mark
+of attention by these good grateful people.” Having alluded to the
+neighbors who had left Scotland, Mrs. Linley was reminded of other
+neighbors who had remained. She was still relating events of local
+interest, when the clock interrupted her by striking the hour of the
+nursery dinner. What had become of Kitty? Mrs. Linley rose and rang the
+bell to make inquiries.
+
+On the point of answering, the servant looked round at the open door
+behind him. He drew aside, and revealed Kitty, in the corridor, hand
+in hand with Sydney Westerfield--who timidly hesitated at entering the
+room. “Here she is mamma,” cried the child. “I think she’s afraid of
+you; help me to pull her in.”
+
+Mrs. Linley advanced to receive the new member of her household, with
+the irresistible grace and kindness which charmed every stranger who
+approached her. “Oh, it’s all right,” said Kitty. “Syd likes me, and I
+like Syd. What do you think? She lived in London with a cruel woman who
+never gave her enough to eat. See what a good girl I am? I’m beginning
+to feed her already.” Kitty pulled a box of sweetmeats out of her
+pocket, and handed it to the governess with a tap on the lid, suggestive
+of an old gentleman offering a pinch of snuff to a friend.
+
+“My dear child, you mustn’t speak of Miss Westerfield in that way! Pray
+excuse her,” said Mrs. Linley, turning to Sydney with a smile; “I am
+afraid she has been disturbing you in your room.”
+
+Sydney’s silent answer touched the mother’s heart; she kissed her little
+friend. “I hope you will let her call me Syd,” she said gently; “it
+reminds me of a happier time.” Her voice faltered; she could say no
+more. Kitty explained, with the air of a grown person encouraging a
+child. “I know all about it, mamma. She means the time when her papa was
+alive. She lost her papa when she was a little girl like me. I didn’t
+disturb her. I only said, ‘My name’s Kitty; may I get up on the bed?’
+And she was quite willing; and we talked. And I helped her to dress.”
+ Mrs. Linley led Sydney to the sofa, and stopped the flow of her
+daughter’s narrative. The look, the voice, the manner of the governess
+had already made their simple appeal to her generous nature. When her
+husband took Kitty’s hand to lead her with him out of the room, she
+whispered as he passed: “You have done quite right; I haven’t a doubt of
+it now!”
+
+
+
+Chapter III. Mrs. Presty Changes Her Mind.
+
+
+The two ladies were alone.
+
+Widely as the lot in life of one differed from the lot in life of the
+other, they presented a contrast in personal appearance which was more
+remarkable still. In the prime of life, tall and fair--the beauty of her
+delicate complexion and her brilliant blue eyes rivaled by the charm of
+a figure which had arrived at its mature perfection of development--Mrs.
+Linley sat side by side with a frail little dark-eyed creature, thin
+and pale, whose wasted face bore patient witness to the three cruelest
+privations under which youth can suffer--want of fresh air, want of
+nourishment, and want of kindness. The gentle mistress of the house
+wondered sadly if this lost child of misfortune was capable of seeing
+the brighter prospect before her that promised enjoyment of a happier
+life to come.
+
+“I was afraid to disturb you while you were resting,” Mrs. Linley said.
+“Let me hope that my housekeeper has done what I might have done myself,
+if I had seen you when you arrived.”
+
+“The housekeeper has been all that is good and kind to me, madam.”
+
+“Don’t call me ‘madam’; it sounds so formal--call me ‘Mrs. Linley.’ You
+must not think of beginning to teach Kitty till you feel stronger and
+better. I see but too plainly that you have not been happy. Don’t think
+of your past life, or speak of your past life.”
+
+“Forgive me, Mrs. Linley; my past life is my one excuse for having
+ventured to come into this house.”
+
+“In what way, my dear?”
+
+At the moment when that question was put, the closed curtains which
+separated the breakfast-room from the library were softly parted in
+the middle. A keen old face, strongly marked by curiosity and distrust,
+peeped through--eyed the governess with stern scrutiny--and retired
+again into hiding.
+
+The introduction of a stranger (without references) into the intimacy
+of the family circle was, as Mrs. Presty viewed it, a crisis in domestic
+history. Conscience, with its customary elasticity, adapted itself to
+the emergency, and Linley’s mother-in-law stole information behind the
+curtain--in Linley’s best interests, it is quite needless to say.
+
+The talk of the two ladies went on, without a suspicion on either side
+that it was overheard by a third person.
+
+Sydney explained herself.
+
+“If I had led a happier life,” she said, “I might have been able to
+resist Mr. Linley’s kindness. I concealed nothing from him. He knew that
+I had no friends to speak for me; he knew that I had been dismissed from
+my employment at the school. Oh, Mrs. Linley, everything I said which
+would have made other people suspicious of me made _him_ feel for me!
+I began to wonder whether he was an angel or a man. If he had not
+prevented it, I should have fallen on my knees before him. Hard looks
+and hard words I could have endured patiently, but I had not seen a kind
+look, I had not heard a kind word, for more years than I can reckon up.
+That is all I can say for myself; I leave the rest to your mercy.”
+
+“Say my sympathy,” Mrs. Linley answered, “and you need say no more. But
+there is one thing I should like to know. You have not spoken to me of
+your mother. Have you lost both your parents?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then you were brought up by your mother?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You surely had some experience of kindness when you were a child?”
+
+A third short answer would have been no very grateful return for Mrs.
+Linley’s kindness. Sydney had no choice but to say plainly what her
+experience of her mother had been.
+
+“Are there such women in the world!” Mrs. Linley exclaimed. “Where is
+your mother now?”
+
+“In America--I think.”
+
+“You think?”
+
+“My mother married again,” said Sydney. “She went to America with her
+husband and my little brother, six years ago.”
+
+“And left you behind?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And has she never written to you?”
+
+“Never.”
+
+This time, Mrs. Linley kept silence; not without an effort. Thinking of
+Sydney’s mother--and for one morbid moment seeing her own little darling
+in Sydney’s place--she was afraid to trust herself to speak while the
+first impression was vividly present to her mind.
+
+“I will only hope,” she replied, after waiting a little, “that some kind
+person pitied and helped you when you were deserted. Any change must
+have been for the better after that. Who took charge of you?”
+
+“My mother’s sister took charge of me, an elder sister, who kept a
+school. The time when I was most unhappy was the time when my aunt began
+to teach me. ‘If you don’t want to be beaten, and kept on bread and
+water,’ she said, ‘learn, you ugly little wretch, and be quick about
+it.”’
+
+“Did she speak in that shameful way to the other girls?”
+
+“Oh, no! I was taken into her school for nothing, and, young as I was,
+I was expected to earn my food and shelter by being fit to teach the
+lowest class. The girls hated me. It was such a wretched life that
+I hardly like to speak of it now. I ran away, and I was caught, and
+severely punished. When I grew older and wiser, I tried to find some
+other employment for myself. The elder girls bought penny journals that
+published stories. They were left about now and then in the bedrooms. I
+read the stories when I had the chance. Even my ignorance discovered how
+feeble and foolish they were. They encouraged me to try if I could write
+a story myself; I couldn’t do worse, and I might do better. I sent my
+manuscript to the editor. It was accepted and printed--but when I wrote
+and asked him if he would pay me something for it, he refused. Dozens
+of ladies, he said, wrote stories for him for nothing. It didn’t matter
+what the stories were. Anything would do for his readers, so long as the
+characters were lords and ladies, and there was plenty of love in it.
+My next attempt to get away from the school ended in another
+disappointment. A poor old man, who had once been an actor, used to come
+to us twice a week, and get a few shillings by teaching the girls to
+read aloud. He was called ‘Professor of English Literature,’ and he
+taught out of a ragged book of verses which smelled of his pipe. I
+learned one of the pieces and repeated it to him, and asked if there was
+any hope of my being able to go on the stage. He was very kind; he told
+me the truth. ‘My dear, you have no dramatic ability; God forbid you
+should go on the stage.’ I went back again to the penny journals, and
+tried a new editor. He seemed to have more money than the other one; or
+perhaps he was kinder. I got ten shillings from him for my story. With
+that money I made my last attempt--I advertised for a situation as
+governess. If Mr. Linley had not seen my advertisement, I might have
+starved in the streets. When my aunt heard of it, she insisted on my
+begging her pardon before the whole school. Do girls get half maddened
+by persecution? If they do, I think I must have been one of those girls.
+I refused to beg pardon; and I was dismissed from my situation without a
+character. Will you think me very foolish? I shut my eyes again, when
+I woke in my delicious bed to-day. I was afraid that the room, and
+everything in it, was a dream.” She looked round, and started to her
+feet. “Oh, here’s a lady! Shall I go away?”
+
+The curtains hanging over the entrance to the library were opened for
+the second time. With composure and dignity, the lady who had startled
+Sydney entered the room.
+
+“Have you been reading in the library?” Mrs. Linley asked. And Mrs.
+Presty answered: “No, Catherine; I have been listening.”
+
+Mrs. Linley looked at her mother; her lovely complexion reddened with a
+deep blush.
+
+“Introduce me to Miss Westerfield,” Mrs. Presty proceeded, as coolly as
+ever.
+
+Mrs. Linley showed some hesitation. What would the governess think of
+her mother? Perfectly careless of what the governess might think, Mrs.
+Presty crossed the room and introduced herself.
+
+“Miss Westerfield, I am Mrs. Linley’s mother. And I am, in one respect,
+a remarkable person. When I form an opinion and find it’s the opinion of
+a fool, I am not in the least ashamed to change my mind. I have changed
+my mind about you. Shake hands.”
+
+Sydney respectfully obeyed.
+
+“Sit down again.” Sydney returned to her chair.
+
+“I had the worst possible opinion of you,” Mrs. Presty resumed, “before
+I had the pleasure of listening on the other side of the curtain. It has
+been my good fortune--what’s your Christian name? Did I hear it? or have
+I forgotten it? ‘Sydney,’ eh? Very well. I was about to say, Sydney,
+that it has been my good fortune to be intimately associated, in early
+life, with two remarkable characters. Husbands of mine, in short,
+whose influence over me has, I am proud to say, set death and burial at
+defiance. Between them they have made my mind the mind of a man. I judge
+for myself. The opinions of others (when they don’t happen to agree with
+mine) I regard as chaff to be scattered to the winds. No, Catherine, I
+am not wandering. I am pointing out to a young person, who has her way
+to make in the world, the vast importance, on certain occasions, of
+possessing an independent mind. If I had been ashamed to listen behind
+those curtains, there is no injury that my stupid prejudices might not
+have inflicted on this unfortunate girl. As it is, I have heard her
+story, and I do her justice. Count on me, Sydney, as your friend, and
+now get up again. My grandchild (never accustomed to wait for anything
+since the day when she was born) is waiting dinner for you. She is at
+this moment shouting for her governess, as King Richard (I am a great
+reader of Shakespeare) once shouted for his horse. The maid (you will
+recognize her as a stout person suffering under tight stays) is waiting
+outside to show you the way to the nursery. _Au revoir._ Stop! I should
+like to judge the purity of your French accent. Say ‘au revoir’ to me.
+Thank you.--Weak in her French, Catherine,” Mrs. Presty pronounced, when
+the door had closed on the governess; “but what can you expect, poor
+wretch, after such a life as she has led? Now we are alone, I have a
+word of advice for your private ear. We have much to anticipate from
+Miss Westerfield that is pleasant and encouraging. But I don’t conceal
+it from myself or from you, we have also something to fear.”
+
+“To fear?” Mrs. Linley repeated. “I don’t understand you.”
+
+“Never mind, Catherine, whether you understand me or not. I want more
+information. Tell me what your husband said to you about this young
+lady?”
+
+Wondering at the demon of curiosity which appeared to possess her
+mother, Mrs. Linley obeyed. Listening throughout with the closest
+attention, Mrs. Presty reckoned up the items of information, and pointed
+the moral to be drawn from them by worldly experience.
+
+“First obstacle in the way of her moral development, her father--tried,
+found guilty, and dying in prison. Second obstacle, her mother--an
+unnatural wretch who neglected and deserted her own flesh and blood.
+Third obstacle, her mother’s sister--being her mother over again in an
+aggravated form. People who only look at the surface of things might
+ask what we gain by investigating Miss Westerfield’s past life. We gain
+this: we know what to expect of Miss Westerfield in the future.”
+
+“I for one,” Mrs. Linley interposed, “expect everything that is good and
+true.”
+
+“Say she’s naturally an angel,” Mrs. Presty answered; “and I won’t
+contradict you. But do pray hear how my experience looks at it. I
+remember what a life she has led, and I ask myself if any human creature
+could have suffered as that girl has suffered without being damaged by
+it. Among those damnable people--I beg your pardon, my dear; Mr.
+Norman sometimes used strong language, and it breaks out of me now and
+then--the good qualities of that unfortunate young person can _not_ have
+always resisted the horrid temptations and contaminations about her.
+Hundreds of times she must have had deceit forced on her; she must have
+lied, through ungovernable fear; she must have been left (at a critical
+time in her life, mind!) with no more warning against the insidious
+advances of the passions than--than--I’m repeating what Mr. Presty said
+of a niece of his own, who went to a bad school at Paris; and I don’t
+quite remember what comparisons that eloquent man used when he was
+excited. But I know what I mean. I like Miss Westerfield; I believe Miss
+Westerfield will come out well in the end. But I don’t forget that she
+is going to lead a new life here--a life of luxury, my dear; a life of
+ease and health and happiness--and God only knows what evil seed sown
+in her, in her past life, may not spring up under new influences. I tell
+you we must be careful; I tell you we must keep our eyes open. And so
+much the better for Her. And so much the better for Us.”
+
+Mrs. Presty’s wise and wary advice (presented unfavorably, it must be
+owned, through her inveterately quaint way of expressing herself) failed
+to produce the right impression on her daughter’s mind. Mrs. Linley
+replied in the tone of a person who was unaffectedly shocked.
+
+“Oh, mamma, I never knew you so unjust before! You can’t have heard all
+that Miss Westerfield said to me. You don’t know her, as I know her. So
+patient, so forgiving, so grateful to Herbert.”
+
+“So grateful to Herbert.” Mrs. Presty looked at her daughter in silent
+surprise. There could be no doubt about it; Mrs. Linley failed entirely
+to see any possibilities of future danger in the grateful feeling of her
+sensitive governess toward her handsome husband. At this exhibition of
+simplicity, the old lady’s last reserves of endurance gave way: she rose
+to go. “You have an excellent heart, Catherine,” she remarked; “but as
+for your head--”
+
+“Well, and what of my head?”
+
+“It’s always beautifully dressed, my dear, by your maid.” With that
+parting shot, Mrs. Presty took her departure by way of the library.
+Almost at the same moment, the door of the breakfast-room was opened. A
+young man advanced, and shook hands cordially with Mrs. Linley.
+
+
+
+Chapter IV. Randal Receives His Correspondence.
+
+
+Self-revealed by the family likeness as Herbert’s brother, Randal Linley
+was nevertheless greatly Herbert’s inferior in personal appearance.
+His features were in no way remarkable for manly beauty. In stature, he
+hardly reached the middle height; and young as he was, either bad habit
+or physical weakness had so affected the upper part of his figure that
+he stooped. But with these, and other disadvantages, there was something
+in his eyes, and in his smile--the outward expression perhaps of all
+that was modestly noble in his nature--so irresistible in its attractive
+influence that men, women, and children felt the charm alike. Inside of
+the house, and outside of the house, everybody was fond of Randal; even
+Mrs. Presty included.
+
+“Have you seen a new face among us, since you returned?” were his
+sister-in-law’s first words. Randal answered that he had seen Miss
+Westerfield. The inevitable question followed. What did he think of her?
+“I’ll tell you in a week or two more,” he replied.
+
+“No! tell me at once.”
+
+“I don’t like trusting my first impression; I have a bad habit of
+jumping to conclusions.”
+
+“Jump to a conclusion to please me. Do you think she’s pretty?”
+
+Randal smiled and looked away. “Your governess,” he replied, “looks
+out of health, and (perhaps for that reason) strikes me as being
+insignificant and ugly. Let us see what our fine air and our easy life
+here will do for her. In so young a woman as she is, I am prepared
+for any sort of transformation. We may be all admiring pretty Miss
+Westerfield before another month is over our heads.--Have any letters
+come for me while I have been away?”
+
+He went into the library and returned with his letters. “This will amuse
+Kitty,” he said, handing his sister-in-law the illustrated New York
+newspaper, to which she had already referred in speaking to her husband.
+
+Mrs. Linley examined the engravings--and turned back again to look once
+more at an illustration which had interested her. A paragraph on the
+same page caught her attention. She had hardly glanced at the first
+words before a cry of alarm escaped her. “Dreadful news for Miss
+Westerfield!” she exclaimed. “Read it, Randal.”
+
+He read these words:
+
+
+“The week’s list of insolvent traders includes an Englishman named James
+Bellbridge, formerly connected with a disreputable saloon in this city.
+Bellbridge is under suspicion of having caused the death of his wife in
+a fit of delirium tremens. The unfortunate woman had been married,
+for the first time, to one of the English aristocracy--the Honorable
+Roderick Westerfield--whose trial for casting away a ship under his
+command excited considerable interest in London some years since.
+The melancholy circumstances of the case are complicated by the
+disappearance, on the day of the murder, of the woman’s young son by her
+first husband. The poor boy is supposed to have run away in terror from
+his miserable home, and the police are endeavoring to discover some
+trace of him. It is reported that another child of the first marriage (a
+daughter) is living in England. But nothing is known about her.”
+
+
+“Has your governess any relations in England?” Randal asked.
+
+“Only an aunt, who has treated her in the most inhuman manner.”
+
+“Serious news for Miss Westerfield, as you say,” Randal resumed. “And,
+as I think, serious news for us. Here is a mere girl--a poor friendless
+creature--absolutely dependent on our protection. What are we to do if
+anything happens, in the future, to alter our present opinion of her?”
+
+“Nothing of the sort is likely to happen,” Mrs. Linley declared.
+
+“Let us hope not,” Randal said, gravely.
+
+
+
+Chapter V. Randal Writes to New York.
+
+
+The members of the family at Mount Morven consulted together, before
+Sydney Westerfield was informed of her brother’s disappearance and of
+her mother’s death.
+
+Speaking first, as master of the house, Herbert Linley offered his
+opinion without hesitation. His impulsive kindness shrank from the
+prospect of reviving the melancholy recollections associated with
+Sydney’s domestic life. “Why distress the poor child, just as she is
+beginning to feel happy among us?” he asked. “Give me the newspaper; I
+shan’t feel easy till I have torn it up.”
+
+His wife drew the newspaper out of his reach. “Wait a little,” she said,
+quietly; “some of us may feel that it is no part of our duty to conceal
+the truth.”
+
+Mrs. Presty spoke next. To the surprise of the family council, she
+agreed with her son-in-law.
+
+“Somebody must speak out,” the old lady began; “and I mean to set the
+example. Telling the truth,” she declared, turning severely to her
+daughter, “is a more complicated affair than you seem to think. It’s a
+question of morality, of course; but--in family circles, my dear--it’s
+sometimes a question of convenience as well. Is it convenient to upset
+my granddaughter’s governess, just as she is entering on her new duties?
+Certainly not! Good heavens, what does it matter to my young friend
+Sydney whether her unnatural mother lives or dies? Herbert, I second
+your proposal to tear up the paper with the greatest pleasure.”
+
+Herbert, sitting next to Randal, laid his hand affectionately on his
+brother’s shoulder. “Are you on our side?” he asked.
+
+Randal hesitated.
+
+“I feel inclined to agree with you,” he said to Herbert. “It does seem
+hard to recall Miss Westerfield to the miserable life that she has led,
+and to do it in the way of all others which must try her fortitude most
+cruelly. At the same time--”
+
+“Oh, don’t spoil what you have said by seeing the other side of the
+question!” cried his brother “You have already put it admirably; leave
+it as it is.”
+
+“At the same time,” Randal gently persisted, “I have heard no reasons
+which satisfy me that we have a right to keep Miss Westerfield in
+ignorance of what has happened.”
+
+This serious view of the question in debate highly diverted Mrs. Presty.
+“I do not like that man,” she announced, pointing to Randal; “he
+always amuses me. Look at him now! He doesn’t know which side he is on,
+himself.”
+
+“He is on my side,” Herbert declared.
+
+“Not he!”
+
+Herbert consulted his brother. “What do you say yourself?”
+
+“I don’t know,” Randal answered.
+
+“There!” cried Mrs. Presty. “What did I tell you?”
+
+Randal tried to set his strange reply in the right light. “I only mean,”
+ he explained, “that I want a little time to think.”
+
+Herbert gave up the dispute and appealed to his wife. “You have still
+got the American newspaper in your hand,” he said. “What do you mean to
+do with it?”
+
+Quietly and firmly Mrs. Linley answered: “I mean to show it to Miss
+Westerfield.”
+
+“Against my opinion? Against your mother’s opinion?” Herbert asked.
+“Have we no influence over you? Do as Randal does--take time, my dear,
+to think.”
+
+She answered this with her customary calmness of manner and sweetness of
+tone. “I am afraid I must appear obstinate; but it is indeed true that I
+want no time to think; my duty is too plain to me.”
+
+Her husband and her mother listened to her in astonishment. Too amiable
+and too happy--and it must be added too indolent--to assert herself in
+the ordinary emergencies of family life, Mrs. Linley only showed of what
+metal she was made on the very rare occasions when the latent firmness
+in her nature was stirred to its innermost depths. The general
+experience of this sweet-tempered and delightful woman, ranging over
+long intervals of time, was the only experience which remained in the
+memories of the persons about her. In bygone days, they had been amazed
+when her unexpected readiness and firmness of decision presented an
+exception to a general rule--just as they were amazed now.
+
+Herbert tried a last remonstrance. “Is it possible, Catherine, that you
+don’t see the cruelty of showing that newspaper to Miss Westerfield?”
+
+Even this appeal to Mrs. Linley’s sympathies failed to shake her
+resolution. “You may trust me to be careful,” was all she said in reply;
+“I shall prepare her as tenderly for the sad news from America, as if
+she was a daughter of my own.”
+
+Hearing this, Mrs. Presty showed a sudden interest in the proceedings
+“When do you mean to begin?” she asked.
+
+“At once, mamma.”
+
+Mrs. Presty broke up the meeting on the spot. “Wait till I am out of
+the way,” she stipulated. “Do you object to Herbert giving me his arm?
+Distressing scenes are not in his line or in mine.”
+
+Mrs. Linley made no objection. Herbert resigned himself (not at all
+unwillingly) to circumstances. Arm in arm, he and his wife’s mother left
+the room.
+
+Randal showed no intention of following them; he had given himself time
+to think. “We are all wrong, Catherine,” he said; “and you alone are
+right. What can I do to help you?”
+
+She took his hand gratefully. “Always kind! Never thinking of yourself!
+I will see Miss Westerfield in my own room. Wait here, in case I want
+you.”
+
+After a much shorter absence than Randal anticipated, Mrs. Linley
+returned. “Has it been very distressing?” he asked, seeing the traces of
+tears in her eyes.
+
+“There are noble qualities,” she answered, “in that poor ill-used
+girl. Her one thought, as soon as she began to understand my motive in
+speaking to her, was not for herself, but for me. Even you, a man, must
+have felt the tears in your eyes, if you had heard her promise that
+I should suffer no further anxiety on her account. ‘You shall see no
+distressing change in me,’ she said, ‘when we meet to-morrow.’ All she
+asked was to be left in her room for the rest of the day. I feel sure
+of her resolution to control herself; and yet I should like to encourage
+her if I can. Her chief sorrow (as it seems to me) must be--not for
+the mother who has so shamefully neglected her--but for the poor little
+brother, a castaway lost in a strange land. Can we do nothing to relieve
+her anxiety?”
+
+“I can write,” Randal said, “to a man whom I know in New York; a lawyer
+in large practice.”
+
+“The very person we want! Write--pray write by today’s post.”
+
+The letter was dispatched. It was decided--and wisely decided, as the
+result proved--to say nothing to Sydney until the answer was received.
+Randal’s correspondent wrote back with as little delay as possible. He
+had made every inquiry without success. Not a trace of the boy had been
+found, or (in the opinion of the police) was likely to be found. The one
+event that had happened, since the appearance of the paragraph in the
+New York journal, was the confinement of James Bellbridge in an asylum,
+as a madman under restraint without hope of recovery.
+
+
+
+Chapter VI. Sydney Teaches.
+
+
+Mrs. Presty had not very seriously exaggerated the truth, when she
+described her much-indulged granddaughter as “a child who had never been
+accustomed to wait for anything since the day when she was born.”
+
+Governesses in general would have found it no easy matter to produce a
+favorable impression on Kitty, and to exert the necessary authority in
+instructing her, at the same time. Spoiled children (whatever moralists
+may say to the contrary) are companionable and affectionate children,
+for the most part--except when they encounter the unfortunate persons
+employed to introduce them to useful knowledge. Mr. and Mrs. Linley
+(guiltily conscious of having been too fond of their only child
+to subject her to any sort of discipline) were not very willing
+to contemplate the prospect before Miss Westerfield on her first
+establishment in the schoolroom. To their surprise and relief there
+proved to be no cause for anxiety after all. Without making an attempt
+to assert her authority, the new governess succeeded nevertheless when
+older and wiser women would have failed.
+
+The secret of Sydney’s triumph over adverse circumstances lay hidden in
+Sydney herself.
+
+Everything in the ordinary routine of life at Mount Morven was a source
+of delight and surprise to the unfortunate creature who had passed
+through six years of cruelty, insult, and privation at her aunt’s
+school. Look where she might, in her new sphere of action, she
+saw pleasant faces and heard kind words. At meal times, wonderful
+achievements in the art of cookery appeared on the table which she
+had not only never tasted, but never even heard of. When she went out
+walking with her pupil they were free to go where they pleased, without
+restriction of time--except the time of dinner. To breathe the delicious
+air, to look at the glorious scenery, were enjoyments so exquisitely
+exhilarating that, by Sydney’s own confession, she became quite light
+headed with pleasure. She ran races with Kitty--and nobody reproved her.
+She rested, out of breath, while the stronger child was ready to run
+on--and no merciless voice cried “None of your laziness; time’s up!”
+ Wild flowers that she had never yet seen might be gathered, and no
+offense was committed. Kitty told her the names of the flowers, and
+the names of the summer insects that flashed and hummed in the hillside
+breezes; and was so elated at teaching her governess that her rampant
+spirits burst out in singing. “Your turn next,” the joyous child cried,
+when she too was out of breath. “Sing, Sydney--sing!” Alas for Sydney!
+She had not sung since those happiest days of her childhood, when her
+good father had told her fairy stories, and taught her songs. They
+were all forgotten now. “I can’t sing, Kitty; I can’t sing.” The pupil,
+hearing this melancholy confession, became governess once more. “Say the
+words, Syd; and hum the tune after me.” They laughed over the singing
+lesson, until the echoes of the hills mocked them, and laughed too.
+Looking into the schoolroom, one day, Mrs. Linley found that the serious
+business of teaching was not neglected. The lessons went on smoothly,
+without an obstacle in the way. Kitty was incapable of disappointing her
+friend and playfellow, who made learning easy with a smile and a kiss.
+The balance of authority was regulated to perfection in the lives of
+these two simple creatures. In the schoolroom, the governess taught the
+child. Out of the schoolroom, the child taught the governess. Division
+of labor was a principle in perfect working order at Mount Morven--and
+nobody suspected it! But, as the weeks followed each other, one more
+remarkable circumstance presented itself which every person in the
+household was equally quick to observe. The sad Sydney Westerfield whom
+they all pitied had now become the pretty Sydney Westerfield whom they
+all admired. It was not merely a change--it was a transformation. Kitty
+stole the hand-glass from her mother’s room, and insisted that her
+governess should take it and look at herself. “Papa says you’re as plump
+as a partridge; and mamma says you’re as fresh as a rose; and Uncle
+Randal wags his head, and tells them he saw it from the first. I heard
+it all when they thought I was playing with my doll--and I want to know,
+you best of nice girls, what you think of your own self?”
+
+“I think, my dear, it’s time we went on with our lessons.”
+
+“Wait a little, Syd; I have something else to say.”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“It’s about papa. He goes out walking with us--doesn’t he?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“He didn’t go out walking with me--before you came here. I’ve been
+thinking about it; and I’m sure papa likes you. What are you looking in
+the drawer for?”
+
+“For your lesson books, dear.”
+
+“Yes--but I haven’t quite done yet. Papa talks a good deal to you, and
+you don’t talk much to papa. Don’t you like him?”
+
+“Oh, Kitty!”
+
+“Then do you like him?”
+
+“How can I help liking him? I owe all my happiness to your papa.”
+
+“Do you like him better than mamma?”
+
+“I should be very ungrateful, if I liked anybody better than your
+mamma.”
+
+Kitty considered a little, and shook her head. “I don’t understand
+that,” she declared roundly. “What do you mean?”
+
+Sydney cleaned the pupil’s slate, and set the pupil’s sum--and said
+nothing.
+
+Kitty placed a suspicious construction of her own on her governess’s
+sudden silence. “Perhaps you don’t like my wanting to know so many
+things,” she suggested. “Or perhaps you meant to puzzle me?”
+
+Sydney sighed, and answered, “I’m puzzled myself.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter VII. Sydney Suffers.
+
+In the autumn holiday-time friends in the south, who happened to be
+visiting Scotland, were invited to stop at Mount Morven on their way to
+the Highlands; and were accustomed to meet the neighbors of the Linleys
+at dinner on their arrival. The time for this yearly festival had now
+come round again; the guests were in the house; and Mr. and Mrs. Linley
+were occupied in making their arrangements for the dinner-party. With
+her unfailing consideration for every one about her, Mrs. Linley did not
+forget Sydney while she was sending out her cards of invitation.
+“Our table will be full at dinner,” she said to her husband; “Miss
+Westerfield had better join us in the evening with Kitty.”
+
+“I suppose so,” Linley answered with some hesitation.
+
+“You seem to doubt about it, Herbert. Why?”
+
+“I was only wondering--”
+
+“Wondering about what?”
+
+“Has Miss Westerfield got a gown, Catherine, that will do for a party?”
+
+Linley’s wife looked at him as if she doubted the evidence of her own
+senses. “Fancy a man thinking of that!” she exclaimed. “Herbert, you
+astonish me.”
+
+He laughed uneasily. “I don’t know how I came to think of it--unless it
+is that she wears the same dress every day. Very neat; but (perhaps I’m
+wrong) a little shabby too.”
+
+“Upon my word, you pay Miss Westerfield a compliment which you have
+never paid to me! Wear what I may, you never seem to know how _I_ am
+dressed.”
+
+“I beg your pardon, Catherine, I know that you are always dressed well.”
+
+That little tribute restored him to his place in his wife’s estimation.
+“I may tell you now,” she resumed, with her gentle smile, “that you only
+remind me of what I had thought of already. My milliner is at work for
+Miss Westerfield. The new dress must be your gift.”
+
+“Are you joking?”
+
+“I am in earnest. To-morrow is Sydney’s birthday; and here is _my_
+present.” She opened a jeweler’s case, and took out a plain gold
+bracelet. “Suggested by Kitty,” she added, pointing to an inlaid
+miniature portrait of the child. Herbert read the inscription: _To
+Sydney Westerfield with Catherine Linley’s love._ He gave the bracelet
+back to his wife in silence; his manner was more serious than usual--he
+kissed her hand.
+
+The day of the dinner-party marked an epoch in Sydney’s life.
+
+For the first time, in all her past experience, she could look in the
+glass, and see herself prettily dressed, with a gold bracelet on her
+arm. If we consider how men (in one way) and milliners (in another)
+profit by it, vanity is surely to be reckoned, not among the vices but
+among the virtues of the sex. Will any woman, who speaks the truth,
+hesitate to acknowledge that her first sensations of gratified vanity
+rank among the most exquisite and most enduring pleasures that she has
+ever felt? Sydney locked her door, and exhibited herself to herself--in
+the front view, the side view, and the back view (over the shoulder)
+with eyes that sparkled and cheeks that glowed in a delicious confusion
+of pride and astonishment. She practiced bowing to strangers in her new
+dress; she practiced shaking hands gracefully, with her bracelet well in
+view. Suddenly she stood still before the glass and became serious and
+thoughtful. Kind and dear Mr. Linley was in her mind now. While she was
+asking herself anxiously what he would think of her, Kitty--arrayed in
+_her_ new finery, as vain and as happy as her governess--drummed with
+both fists outside the door, and announced at the top of her voice that
+it was time to go downstairs. Sydney’s agitation at the prospect of
+meeting the ladies in the drawing-room added a charm of its own to the
+flush that her exercises before the glass had left on her face. Shyly
+following instead of leading her little companion into the room, she
+presented such a charming appearance of youth and beauty that the ladies
+paused in their talk to look at her. Some few admired Kitty’s governess
+with generous interest; the greater number doubted Mrs. Linley’s
+prudence in engaging a girl so very pretty and so very young. Little
+by little, Sydney’s manner--simple, modest, shrinking from
+observation--pleaded in her favor even with the ladies who had been
+prejudiced against her at the outset. When Mrs. Linley presented her
+to the guests, the most beautiful woman among them (Mrs. MacEdwin) made
+room for her on the sofa, and with perfect tact and kindness set the
+stranger at her ease. When the gentlemen came in from the dinner-table,
+Sydney was composed enough to admire the brilliant scene, and to wonder
+again, as she had wondered already, what Mr. Linley would say to her new
+dress.
+
+Mr. Linley certainly did notice her--at a distance.
+
+He looked at her with a momentary fervor of interest and admiration
+which made Sydney (so gratefully and so guiltlessly attached to him)
+tremble with pleasure; he even stepped forward as if to approach her,
+checked himself, and went back again among his guests. Now, in one part
+of the room, and now in another, she saw him speaking to them. The one
+neglected person whom he never even looked at again, was the poor girl
+to whom his approval was the breath of her life. Had she ever felt so
+unhappy as she felt now? No, not even at her aunt’s school!
+
+Friendly Mrs. MacEdwin touched her arm. “My dear, you are losing your
+pretty color. Are you overcome by the heat? Shall I take you into the
+next room?”
+
+Sydney expressed her sincere sense of the lady’s kindness. Her
+commonplace excuse was a true excuse--she had a headache; and she asked
+leave to retire to her room.
+
+Approaching the door, she found herself face to face with Mr. Linley.
+He had just been giving directions to one of the servants, and was
+re-entering the drawing-room. She stopped, trembling and cold; but,
+in the very intensity of her wretchedness, she found courage enough to
+speak to him.
+
+“You seem to avoid me, Mr. Linley,” she began, addressing him with
+ceremonious respect, and keeping her eyes on the ground. “I hope--”
+ she hesitated, and desperately looked at him--“I hope I haven’t done
+anything to offend you?”
+
+In her knowledge of him, up to that miserable evening, he constantly
+spoke to her with a smile. She had never yet seen him so serious and so
+inattentive as he was now. His eyes, wandering round the room, rested
+on Mrs. Linley--brilliant and beautiful, and laughing gayly. Why was
+he looking at his wife with plain signs of embarrassment in his face?
+Sydney piteously persisted in repeating her innocent question: “I hope I
+haven’t done anything to offend you?”
+
+He seemed to be still reluctant to notice her--on the one occasion of
+all others when she was looking her best! But he answered at last.
+
+“My dear child, it is impossible that you should offend me; you have
+misunderstood and mistaken me. Don’t suppose--pray don’t suppose that I
+am changed or can ever be changed toward you.”
+
+He emphasized the kind intention which those words revealed by giving
+her his hand.
+
+But the next moment he drew back. There was no disguising it, he drew
+back as if he wished to get away from her. She noticed that his lips
+were firmly closed and his eyebrows knitted in a frown; he looked like
+a man who was forcing himself to submit to some hard necessity that he
+hated or feared.
+
+Sydney left the room in despair.
+
+He had denied in the plainest and kindest terms that he was changed
+toward her. Was that not enough? It was nothing like enough. The facts
+were there to speak for themselves: he was an altered man; anxiety,
+sorrow, remorse--one or the other seemed to have got possession of him.
+Judging by Mrs. Linley’s gayety of manner, his wife could not possibly
+have been taken into his confidence.
+
+What did it mean? Oh, the useless, hopeless question! And yet, again and
+again she asked herself: what did it mean?
+
+In bewildered wretchedness she lingered on the way to her room, and
+stopped at the end of a corridor.
+
+On her right hand, a broad flight of old oak stairs led to the
+bed-chambers on the second floor of the house. On her left hand, an
+open door showed the stone steps which descended to the terrace and the
+garden. The moonlight lay in all its loveliness on the flower-beds
+and the grass, and tempted her to pause and admire it. A prospect of
+sleepless misery was the one prospect before her that Sydney could see,
+if she retired to rest. The cool night air came freshly up the vaulted
+tunnel in which the steps were set; the moonlit garden offered its
+solace to the girl’s sore heart. No curious women-servants appeared on
+the stairs that led to the bed-chambers. No inquisitive eyes could look
+at her from the windows of the ground floor--a solitude abandoned to the
+curiosity of tourists. Sydney took her hat and cloak from the stand in a
+recess at the side of the door, and went into the garden.
+
+
+
+Chapter VIII.
+
+Mrs. Presty Makes a Discovery.
+
+
+The dinner-party had come to an end; the neighbors had taken their
+departure; and the ladies at Mount Morven had retired for the night.
+
+On the way to her room Mrs. Presty knocked at her daughter’s door. “I
+want to speak to you, Catherine. Are you in bed?”
+
+“No, mamma. Come in.”
+
+Robed in a dressing-gown of delicately-mingled white and blue, and
+luxuriously accommodated on the softest pillows that could be placed in
+an armchair, Mrs. Linley was meditating on the events of the evening.
+“This has been the most successful party we have ever given,” she
+said to her mother. “And did you notice how charmingly pretty Miss
+Westerfield looked in her new dress?”
+
+“It’s about that girl I want to speak to you,” Mrs. Presty answered,
+severely. “I had a higher opinion of her when she first came here than I
+have now.”
+
+Mrs. Linley pointed to an open door, communicating with a second and
+smaller bed-chamber. “Not quite so loud,” she answered, “or you
+might wake Kitty. What has Miss Westerfield done to forfeit your good
+opinion?”
+
+Discreet Mrs. Presty asked leave to return to the subject at a future
+opportunity.
+
+“I will merely allude now,” she said, “to a change for the worse in your
+governess, which you might have noticed when she left the drawing-room
+this evening. She had a word or two with Herbert at the door; and she
+left him looking as black as thunder.”
+
+Mrs. Linley laid herself back on her pillows and burst out laughing.
+“Black as thunder? Poor little Sydney, what a ridiculous description of
+her! I beg your pardon, mamma; don’t be offended.”
+
+“On the contrary, my dear, I am agreeably surprised. Your poor father--a
+man of remarkable judgment on most subjects--never thought much of
+your intelligence. He appears to have been wrong; you have evidently
+inherited some of my sense of humor. However, that is not what I wanted
+to say; I am the bearer of good news. When we find it necessary to get
+rid of Miss Westerfield--”
+
+Mrs. Linley’s indignation expressed itself by a look which, for the
+moment at least, reduced her mother to silence. Always equal to the
+occasion, however, Mrs. Presty’s face assumed an expression of innocent
+amazement, which would have produced a round of applause on the stage.
+“What have I said to make you angry?” she inquired. “Surely, my dear,
+you and your husband are extraordinary people.”
+
+“Do you mean to tell me, mamma, that you have said to Herbert what you
+said just now to me?”
+
+“Certainly. I mentioned it to Herbert in the course of the evening.
+He was excessively rude. He said: ‘Tell Mrs. MacEdwin to mind her own
+business--and set her the example yourself.’”
+
+Mrs. Linley returned her mother’s look of amazement, without her
+mother’s eye for dramatic effect. “What has Mrs. MacEdwin to do with
+it?” she asked.
+
+“If you will only let me speak, Catherine, I shall be happy to explain
+myself. You saw Mrs. MacEdwin talking to me at the party. That
+good lady’s head--a feeble head, as all her friends admit--has been
+completely turned by Miss Westerfield. ‘The first duty of a governess’
+(this foolish woman said to me) ‘is to win the affections of her pupils.
+_My_ governess has entirely failed to make the children like her. A
+dreadful temper; I have given her notice to leave my service. Look at
+that sweet girl and your little granddaughter! I declare I could cry
+when I see how they understand each other and love each other.’ I quote
+our charming friend’s nonsense, verbatim (as we used to say when we were
+in Parliament in Mr. Norman’s time), for the sake of what it led to. If,
+by any lucky chance, Miss Westerfield happens to be disengaged in the
+future, Mrs. MacEdwin’s house is open to her--at her own time, and on
+her own terms. I promised to speak to you on the subject, and I perform
+my promise. Think over it; I strongly advise you to think over it.”
+
+Even Mrs. Linley’s good nature declined to submit to this. “I shall
+certainly not think over what cannot possibly happen,” she said.
+“Good-night, mamma.”
+
+“Good-night, Catherine. Your temper doesn’t seem to improve as you get
+older. Perhaps the excitement of the party has been too much for
+your nerves. Try to get some sleep before Herbert comes up from the
+smoking-room and disturbs you.”
+
+Mrs. Linley refused even to let this pass unanswered. “Herbert is too
+considerate to disturb me, when his friends keep him up late,” she said.
+“On those occasions, as you may see for yourself, he has a bed in his
+dressing-room.”
+
+Mrs. Presty passed through the dressing-room on her way out. “A very
+comfortable-looking bed,” she remarked, in a tone intended to reach her
+daughter’s ears. “I wonder Herbert ever leaves it.”
+
+The way to her own bed-chamber led her by the door of Sydney’s room. She
+suddenly stopped; the door was not shut. This was in itself a suspicious
+circumstance.
+
+Young or old, ladies are not in the habit of sleeping with their bedroom
+doors ajar. A strict sense of duty led Mrs. Presty to listen outside.
+No sound like the breathing of a person asleep was to be heard. A
+strict sense of duty conducted Mrs. Presty next into the room, and even
+encouraged her to approach the bed on tip-toe. The bed was empty; the
+clothes had not been disturbed since it had been made in the morning!
+
+The old lady stepped out into the corridor in a state of excitement,
+which greatly improved her personal appearance. She looked almost young
+again as she mentally reviewed the list of vices and crimes which a
+governess might commit, who had retired before eleven o’clock, and was
+not in her bedroom at twelve. On further reflection, it appeared to be
+barely possible that Miss Westerfield might be preparing her pupil’s
+exercises for the next day. Mrs. Presty descended to the schoolroom on
+the first floor.
+
+No. Here again there was nothing to see but an empty room.
+
+Where was Miss Westerfield?
+
+Was it within the limits of probability that she had been bold enough to
+join the party in the smoking-room? The bare idea was absurd.
+
+In another minute, nevertheless, Mrs. Presty was at the door, listening.
+The men’s voices were loud: they were talking politics. She peeped
+through the keyhole; the smokers had, beyond all doubt, been left to
+themselves. If the house had not been full of guests, Mrs. Presty would
+now have raised an alarm. As things were, the fear of a possible scandal
+which the family might have reason to regret forced her to act with
+caution. In the suggestive retirement of her own room, she arrived at a
+wise and wary decision. Opening her door by a few inches, she placed
+a chair behind the opening in a position which commanded a view of
+Sydney’s room. Wherever the governess might be, her return to her
+bed-chamber, before the servants were astir in the morning, was a chance
+to be counted on. The night-lamp in the corridor was well alight; and
+a venerable person, animated by a sense of duty, was a person naturally
+superior to the seductions of sleep. Before taking the final precaution
+of extinguishing her candle, Mrs. Presty touched up her complexion, and
+resolutely turned her back on her nightcap. “This is a case in which
+I must keep up my dignity,” she decided, as she took her place in the
+chair.
+
+
+
+One man in the smoking-room appeared to be thoroughly weary of talking
+politics. That man was the master of the house.
+
+Randal noticed the worn, preoccupied look in his brother’s face, and
+determined to break up the meeting. The opportunity for which he
+was waiting occurred in another minute. He was asked as a moderate
+politician to decide between two guests, both members of Parliament, who
+were fast drifting into mere contradiction of each other’s second-hand
+opinions. In plain terms, they stated the matter in dispute: “Which of
+our political parties deserves the confidence of the English people?”
+ In plain terms, on his sides Randal answered: “The party that lowers
+the taxes.” Those words acted on the discussion like water on a fire.
+As members of Parliament, the two contending politicians were naturally
+innocent of the slightest interest in the people or the taxes; they
+received the new idea submitted to them in helpless silence. Friends
+who were listening began to laugh. The oldest man present looked at his
+watch. In five minutes more the lights were out and the smoking-room was
+deserted.
+
+Linley was the last to retire--fevered by the combined influences of
+smoke and noise. His mind, oppressed all through the evening, was as ill
+at ease as ever. Lingering, wakeful and irritable, in the corridor (just
+as Sydney had lingered before him), he too stopped at the open door and
+admired the peaceful beauty of the garden.
+
+The sleepy servant, appointed to attend in the smoking room, asked if he
+should close the door. Linley answered: “Go to bed, and leave it to
+me.” Still lingering at the top of the steps, he too was tempted by the
+refreshing coolness of the air. He took the key out of the lock; secured
+the door after he had passed through it; put the key in his pocket, and
+went down into the garden.
+
+
+
+Chapter IX. Somebody Attends to the Door.
+
+
+With slow steps Linley crossed the lawn; his mind gloomily absorbed
+in thoughts which had never before troubled his easy nature--thoughts
+heavily laden with a burden of self-reproach.
+
+Arrived at the limits of the lawn, two paths opened before him. One
+led into a quaintly pretty inclosure, cultivated on the plan of the old
+gardens at Versailles, and called the French Garden. The other path
+led to a grassy walk, winding its way capriciously through a thick
+shrubbery. Careless in what direction he turned his steps, Linley
+entered the shrubbery, because it happened to be nearest to him.
+
+Except at certain points, where the moonlight found its way through open
+spaces in the verdure, the grassy path which he was now following wound
+onward in shadow. How far he had advanced he had not noticed, when he
+heard a momentary rustling of leaves at some little distance in advance
+of him. The faint breeze had died away; the movement among the leaves
+had been no doubt produced by the creeping or the flying of some
+creature of the night. Looking up, at the moment when he was disturbed
+by this trifling incident, he noticed a bright patch of moonlight ahead
+as he advanced to a new turn in the path.
+
+The instant afterward he was startled by the appearance of a figure,
+emerging into the moonlight from the further end of the shrubbery,
+and rapidly approaching him. He was near enough to see that it was the
+figure of a woman. Was it one of the female servants, hurrying back to
+the house after an interview with a sweetheart? In his black evening
+dress, he was, in all probability, completely hidden by the deep shadow
+in which he stood. Would he be less likely to frighten the woman if
+he called to her than if he allowed her to come close up to him in the
+dark? He decided on calling to her.
+
+“Who is out so late?” he asked.
+
+A cry of alarm answered him. The figure stood still for a moment, and
+then turned back as if to escape him by flight.
+
+“Don’t be frightened,” he said. “Surely you know my voice?”
+
+The figure stood still again. He showed himself in the moonlight, and
+discovered--Sydney Westerfield.
+
+“You!” he exclaimed.
+
+She trembled; the words in which she answered him were words in
+fragments.
+
+“The garden was so quiet and pretty--I thought there would be no
+harm--please let me go back--I’m afraid I shall be shut out--”
+
+She tried to pass him. “My poor child!” he said, “what is there to be
+frightened about? I have been tempted out by the lovely night, like you.
+Take my arm. It is so close in here among the trees. If we go back to
+the lawn, the air will come to you freely.”
+
+She took his arm; he could feel her heart throbbing against it. Kindly
+silent, he led her back to the open space. Some garden chairs were
+placed here and there; he suggested that she should rest for a while.
+
+“I’m afraid I shall be shut out,” she repeated. “Pray let me get back.”
+
+He yielded at once to the wish that she expressed. “You must let me take
+you back,” he explained. “They are all asleep at the house by this time.
+No! no! don’t be frightened again. I have got the key of the door. The
+moment I have opened it, you shall go in by yourself.”
+
+She looked at him gratefully. “You are not offended with me now, Mr.
+Linley,” she said. “You are like your kind self again.”
+
+They ascended the steps which led to the door. Linley took the key from
+his pocket. It acted perfectly in drawing back the lock; but the door,
+when he pushed it, resisted him. He put his shoulder against it, and
+exerted his strength, helped by his weight. The door remained immovable.
+
+Had one of the servants--sitting up later than usual after the party,
+and not aware that Mr. Linley had gone into the garden--noticed the
+door, and carefully fastened the bolts on the inner side? That was
+exactly what had happened.
+
+There was nothing for it but to submit to circumstances. Linley led the
+way down the steps again. “We are shut out,” he said.
+
+Sydney listened in silent dismay. He seemed to be merely amused; he
+treated their common misfortune as lightly as if it had been a joke.
+
+“There’s nothing so very terrible in our situation,” he reminded her.
+“The servants’ offices will be opened between six and seven o’clock; the
+weather is perfect; and the summer-house in the French Garden has one
+easy-chair in it, to my certain knowledge, in which you may rest and
+sleep. I’m sure you must be tired--let me take you there.”
+
+She drew back, and looked up at the house.
+
+“Can’t we make them hear us?” she asked.
+
+“Quite impossible. Besides--” He was about to remind her of the evil
+construction which might be placed on their appearance together,
+returning from the garden at an advanced hour of the night; but her
+innocence pleaded with him to be silent. He only said, “You forget that
+we all sleep at the top of our old castle. There is no knocker to the
+door, and no bell that rings upstairs. Come to the summer-house. In an
+hour or two more we shall see the sun rise.”
+
+She took his arm in silence. They reached the French Garden without
+another word having passed between them.
+
+The summer-house had been designed, in harmony with the French taste of
+the last century, from a classical model. It was a rough copy in wood of
+The Temple of Vesta at Rome. Opening the door for his companion, Linley
+paused before he followed her in. A girl brought up by a careful mother
+would have understood and appreciated his hesitation; she would have
+concealed any feeling of embarrassment that might have troubled her at
+the moment, and would have asked him to come back and let her know
+when the rising of the sun began. Neglected by her mother, worse than
+neglected by her aunt, Sydney’s fearless ignorance put a question
+which would have lowered the poor girl cruelly in the estimation of a
+stranger. “Are you going to leave me here by myself?” she asked. “Why
+don’t you come in?”
+
+Linley thought of his visit to the school, and remembered the detestable
+mistress. He excused Sydney; he felt for her. She held the door open for
+him. Sure of himself, he entered the summer-house.
+
+As a mark of respect on her part, she offered the armchair to him: it
+was the one comfortable seat in the neglected place. He insisted that
+she should take it; and, searching the summer-house, found a wooden
+stool for himself. The small circular room received but little of the
+dim outer light--they were near each other--they were silent. Sydney
+burst suddenly into a nervous little laugh.
+
+“Why do you laugh?” he asked good-humoredly.
+
+“It seems so strange, Mr. Linley, for us to be out here.” In the moment
+when she made that reply her merriment vanished; she looked out sadly,
+through the open door, at the stillness of the night. “What should
+I have done,” she wondered, “if I had been shut out of the house by
+myself?” Her eyes rested on him timidly; there was some thought in her
+which she shrank from expressing. She only said: “I wish I knew how to
+be worthy of your kindness.”
+
+Her voice warned him that she was struggling with strong emotion. In one
+respect, men are all alike; they hate to see a woman in tears. Linley
+treated her like a child; he smiled, and patted her on the shoulder.
+“Nonsense!” he said gayly. “There is no merit in being kind to my good
+little governess.”
+
+She took that comforting hand--it was a harmless impulse that she was
+unable to resist--she bent over it, and kissed it gratefully. He drew
+his hand away from her as if the soft touch of her lips had been fire
+that burned it. “Oh,” she cried, “have I done wrong?”
+
+“No, my dear--no, no.”
+
+There was an embarrassment in his manner, the inevitable result of
+his fear of himself if he faltered in the resolute exercise of
+self-restraint, which was perfectly incomprehensible to Sydney. He moved
+his seat back a little, so as to place himself further away. Something
+in that action, at that time, shocked and humiliated her. Completely
+misunderstanding him, she thought he was reminding her of the distance
+that separated them in social rank. Oh, the shame of it! the shame of
+it! Would other governesses have taken a liberty with their master? A
+fit of hysterical sobbing burst its way through her last reserves of
+self-control; she started to her feet, and ran out of the summer-house.
+
+Alarmed and distressed, he followed her instantly.
+
+She was leaning against the pedestal of a statue in the garden, panting,
+shuddering, a sight to touch the heart of a far less sensitive man than
+the man who now approached her. “Sydney!” he said. “Dear little Sydney!”
+ She tried to speak to him in return. Breath and strength failed her
+together; she lifted her hand, vainly grasping at the broad pedestal
+behind her; she would have fallen if he had not caught her in his arms.
+Her head sank faintly backward on his breast. He looked at the poor
+little tortured face, turned up toward him in the lovely moonlight.
+Again and again he had honorably restrained himself--he was human; he
+was a man--in one mad moment it was done, hotly, passionately done--he
+kissed her.
+
+For the first time in her maiden’s life, a man’s lips touched her lips.
+All that had been perplexing and strange, all that had been innocently
+wonderful to herself in the feeling that bound Sydney to her first
+friend, was a mystery no more. Love lifted its veil, Nature revealed
+its secrets, in the one supreme moment of that kiss. She threw her arms
+around his neck with a low cry of delight--and returned his kiss.
+
+“Sydney,” he whispered, “I love you.”
+
+She heard him in rapturous silence. Her kiss had answered for her.
+
+At that crisis in their lives, they were saved by an accident; a
+poor little common accident that happens every day. The spring in the
+bracelet that Sydney wore gave way as she held him to her; the bright
+trinket fell on the grass at her feet. The man never noticed it. The
+woman saw her pretty ornament as it dropped from her arm--saw, and
+remembered Mrs. Linley’s gift.
+
+Cold and pale--with horror of herself confessed in the action, simple as
+it was--she drew back from him in dead silence.
+
+He was astounded. In tones that trembled with agitation, he said to her:
+“Are you ill?”
+
+“Shameless and wicked,” she answered. “Not ill.” She pointed to the
+bracelet on the grass. “Take it up; I am not fit to touch it. Look on
+the inner side.”
+
+He remembered the inscription: “To Sydney Westerfield, with Catherine
+Linley’s love.” His head sank on his breast; he understood her at last.
+“You despise me,” he said, “and I deserve it.”
+
+“No; I despise myself. I have lived among vile people; and I am vile
+like them.”
+
+She moved a few steps away with a heavy sigh. “Kitty!” she said to
+herself. “Poor little Kitty!”
+
+He followed her. “Why are you thinking of the child,” he asked, “at such
+a time as this?”
+
+She replied without returning or looking round; distrust of herself had
+inspired her with terror of Linley, from the time when the bracelet had
+dropped on the grass.
+
+“I can make but one atonement,” she said. “We must see each other no
+more. I must say good-by to Kitty--I must go. Help me to submit to my
+hard lot--I must go.”
+
+He set her no example of resignation; he shrank from the prospect that
+she presented to him.
+
+“Where are you to go if you leave us?” he asked.
+
+“Away from England! The further away from _you_ the better for both of
+us. Help me with your interest; have me sent to the new world in the
+west, with other emigrants. Give me something to look forward to that is
+not shame and despair. Let me do something that is innocent and good--I
+may find a trace of my poor lost brother. Oh, let me go! Let me go!”
+
+Her resolution shamed him. He rose to her level, in spite of himself.
+
+“I dare not tell you that you are wrong,” he said. “I only ask you to
+wait a little till we are calmer, before you speak of the future again.”
+ He pointed to the summer-house. “Go in, my poor girl. Rest, and compose
+yourself, while I try to think.”
+
+He left her, and paced up and down the formal walks in the garden. Away
+from the maddening fascination of her presence, his mind grew clearer.
+He resisted the temptation to think of her tenderly; he set himself to
+consider what it would be well to do next.
+
+The moonlight was seen no more. Misty and starless, the dark sky spread
+its majestic obscurity over the earth. Linley looked wearily toward the
+eastern heaven. The darkness daunted him; he saw in it the shadow of his
+own sense of guilt. The gray glimmering of dawn, the songs of birds when
+the pure light softly climbed the sky, roused and relieved him. With the
+first radiant rising of the sun he returned to the summer-house.
+
+“Do I disturb you?” he asked, waiting at the door.
+
+“No.”
+
+“Will you come out and speak to me?”
+
+She appeared at the door, waiting to hear what he had to say to her.
+
+“I must ask you to submit to a sacrifice of your own feelings,” he
+began. “When I kept away from you in the drawing room, last night--when
+my strange conduct made you fear that you had offended me--I was trying
+to remember what I owed to my good wife. I have been thinking of her
+again. We must spare her a discovery too terrible to be endured, while
+her attention is claimed by the guests who are now in the house. In a
+week’s time they will leave us. Will you consent to keep up appearances?
+Will you live with us as usual, until we are left by ourselves?”
+
+“It shall be done, Mr. Linley. I only ask one favor of you. My worst
+enemy is my own miserable wicked heart. Oh, don’t you understand me? I
+am ashamed to look at you!”
+
+He had only to examine his own heart, and to know what she meant. “Say
+no more,” he answered sadly. “We will keep as much away from each other
+as we can.”
+
+She shuddered at that open recognition of the guilty love which united
+them, in spite of their horror of it, and took refuge from him in the
+summer-house. Not a word more passed between them until the unbarring of
+doors was heard in the stillness of the morning, and the smoke began to
+rise from the kitchen chimney. Then he returned, and spoke to her.
+
+“You can get back to the house,” he said. “Go up by the front stairs,
+and you will not meet the servants at this early hour. If they do see
+you, you have your cloak on; they will think you have been in the garden
+earlier than usual. As you pass the upper door, draw back the bolts
+quietly, and I can let myself in.”
+
+She bent her head in silence. He looked after her as she hastened away
+from him over the lawn; conscious of admiring her, conscious of more
+than he dared realize to himself. When she disappeared, he turned back
+to wait where she had been waiting. With his sense of the duty he owed
+to his wife penitently present to his mind, the memory of that fatal
+kiss still left its vivid impression on him. “What a scoundrel I am!”
+ he said to himself as he stood alone in the summer-house, looking at the
+chair which she had just left.
+
+
+
+Chapter X. Kitty Mentions Her Birthday.
+
+
+A clever old lady, possessed of the inestimable advantages of worldly
+experience, must submit nevertheless to the laws of Nature. Time and
+Sleep together--powerful agents in the small hours of the morning--had
+got the better of Mrs. Presty’s resolution to keep awake. Free from
+discovery, Sydney ascended the stairs. Free from discovery, Sydney
+entered her own room.
+
+Half-an-hour later, Linley opened the door of his dressing-room. His
+wife was still sleeping. His mother-in-law woke two hours later; looked
+at her watch; and discovered that she had lost her opportunity. Other
+old women, under similar circumstances, might have felt discouraged.
+This old woman believed in her own suspicions more devoutly than ever.
+When the breakfast-bell rang, Sydney found Mrs. Presty in the corridor,
+waiting to say good morning.
+
+“I wonder what you were doing last night, when you ought to have been in
+bed?” the old lady began, with a treacherous amiability of manner. “Oh,
+I am not mistaken! your door was open, my dear, and I looked in.”
+
+“Why did you look in, Mrs. Presty?”
+
+“My young friend, I was naturally anxious about you. I am anxious still.
+Were you in the house? or out of the house?”
+
+“I was walking in the garden,” Sydney replied.
+
+“Admiring the moonlight?”
+
+“Yes; admiring the moonlight.”
+
+“Alone, of course?” Sydney’s friend suggested.
+
+And Sydney took refuge in prevarication. “Why should you doubt it?” she
+said.
+
+Mrs. Presty wasted no more time in asking questions. She was pleasantly
+reminded of the words of worldly wisdom which she had addressed to
+her daughter on the day of Sydney’s arrival at Mount Morven. “The good
+qualities of that unfortunate young creature” (she had said) “can _not_
+have always resisted the horrid temptations and contaminations about
+her. Hundreds of times she must have lied through ungovernable fear.”
+ Elevated a little higher than ever in her own estimation, Mrs.
+Presty took Sydney’s arm, and led her down to breakfast with
+motherly familiarity. Linley met them at the foot of the stairs. His
+mother-in-law first stole a look at Sydney, and then shook hands with
+him cordially. “My dear Herbert, how pale you are! That horrid smoking.
+You look as if you had been up all night.”
+
+
+
+Mrs. Linley paid her customary visit to the schoolroom that morning.
+
+The necessary attention to her guests had left little leisure for the
+exercise of observation at the breakfast-table; the one circumstance
+which had forced itself on her notice had been the boisterous gayety of
+her husband. Too essentially honest to practice deception of any kind
+cleverly, Linley had overacted the part of a man whose mind was entirely
+at ease. The most unsuspicious woman living, his wife was simply amused
+“How he does enjoy society!” she thought. “Herbert will be a young man
+to the end of his life.”
+
+In the best possible spirits--still animated by her successful exertions
+to entertain her friends--Mrs. Linley opened the schoolroom door
+briskly. “How are the lessons getting on?” she began--and checked
+herself with a start, “Kitty!” she exclaimed, “Crying?”
+
+The child ran to her mother with tears in her eyes. “Look at Syd! She
+sulks; she cries; she won’t talk to me--send for the doctor.”
+
+“You tiresome child, I don’t want the doctor. I’m not ill.”
+
+“There, mamma!” cried Kitty. “She never scolded me before to-day.”
+
+In other words, here was a complete reversal of the usual order of
+things in the schoolroom. Patient Sydney was out of temper; gentle
+Sydney spoke bitterly to the little friend whom she loved. Mrs. Linley
+drew a chair to the governess’s side, and took her hand. The strangely
+altered girl tore her hand away and burst into a violent fit of crying.
+Puzzled and frightened, Kitty (to the best of a child’s ability)
+followed her example. Mrs. Linley took her daughter on her knee, and
+gave Sydney’s outbreak of agitation time to subside. There were no
+feverish appearances in her face, there was no feverish heat in her skin
+when their hands had touched each other for a moment. In all probability
+the mischief was nervous mischief, and the outburst of weeping was an
+hysterical effort at relief.
+
+“I am afraid, my dear, you have had a bad night,” Mrs. Linley said.
+
+“Bad? Worse than bad!”
+
+Sydney stopped; looked at her good mistress and friend in terror;
+and made a confused effort to explain away what she had just said. As
+sensibly and kindly self-possessed as ever, Mrs. Linley told her that
+she only wanted rest and quiet. “Let me take you to my room,” she
+proposed. “We will have the sofa moved into the balcony, and you will
+soon go to sleep in the delicious warm air. You may put away your books,
+Kitty; this is a holiday. Come with me, and be petted and spoiled by the
+ladies in the morning-room.”
+
+Neither the governess nor the pupil was worthy of the sympathy
+so frankly offered to them. Still strangely confused, Sydney made
+commonplace apologies and asked leave to go out and walk in the park.
+Hearing this, Kitty declared that where her governess went she would go
+too. Mrs. Linley smoothed her daughter’s pretty auburn hair, and said,
+playfully: “I think I ought to be jealous.” To her surprise, Sydney
+looked up as if the words had been addressed to herself “You mustn’t be
+fonder, my dear, of your governess,” Mrs. Linley went on, “than you are
+of your mother.” She kissed the child, and, rising to go, discovered
+that Sydney had moved to another part of the room. She was standing
+at the piano, with a page of music in her hand. The page was upside
+down--and she had placed herself in a position which concealed her face.
+Slow as Mrs. Linley was to doubt any person (more especially a person
+who interested her), she left the room with a vague fear of something
+wrong, and with a conviction that she would do well to consult her
+husband.
+
+Hearing the door close, Sydney looked round. She and Kitty were alone
+again; and Kitty was putting away her books without showing any pleasure
+at the prospect of a holiday.
+
+Sydney took the child fondly in her arms. “Would you be very sorry,”
+ she asked, “if I was obliged to go away, some day, and leave you?”
+ Kitty turned pale with terror at the dreadful prospect which those words
+presented. “There! there! I am only joking,” Sydney said, shocked at
+the effect which her attempt to suggest the impending separation had
+produced. “You shall come with me, darling; we will walk in the park
+together.”
+
+Kitty’s face brightened directly. She proposed extending their walk
+to the paddock, and feeding the cows. Sydney readily consented. Any
+amusement was welcome to her which diverted the child’s attention from
+herself.
+
+They had been nearly an hour in the park, and were returning to the
+house through a clump of trees, when Sydney’s companion, running on
+before her, cried: “Here’s papa!” Her first impulse was to draw back
+behind a tree, in the hope of escaping notice. Linley sent Kitty away to
+gather a nosegay of daisies, and joined Sydney under the trees.
+
+“I have been looking for you everywhere,” he said. “My wife--”
+
+Sydney interrupted him. “Discovered!” she exclaimed.
+
+“There is nothing that need alarm you,” he replied. “Catherine is too
+good and too true herself to suspect others easily. She sees a change in
+you that she doesn’t understand--she asks if I have noticed it--and that
+is all. But her mother has the cunning of the devil. There is a serious
+reason for controlling yourself.”
+
+He spoke so earnestly that he startled her. “Are you angry with me?” she
+asked.
+
+“Angry! Does the man live who could be angry with you?”
+
+“It might be better for both of us if you _were_ angry with me. I have
+to control myself; I will try again. Oh, if you only knew what I suffer
+when Mrs. Linley is kind to me!”
+
+He persisted in trying to rouse her to a sense of the danger that
+threatened them, while the visitors remained in the house. “In a few
+days, Sydney, there will be no more need for the deceit that is now
+forced on us. Till that time comes, remember--Mrs. Presty suspects us.”
+
+Kitty ran back to them with her hands full of daisies before they could
+say more.
+
+“There is your nosegay, papa. No; I don’t want you to thank me--I want
+to know what present you are going to give me.” Her father’s mind was
+preoccupied; he looked at her absently. The child’s sense of her own
+importance was wounded: she appealed to her governess. “Would you
+believe it?” she asked. “Papa has forgotten that next Tuesday is my
+birthday!”
+
+“Very well, Kitty; I must pay the penalty of forgetting. What present
+would you like to have?”
+
+“I want a doll’s perambulator.”
+
+“Ha! In my time we were satisfied with a doll.”
+
+They all three looked round. Another person had suddenly joined in the
+talk. There was no mistaking the person’s voice: Mrs. Presty appeared
+among the trees, taking a walk in the park. Had she heard what Linley
+and the governess had said to each other while Kitty was gathering
+daisies?
+
+“Quite a domestic scene!” the sly old lady remarked. “Papa, looking like
+a saint in a picture, with flowers in his hand. Papa’s spoiled child
+always wanting something, and always getting it. And papa’s governess,
+so sweetly fresh and pretty that I should certainly fall in love with
+her, if I had the advantage of being a man. You have no doubt remarked
+Herbert--I think I hear the bell; shall we go to lunch?--you have no
+doubt, I say, remarked what curiously opposite styles Catherine and Miss
+Westerfield present; so charming, and yet such complete contrasts. I
+wonder whether they occasionally envy each other’s good looks? Does my
+daughter ever regret that she is not Miss Westerfield? And do you, my
+dear, some times wish you were Mrs. Linley?”
+
+“While we are about it, let me put a third question,” Linley interposed.
+“Are you ever aware of it yourself, Mrs. Presty, when you are talking
+nonsense?”
+
+He was angry, and he showed it in that feeble reply. Sydney felt the
+implied insult offered to her in another way. It roused her to the
+exercise of self-control as nothing had roused her yet. She ignored Mrs.
+Presty’s irony with a composure worthy of Mrs. Presty herself. “Where is
+the woman,” she said, “who would _not_ wish to be as beautiful as Mrs.
+Linley--and as good?”
+
+“Thank you, my dear, for a compliment to my daughter: a sincere
+compliment, no doubt. It comes in very neatly and nicely,” Mrs. Presty
+acknowledged, “after my son-in-law’s little outbreak of temper. My
+poor Herbert, when will you understand that I mean no harm? I am an
+essentially humorous person; my wonderful spirits are always carrying me
+away. I do assure you, Miss Westerfield, I don’t know what worry is. My
+troubles--deaths in the family, and that sort of thing--seem to slip off
+me in a most remarkable manner. Poor Mr. Norman used to attribute it to
+my excellent digestion. My second husband would never hear of such an
+explanation as that. His high ideal of women shrank from allusions to
+stomachs. He used to speak so nicely (quoting some poet) of the sunshine
+of my breast. Vague, perhaps,” said Mrs. Presty, modestly looking down
+at the ample prospect of a personal nature which presented itself below
+her throat, “but so flattering to one’s feelings. There’s the luncheon
+bell again, I declare! I’ll run on before and tell them you are coming.
+Some people might say they wished to be punctual. I am truth itself,
+and I own I don’t like to be helped to the underside of the fish. _Au
+revoir!_ Do you remember, Miss Westerfield, when I asked you to repeat
+_au revoir_ as a specimen of your French? I didn’t think much of your
+accent. Oh, dear me, I didn’t think much of your accent!”
+
+Kitty looked after her affluent grandmother with eyes that stared
+respectfully in ignorant admiration. She pulled her father’s coat-tail,
+and addressed herself gravely to his private ear. “Oh, papa, what noble
+words grandmamma has!”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XI.
+
+
+
+Linley Asserts His Authority.
+
+
+On the evening of Monday in the new week, the last of the visitors had
+left Mount Morven. Mrs. Linley dropped into a chair (in, what Randal
+called, “the heavenly tranquillity of the deserted drawing-room”) and
+owned that the effort of entertaining her guests had completely worn her
+out. “It’s too absurd, at my time of life,” she said with a faint smile;
+“but I am really and truly so tired that I must go to bed before dark,
+as if I was a child again.”
+
+Mrs. Presty--maliciously observant of the governess, sitting silent and
+apart in a corner--approached her daughter in a hurry; to all appearance
+with a special object in view. Linley was at no loss to guess what that
+object might be. “Will you do me a favor, Catherine?” Mrs. Presty began.
+“I wish to say a word to you in your own room.”
+
+“Oh, mamma, have some mercy on me, and put it off till to-morrow!”
+
+Mrs. Presty reluctantly consented to this proposal, on one condition.
+“It is understood,” she stipulated “that I am to see you the first thing
+in the morning?”
+
+Mrs. Linley was ready to accept that condition, or any condition, which
+promised her a night of uninterrupted repose. She crossed the room to
+her husband, and took his arm. “In my state of fatigue, Herbert, I shall
+never get up our steep stairs, unless you help me.”
+
+As they ascended the stairs together, Linley found that his wife had a
+reason of her own for leaving the drawing-room.
+
+“I am quite weary enough to go to bed,” she explained. “But I wanted
+to speak to you first. It’s about Miss Westerfield. (No, no, we needn’t
+stop on the landing.) Do you know, I think I have found out what has
+altered our little governess so strangely--I seem to startle you?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“I am only astonished,” Mrs. Linley resumed, “at my own stupidity in
+not having discovered it before. We must be kinder than ever to the poor
+girl now; can’t you guess why? My dear, how dull you are! Must I remind
+you that we have had two single men among our visitors? One of them is
+old and doesn’t matter. But the other--I mean Sir George, of course--is
+young, handsome, and agreeable. I am so sorry for Sydney Westerfield.
+It’s plain to me that she is hopelessly in love with a man who has run
+through his fortune, and must marry money if he marries at all. I shall
+speak to Sydney to-morrow; and I hope and trust I shall succeed in
+winning her confidence. Thank Heaven, here we are at my door at last! I
+can’t say more now; I’m ready to drop. Good-night, dear; you look tired,
+too. It’s a nice thing to have friends, I know; but, oh, what a relief
+it is sometimes to get rid of them!”
+
+She kissed him, and let him go.
+
+Left by himself, to compare his wife’s innocent mistake with the
+terrible enlightenment that awaited her, Linley’s courage failed him. He
+leaned on the quaintly-carved rail that protected the outer side of
+the landing, and looked down at the stone hall far below. If the old
+woodwork (he thought) would only give way under his weight, there would
+be an escape from the coming catastrophe, found in an instant.
+
+A timely remembrance of Sydney recalled him to himself. For her sake, he
+was bound to prevent Mrs. Presty’s contemplated interview with his wife
+on the next morning.
+
+Descending the stairs, he met his brother in the corridor on the first
+floor.
+
+“The very man I want to see,” Randal said. “Tell me, Herbert, what is
+the matter with that curious old woman?”
+
+“Do you mean Mrs. Presty?”
+
+“Yes. She has just been telling me that our friend Mrs. MacEdwin has
+taken a fancy to Miss Westerfield, and would be only too glad to deprive
+us of our pretty governess.”
+
+“Did Mrs. Presty say that in Miss Westerfield’s presence?”
+
+“No. Soon after you and Catherine left the room, Miss Westerfield left
+it too. I daresay I am wrong, for I haven’t had time to think of it; but
+Mrs. Presty’s manner suggested to me that she would be glad to see the
+poor girl sent out of the house.”
+
+“I am going to speak to her, Randal, on that very subject. Is she still
+in the drawing-room?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Did she say anything more to you?”
+
+“I didn’t give her the chance; I don’t like Mrs. Presty. You look worn
+and worried, Herbert. Is there anything wrong?”
+
+“If there is, my dear fellow, you will hear of it tomorrow.”
+
+So they parted.
+
+Comfortably established in the drawing-room, Mrs. Presty had just opened
+her favorite newspaper. Her only companion was Linley’s black poodle,
+resting at her feet. On the opening of the door, the dog rose--advanced
+to caress his master--and looked up in Linley’s face. If Mrs. Presty’s
+attention had happened to be turned that way, she might have seen, in
+the faithful creature’s sudden and silent retreat, a warning of her
+son-in-law’s humor at that moment. But she was, or assumed to be,
+interested in her reading; and she deliberately overlooked Linley’s
+appearance. After waiting a little to attract her attention, he quietly
+took the newspaper out of her hand.
+
+“What does this mean?” Mrs. Presty asked.
+
+“It means, ma’am, that I have something to say to you.”
+
+“Apparently, something that can’t be said with common civility? Be as
+rude as you please; I am well used to it.”
+
+Linley wisely took no notice of this.
+
+“Since you have lived at Mount Morven,” he proceeded, “I think you have
+found me, on the whole, an easy man to get on with. At the same time,
+when I do make up my mind to be master in my own house, I _am_ master.”
+
+Mrs. Presty crossed her hands placidly on her lap, and asked: “Master of
+what?”
+
+“Master of your suspicions of Miss Westerfield. You are free, of course,
+to think of her and of me as you please. What I forbid is the expression
+of your thoughts--either by way of hints to my brother, or officious
+communications with my wife. Don’t suppose that I am afraid of the
+truth. Mrs. Linley shall know more than you think for, and shall know it
+to-morrow; not from you, but from me.”
+
+Mrs. Presty shook her head compassionately. “My good sir, surely you
+know me too well to think that I am to be disposed of in that easy
+way? Must I remind you that your wife’s mother has ‘the cunning of the
+devil’?”
+
+Linley recognized his own words. “So you were listening among the
+trees!” he said.
+
+“Yes; I was listening; and I have only to regret that I didn’t hear
+more. Let us return to our subject. I don’t trust my daughter’s
+interests--my much-injured daughter’s interests--in your hands. They
+are not clean hands, Mr. Linley. I have a duty to do; and I shall do it
+to-morrow.”
+
+“No, Mrs. Presty, you won’t do it to-morrow.”
+
+“Who will prevent me?”
+
+“I shall prevent you.”
+
+“In what way, if you please?”
+
+“I don’t think it necessary to answer that question. My servants will
+have their instructions; and I shall see myself that my orders are
+obeyed.”
+
+“Thank you. I begin to understand; I am to be turned out of the house.
+Very well. We shall see what my daughter says.”
+
+“You know as well as I do, Mrs. Presty, that if your daughter is forced
+to choose between us she will decide for her husband. You have the night
+before you for consideration. I have no more to say.”
+
+Among Mrs. Presty’s merits, it is only just to reckon a capacity for
+making up her mind rapidly, under stress of circumstances. Before Linley
+had opened the door, on his way out, he was called back.
+
+“I am shocked to trouble you again,” Mrs. Presty said, “but I don’t
+propose to interfere with my night’s rest by thinking about _you_.
+My position is perfectly clear to me, without wasting time in
+consideration. When a man so completely forgets what is due to the
+weaker sex as to threaten a woman, the woman has no alternative but to
+submit. You are aware that I had arranged to see my daughter to-morrow
+morning. I yield to brute force, sir. Tell your wife that I shall not
+keep my appointment. Are you satisfied?”
+
+“Quite satisfied,” Linley said--and left the room.
+
+His mother-in-law looked after him with a familiar expression of
+opinion, and a smile of supreme contempt.
+
+“You fool!”
+
+Only two words; and yet there seemed to be some hidden meaning in
+them--relating perhaps to what might happen on the next day--which
+gently tickled Mrs. Presty in the region assigned by phrenologists to
+the sense of self-esteem.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XII. Two of Them Sleep Badly.
+
+Waiting for Sydney to come into the bedroom as usual and wish her
+good-night, Kitty was astonished by the appearance of her grandmother,
+entering on tiptoe from the corridor, with a small paper parcel in her
+hand.
+
+“Whisper!” said Mrs. Presty, pointing to the open door of communication
+with Mrs. Linley’s room. “This is your birthday present. You mustn’t
+look at it till you wake to-morrow morning.” She pushed the parcel under
+the pillow--and, instead of saying good-night, took a chair and sat
+down.
+
+“May I show my present,” Kitty asked, “when I go to mamma in the
+morning?”
+
+The present hidden under the paper wrapper was a sixpenny picture-book.
+Kitty’s grandmother disapproved of spending money lavishly on birthday
+gifts to children. “Show it, of course; and take the greatest care of
+it,” Mrs. Presty answered gravely. “But tell me one thing, my dear,
+wouldn’t you like to see all your presents early in the morning, like
+mine?”
+
+Still smarting under the recollection of her interview with her
+son-in-law, Mrs. Presty had certain ends to gain in putting this idea
+into the child’s head. It was her special object to raise domestic
+obstacles to a private interview between the husband and wife during
+the earlier hours of the day. If the gifts, usually presented after the
+nursery dinner, were produced on this occasion after breakfast, there
+would be a period of delay before any confidential conversation could
+take place between Mr. and Mrs. Linley. In this interval Mrs. Presty saw
+her opportunity of setting Linley’s authority at defiance, by rousing
+the first jealous suspicion in the mind of his wife.
+
+Innocent little Kitty became her grandmother’s accomplice on the spot.
+“I shall ask mamma to let me have my presents at breakfast-time,” she
+announced.
+
+“And kind mamma will say Yes,” Mrs. Presty chimed in. “We will breakfast
+early, my precious child. Good-night.”
+
+Kitty was half asleep when her governess entered the room afterward,
+much later than usual. “I thought you had forgotten me,” she said,
+yawning and stretching out her plump little arms.
+
+Sydney’s heart ached when she thought of the separation that was to come
+with the next day; her despair forced its way to expression in words.
+
+“I wish I could forget you,” she answered, in reckless wretchedness.
+
+The child was still too drowsy to hear plainly. “What did you say?” she
+asked. Sydney gently lifted her in the bed, and kissed her again and
+again. Kitty’s sleepy eyes opened in surprise. “How cold your hands
+are!” she said; “and how often you kiss me. What is it you have come to
+say to me--good-night or good-by?”
+
+Sydney laid her down again on the pillow, gave her a last kiss, and ran
+out of the room.
+
+In the corridor she heard Linley’s voice on the lower floor. He was
+asking one of the servants if Miss Westerfield was in the house or in
+the garden. Her first impulse was to advance to the stairs and to answer
+his question. In a moment more the remembrance of Mrs. Linley checked
+her. She went back to her bed-chamber. The presents that she had
+received, since her arrival at Mount Morven, were all laid out so that
+they could be easily seen by any person entering the room, after she had
+left the house. On the sofa lay the pretty new dress which she had worn
+at the evening party. Other little gifts were arranged on either side of
+it. The bracelet, resting on the pedestal of a statue close by, kept a
+morsel of paper in its place--on which she had written a few penitent
+words of farewell addressed to Mrs. Linley. On the toilet-table three
+photographic portraits showed themselves among the brushes and combs.
+She sat down, and looked first at the likenesses of Mrs. Linley and
+Kitty.
+
+Had she any right to make those dear faces her companions in the future?
+
+She hesitated; her tears dropped on the photographs. “They’re as good as
+spoiled now,” she thought; “they’re no longer fit for anybody but me.”
+ She paused, and abruptly took up the third and last photograph--the
+likeness of Herbert Linley.
+
+Was it an offense, now, even to look at his portrait? No idea of leaving
+it behind her was in her mind. Her resolution vibrated between two
+miseries--the misery of preserving her keep-sake after she had parted
+from him forever, and the misery of destroying it. Resigned to one more
+sacrifice, she took the card in both hands to tear it up. It would have
+been scattered in pieces on the floor, but for the chance which had
+turned the portrait side of the card toward her instead of the back. Her
+longing eyes stole a last look at him--a frenzy seized her--she pressed
+her lips to the photograph in a passion of hopeless love. “What does it
+matter?” she asked herself. “I’m nothing but the ignorant object of his
+kindness--the poor fool who could see no difference between gratitude
+and love. Where is the harm of having him with me when I am starving in
+the streets, or dying in the workhouse?” The fervid spirit in her that
+had never known a mother’s loving discipline, never thrilled to the
+sympathy of a sister-friend, rose in revolt against the evil destiny
+which had imbittered her life. Her eyes still rested on the photograph.
+“Come to my heart, my only friend, and kill me!” As those wild words
+escaped her, she thrust the card furiously into the bosom of her
+dress--and threw herself on the floor. There was something in the mad
+self-abandonment of that action which mocked the innocent despair of her
+childhood, on the day when her mother left her at the cruel mercy of her
+aunt.
+
+That night was a night of torment in secret to another person at Mount
+Morven.
+
+Wandering, in his need of self-isolation, up and down the dreary stone
+passages in the lower part of the house, Linley counted the hours,
+inexorably lessening the interval between him and the ordeal of
+confession to his wife. As yet, he had failed to find the opportunity of
+addressing to Sydney the only words of encouragement he could allow to
+pass his lips: he had asked for her earlier in the evening, and nobody
+could tell him where she was. Still in ignorance of the refuge which she
+might by bare possibility hope to find in Mrs. MacEdwin’s house, Sydney
+was spared the torturing doubts which now beset Herbert Linley’s mind.
+Would the noble woman whom they had injured allow their atonement to
+plead for them, and consent to keep their miserable secret? Might they
+still put their trust in that generous nature a few hours hence? Again
+and again those questions confronted Linley; and again and again he
+shrank from attempting to answer them.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XIII. Kitty Keeps Her Birthday.
+
+They were all assembled as usual at the breakfast-table.
+
+Preferring the request suggested to her by Mrs. Presty, Kitty had
+hastened the presentation of the birthday gifts, by getting into her
+mother’s bed in the morning, and exacting her mother’s promise before
+she would consent to get out again. By her own express wish, she was
+left in ignorance of what the presents would prove to be. “Hide them
+from me,” said this young epicure in pleasurable sensations, “and
+make me want to see them until I can bear it no longer.” The gifts had
+accordingly been collected in an embrasure of one of the windows; and
+the time had now arrived when Kitty could bear it no longer.
+
+In the procession of the presents, Mrs. Linley led the way.
+
+She had passed behind the screen which had thus far protected the hidden
+treasures from discovery, and appeared again with a vision of beauty in
+the shape of a doll. The dress of this wonderful creature exhibited the
+latest audacities of French fashion. Her head made a bow; her eyes
+went to sleep and woke again; she had a voice that said two words--more
+precious than two thousand in the mouth of a mere living creature.
+Kitty’s arms opened and embraced her gift with a scream of ecstasy. That
+fervent pressure found its way to the right spring. The doll squeaked:
+“Mamma!”--and creaked--and cried again--and said: “Papa!” Kitty sat down
+on the floor; her legs would support her no longer. “I think I shall
+faint,” she said quite seriously.
+
+In the midst of the general laughter, Sydney silently placed a new toy
+(a pretty little imitation of a jeweler’s casket) at Kitty’s side, and
+drew back before the child could look at her. Mrs. Presty was the only
+person present who noticed her pale face and the trembling of her hands
+as she made the effort which preserved her composure.
+
+The doll’s necklace, bracelets, and watch and chain, riveted Kitty’s
+attention on the casket. Just as she thought of looking round for her
+dear Syd, her father produced a new outburst of delight by presenting
+a perambulator worthy of the doll. Her uncle followed with a parasol,
+devoted to the preservation of the doll’s complexion when she went
+out for an airing. Then there came a pause. Where was the generous
+grandmother’s gift? Nobody remembered it; Mrs. Presty herself discovered
+the inestimable sixpenny picture-book cast away and forgotten on a
+distant window-seat. “I have a great mind to keep this,” she said to
+Kitty, “till you are old enough to value it properly.” In the moment
+of her absence at the window, Linley’s mother-in-law lost the chance
+of seeing him whisper to Sydney. “Meet me in the shrubbery in half an
+hour,” he said. She stepped back from him, startled by the proposal.
+When Mrs. Presty was in the middle of the room again, Linley and the
+governess were no longer near each other.
+
+Having by this time recovered herself, Kitty got on her legs. “Now,” the
+spoiled child declared, addressing the company present, “I’m going to
+play.”
+
+The doll was put into the perambulator, and was wheeled about the room,
+while Mrs. Linley moved the chairs out of the way, and Randal attended
+with the open parasol--under orders to “pretend that the sun was
+shining.” Once more the sixpenny picture-book was neglected. Mrs. Presty
+picked it up from the floor, determined by this time to hold it in
+reserve until her ungrateful grandchild reached years of discretion. She
+put it in the bookcase between Byron’s “Don Juan” and Butler’s “Lives of
+the Saints.” In the position which she now occupied, Linley was visible
+approaching Sydney again. “Your own interests are seriously concerned,”
+ he whispered, “in something that I have to tell you.”
+
+Incapable of hearing what passed between them, Mrs. Presty could see
+that a secret understanding united her son-in-law and the governess. She
+looked round cautiously at Mrs. Linley.
+
+Kitty’s humor had changed; she was now eager to see the doll’s splendid
+clothes taken off and put on again. “Come and look at it,” she said
+to Sydney; “I want you to enjoy my birthday as much as I do.” Left by
+himself, Randal got rid of the parasol by putting it on a table near the
+door. Mrs. Presty beckoned to him to join her at the further end of the
+room.
+
+“I want you to do me a favor,” she began.
+
+Glancing at Linley before she proceeded, Mrs. Presty took up a
+newspaper, and affected to be consulting Randal’s opinion on a passage
+which had attracted her attention. “Your brother is looking our way,”
+ she whispered: “he mustn’t suspect that there is a secret between us.”
+
+False pretenses of any kind invariably irritated Randal. “What do you
+want me to do?” he asked sharply.
+
+The reply only increased his perplexity.
+
+“Observe Miss Westerfield and your brother. Look at them now.”
+
+Randal obeyed.
+
+“What is there to look at?” he inquired.
+
+“Can’t you see?”
+
+“I see they are talking to each other.”
+
+“They are talking confidentially; talking so that Mrs. Linley can’t hear
+them. Look again.”
+
+Randal fixed his eyes on Mrs. Presty, with an expression which showed
+his dislike of that lady a little too plainly. Before he could answer
+what she had just said to him, his lively little niece hit on a
+new idea. The sun was shining, the flowers were in their brightest
+beauty--and the doll had not yet been taken into the garden! Kitty
+at once led the way out; so completely preoccupied in steering the
+perambulator in a straight course that she forgot her uncle and the
+parasol. Only waiting to remind her husband and Sydney that they were
+wasting the beautiful summer morning indoors, Mrs. Linley followed her
+daughter--and innocently placed a fatal obstacle in Mrs. Presty’s way by
+leaving the room. Having consulted each other by a look, Linley and the
+governess went out next. Left alone with Randal, Mrs. Presty’s anger,
+under the complete overthrow of her carefully-laid scheme, set restraint
+at defiance.
+
+“My daughter’s married life is a wreck,” she burst out, pointing
+theatrically to the door by which Linley and Sydney Westerfield had
+retired. “And Catherine has the vile creature whom your brother picked
+up in London to thank for it! Now do you understand me?”
+
+“Less than ever,” Randal answered--“unless you have taken leave of your
+senses.”
+
+Mrs. Presty recovered the command of her temper.
+
+On that fine morning her daughter might remain in the garden until the
+luncheon-bell rang. Linley had only to say that he wished to speak with
+his wife; and the private interview which he had so rudely insisted on
+as his sole privilege, would assuredly take place. The one chance
+left of still defeating him on his own ground was to force Randal
+to interfere by convincing him of his brother’s guilt. Moderation of
+language and composure of manner offered the only hopeful prospect
+of reaching this end. Mrs. Presty assumed the disguise of patient
+submission, and used the irresistible influence of good humor and good
+sense.
+
+“I don’t complain, dear Randal, of what you have said to me,” she
+replied. “My indiscretion has deserved it. I ought to have produced my
+proofs, and have left it to you to draw the conclusion. Sit down, if you
+please. I won’t detain you for more than a few minutes.”
+
+Randal had not anticipated such moderation as this; he took the chair
+that was nearest to Mrs. Presty. They were both now sitting with their
+backs turned to the entrance from the library to the drawing-room.
+
+“I won’t trouble you with my own impressions,” Mrs. Presty went on.
+“I will be careful only to mention what I have seen and heard. If you
+refuse to believe me, I refer you to the guilty persons themselves.”
+
+She had just got to the end of those introductory words when Mrs. Linley
+returned, by way of the library, to fetch the forgotten parasol.
+
+Randal insisted on making Mrs. Presty express herself plainly. “You
+speak of guilty persons,” he said. “Am I to understand that one of those
+guilty persons is my brother?”
+
+Mrs. Linley advanced a step and took the parasol from the table. Hearing
+what Randal said, she paused, wondering at the strange allusion to her
+husband. In the meanwhile, Mrs. Presty answered the question that had
+been addressed to her.
+
+“Yes,” she said to Randal; “I mean your brother, and your brother’s
+mistress--Sydney Westerfield.”
+
+Mrs. Linley laid the parasol back on the table, and approached them.
+
+She never once looked at her mother; her face, white and rigid, was
+turned toward Randal. To him, and to him only, she spoke.
+
+“What does my mother’s horrible language mean?” she asked.
+
+Mrs. Presty triumphed inwardly; chance had decided in her favor, after
+all! “Don’t you see,” she said to her daughter, “that I am here to
+answer for myself?”
+
+Mrs. Linley still looked at Randal, and still spoke to him. “It is
+impossible for me to insist on an explanation from my mother,” she
+proceeded. “No matter what I may feel, I must remember that she _is_ my
+mother. I ask you again--you who have been listening to her--what does
+she mean?”
+
+Mrs. Presty’s sense of her own importance refused to submit to being
+passed over in this way.
+
+“However insolently you may behave, Catherine, you will not succeed in
+provoking me. Your mother is bound to open your eyes to the truth.
+You have a rival in your husband’s affections; and that rival is your
+governess. Take your own course now; I have no more to say.” With her
+head high in the air--looking the picture of conscious virtue--the old
+lady walked out.
+
+At the same moment Randal seized his first opportunity of speaking.
+
+He addressed himself gently and respectfully to his sister-in-law. She
+refused to hear him. The indignation which Mrs. Presty had roused in her
+made no allowances, and was blind to all sense of right.
+
+“Don’t trouble yourself to account for your silence,” she said,
+most unjustly. “You were listening to my mother without a word of
+remonstrance when I came into the room. You are concerned in this vile
+slander, too.”
+
+Randal considerately refrained from provoking her by attempting to
+defend himself, while she was incapable of understanding him. “You will
+be sorry when you find that you have misjudged me,” he said, and sighed,
+and left her.
+
+She dropped into a chair. If there was any one distinct thought in her
+at that moment, it was the thought of her husband. She was eager to see
+him; she longed to say to him: “My love, I don’t believe a word of it!”
+ He was not in the garden when she had returned for the parasol; and
+Sydney was not in the garden. Wondering what had become of her father
+and her governess, Kitty had asked the nursemaid to look for them. What
+had happened since? Where had they been found? After some hesitation,
+Mrs. Linley sent for the nursemaid. She felt the strongest reluctance,
+when the girl appeared, to approach the very inquiries which she was
+interested in making.
+
+“Have you found Mr. Linley?” she said--with an effort.
+
+“Yes, ma’am.”
+
+“Where did you find him?”
+
+“In the shrubbery.”
+
+“Did your master say anything?”
+
+“I slipped away, ma’am, before he saw me.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Miss Westerfield was in the shrubbery, with my master. I might have
+been mistaken--” The girl paused, and looked confused.
+
+Mrs. Linley tried to tell her to go on. The words were in her mind; but
+the capacity of giving expression to them failed her. She impatiently
+made a sign. The sign was understood.
+
+“I might have been mistaken,” the maid repeated--“but I thought Miss
+Westerfield was crying.”
+
+Having replied in those terms, she seemed to be anxious to get away. The
+parasol caught her eye. “Miss Kitty wants this,” she said, “and
+wonders why you have not gone back to her in the garden. May I take the
+parasol?”
+
+“Take it.”
+
+The tone of the mistress’s voice was completely changed. The servant
+looked at her with vague misgivings. “Are you not well, ma’am?”
+
+“Quite well.”
+
+The servant withdrew.
+
+Mrs. Linley’s chair happened to be near one of the windows, which
+commanded a view of the drive leading to the main entrance of the house.
+A carriage had just arrived bringing holiday travelers to visit that
+part of Mount Morven which was open to strangers. She watched them
+as they got out, talking and laughing, and looking about them. Still
+shrinking instinctively from the first doubt of Herbert that had ever
+entered her mind, she found a refuge from herself in watching the
+ordinary events of the day. One by one the tourists disappeared under
+the portico of the front door. The empty carriage was driven away next,
+to water the horses at the village inn. Solitude was all she could see
+from the windows; silence, horrible silence, surrounded her out of doors
+and in. The thoughts from which she recoiled forced their way back into
+her mind; the narrative of the nursemaid’s discovery became a burden
+on her memory once more. She considered the circumstances. In spite of
+herself, she considered the circumstances again. Her husband and Sydney
+Westerfield together in the shrubbery--and Sydney crying. Had Mrs.
+Presty’s abominable suspicion of them reached their ears? or?--No! that
+second possibility might be estimated at its right value by any other
+woman; not by Herbert Linley’s wife.
+
+She snatched up the newspaper, and fixed her eyes on it in the hope of
+fixing her mind on it next. Obstinately, desperately, she read without
+knowing what she was reading. The lines of print were beginning to
+mingle and grow dim, when she was startled by the sudden opening of the
+door. She looked round.
+
+Her husband entered the room.
+
+
+
+Chapter XIV. Kitty Feels the Heartache.
+
+
+Linley advanced a few steps--and stopped.
+
+His wife, hurrying eagerly to meet him, checked herself. It might have
+been distrust, or it might have been unreasoning fear--she hesitated on
+the point of approaching him.
+
+“I have something to say, Catherine, which I’m afraid will distress
+you.”
+
+His voice faltered, his eyes rested on her--then looked away again. He
+said no more.
+
+He had spoken a few commonplace words--and yet he had said enough.
+She saw the truth in his eyes, heard the truth in his voice. A fit of
+trembling seized her. Linley stepped forward, in the fear that she might
+fall. She instantly controlled herself, and signed to him to keep back.
+“Don’t touch me!” she said. “You come from Miss Westerfield!”
+
+That reproach roused him.
+
+“I own that I come from Miss Westerfield,” he answered. “She addresses a
+request to you through me.”
+
+“I refuse to grant it.”
+
+“Hear it first.”
+
+“No!”
+
+“Hear it--in your own interest. She asks permission to leave the house,
+never to return again. While she is still innocent--”
+
+His wife eyed him with a look of unutterable contempt. He submitted to
+it, but not in silence.
+
+“A man doesn’t lie, Catherine, who makes such a confession as I am
+making now. Miss Westerfield offers the one atonement in her power,
+while she is still innocent of having wronged you--except in thought.”
+
+“Is that all?” Mrs. Linley asked.
+
+“It rests with you,” he replied, “to say if there is any other sacrifice
+of herself which will be more acceptable to you.”
+
+“Let me understand first what the sacrifice means. Does Miss Westerfield
+make any conditions?”
+
+“She has positively forbidden me to make conditions.”
+
+“And goes out into the world, helpless and friendless?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+Even under the terrible trial that wrung her, the nobility of the
+woman’s nature spoke in her next words.
+
+“Give me time to think of what you have said,” she pleaded. “I have led
+a happy life; I am not used to suffer as I am suffering now.”
+
+They were both silent. Kitty’s voice was audible on the stairs that led
+to the picture-gallery, disputing with the maid. Neither her father nor
+her mother heard her.
+
+“Miss Westerfield is innocent of having wronged me, except in thought,”
+ Mrs. Linley resumed. “Do you tell me that on your word of honor?”
+
+“On my word of honor.”
+
+So far his wife was satisfied. “My governess,” she said, “might have
+deceived me--she has not deceived me. I owe it to her to remember that.
+She shall go, but not helpless and not friendless.”
+
+Her husband forgot the restraints he had imposed on himself.
+
+“Is there another woman in the world like you!” he exclaimed.
+
+“Many other women,” she answered, firmly. “A vulgar termagant, feeling
+a sense of injury, finds relief in an outburst of jealousy and a furious
+quarrel. You have always lived among ladies. Surely you ought to know
+that a wife in my position, who respects herself, restrains herself. I
+try to remember what I owe to others as well as what they owe to me.”
+
+She approached the writing table, and took up a pen.
+
+Feeling his position acutely, Linley refrained from openly admiring her
+generosity. Until he had deserved to be forgiven, he had forfeited
+the right to express an opinion on her conduct. She misinterpreted his
+silence. As she understood it, he appreciated an act of self-sacrifice
+on Miss Westerfield’s side--but he had no word of encouragement for an
+act of self-sacrifice on his wife’s side. She threw down the pen, with
+the first outbreak of anger that had escaped her yet.
+
+“You have spoken for the governess,” she said to him. “I haven’t heard
+yet, sir, what you have to say for yourself. Is it you who tempted her?
+You know how gratefully she feels toward you--have you perverted her
+gratitude, and led her blindfold to love? Cruel, cruel, cruel! Defend
+yourself if you can.”
+
+He made no reply.
+
+“Is it not worth your while to defend yourself?” she burst out,
+passionately. “Your silence is an insult!”
+
+“My silence is a confession,” he answered, sadly. “_She_ may accept your
+mercy--I may not even hope for it.”
+
+Something in the tone of his voice reminded her of past days--the days
+of perfect love and perfect confidence, when she had been the one woman
+in the world to him. Dearly treasured remembrances of her married life
+filled her heart with tenderness, and dimmed with tears the angry light
+that had risen in her eyes. There was no pride, no anger, in his wife
+when she spoke to him now.
+
+“Oh, my husband, has she taken your love from me?”
+
+“Judge for yourself, Catherine, if there is no proof of my love for you
+in what I have resisted--and no remembrance of all that I owe to you in
+what I have confessed.”
+
+She ventured a little nearer to him. “Can I believe you?”
+
+“Put me to the test.”
+
+She instantly took him at his word. “When Miss Westerfield has left us,
+promise not to see her again.”
+
+“I promise.”
+
+“And not even to write to her.”
+
+“I promise.”
+
+She went back to the writing-table. “My heart is easier,” she said,
+simply. “I can be merciful to her now.”
+
+After writing a few lines, she rose and handed the paper to him. He
+looked up from it in surprise. “Addressed to Mrs. MacEdwin!” he said.
+
+“Addressed,” she answered, “to the only person I know who feels a true
+interest in Miss Westerfield. Have you not heard of it?”
+
+“I remember,” he said--and read the lines that followed:
+
+“I recommend Miss Westerfield as a teacher of young children, having
+had ample proof of her capacity, industry, and good temper while she has
+been governess to my child. She leaves her situation in my service
+under circumstances which testify to her sense of duty and her sense of
+gratitude.”
+
+“Have I said,” she asked, “more than I could honorably and truly
+say--even after what has happened?”
+
+He could only look at her; no words could have spoken for him as his
+silence spoke for him at that moment. When she took back the written
+paper there was pardon in her eyes already.
+
+The last worst trial remained to be undergone; she faced it resolutely.
+“Tell Miss Westerfield that I wish to see her.”
+
+On the point of leaving the room, Herbert was called back. “If you
+happen to meet with my mother,” his wife added, “will you ask her to
+come to me?”
+
+Mrs. Presty knew her daughter’s nature; Mrs. Presty had been waiting
+near at hand, in expectation of the message which she now received.
+
+Tenderly and respectfully, Mrs. Linley addressed herself to her mother.
+“When we last met, I thought you spoke rashly and cruelly. I know now
+that there was truth--_some_ truth, let me say--in what offended me at
+the time. If you felt strongly, it was for my sake. I wish to beg your
+pardon; I was hasty, I was wrong.”
+
+On an occasion when she had first irritated and then surprised him,
+Randal Linley had said to Mrs. Presty, “You have got a heart, after
+all!” Her reply to her daughter showed that view of her character to be
+the right one. “Say no more, my dear,” she answered “_I_ was hasty; _I_
+was wrong.”
+
+The words had barely fallen from her lips, before Herbert returned. He
+was followed by Sydney Westerfield.
+
+The governess stopped in the middle of the room. Her head sank on her
+breast; her quick convulsive breathing was the only sound that broke the
+silence. Mrs. Linley advanced to the place in which Sydney stood. There
+was something divine in her beauty as she looked at the shrinking girl,
+and held out her hand.
+
+Sydney fell on her knees. In silence she lifted that generous hand to
+her lips. In silence, Mrs. Linley raised her--took the writing which
+testified to her character from the table--and presented it. Linley
+looked at his wife, looked at the governess. He waited--and still
+neither the one nor the other uttered a word. It was more than he could
+endure. He addressed himself to Sydney first.
+
+“Try to thank Mrs. Linley,” he said.
+
+She answered faintly: “I can’t speak!”
+
+He appealed to his wife next. “Say a last kind word to her,” he pleaded.
+
+She made an effort, a vain effort to obey him. A gesture of despair
+answered for her as Sydney had answered: “I can’t speak!”
+
+True, nobly true, to the Christian virtue that repents, to the Christian
+virtue that forgives, those three persons stood together on the brink of
+separation, and forced their frail humanity to suffer and submit.
+
+In mercy to the woman, Linley summoned the courage to part them. He
+turned to his wife first.
+
+“I may say, Catherine, that she has your good wishes for happier days to
+come?”
+
+Mrs. Linley pressed his hand.
+
+He approached Sydney, and gave his wife’s message. It was in his heart
+to add something equally kind on his own part. He could only say what we
+have all said--how sincerely, how sorrowfully, we all know--the common
+word, “Good-by!”--the common wish, “God bless you!”
+
+At that last moment the child ran into the room, in search of her
+mother.
+
+There was a low murmur of horror at the sight of her. That innocent
+heart, they had all hoped, might have been spared the misery of the
+parting scene!
+
+She saw that Sydney had her hat and cloak on. “You’re dressed to go
+out,” she said. Sydney turned away to hide her face. It was too late;
+Kitty had seen the tears. “Oh, my darling, you’re not going away!” She
+looked at her father and mother. “Is she going away?” They were afraid
+to answer her. With all her little strength, she clasped her beloved
+friend and play-fellow round the waist. “My own dear, you’re not going
+to leave me!” The dumb misery in Sydney’s face struck Linley with
+horror. He placed Kitty in her mother’s arms. The child’s piteous cry,
+“Oh, don’t let her go! don’t let her go!” followed the governess as she
+suffered her martyrdom, and went out. Linley’s heart ached; he watched
+her until she was lost to view. “Gone!” he murmured to himself--“gone
+forever!”
+
+Mrs. Presty heard him, and answered him:--“She’ll come back again!”
+
+
+
+
+SECOND BOOK
+
+
+
+Chapter XV. The Doctor.
+
+
+As the year advanced, the servants at Mount Morven remarked that the
+weeks seemed to follow each other more slowly than usual. In the higher
+regions of the house, the same impression was prevalent; but the sense
+of dullness among the gentlefolks submitted to circumstances in silence.
+
+If the question had been asked in past days: Who is the brightest and
+happiest member of the family? everybody would have said: Kitty. If
+the question had been asked at the present time, differences of opinion
+might have suggested different answers--but the whole household would
+have refrained without hesitation from mentioning the child’s name.
+
+Since Sydney Westerfield’s departure Kitty had never held up her head.
+
+Time quieted the child’s first vehement outbreak of distress under the
+loss of the companion whom she had so dearly loved. Delicate management,
+gently yet resolutely applied, held the faithful little creature
+in check, when she tried to discover the cause of her governess’s
+banishment from the house. She made no more complaints; she asked no
+more embarrassing questions--but it was miserably plain to everybody
+about her that she failed to recover her spirits. She was willing to
+learn her lessons (but not under another governess) when her mother was
+able to attend to her: she played with her toys, and went out riding on
+her pony. But the delightful gayety of other days was gone; the shrill
+laughter that once rang through the house was heard no more. Kitty had
+become a quiet child; and, worse still, a child who seemed to be easily
+tired.
+
+The doctor was consulted.
+
+He was a man skilled in the sound medical practice that learns its
+lessons without books--bedside practice. His opinion declared that the
+child’s vital power was seriously lowered. “Some cause is at work here,”
+ he said to the mother, “which I don’t understand. Can you help me?” Mrs.
+Linley helped him without hesitation. “My little daughter dearly loved
+her governess; and her governess has been obliged to leave us.” That was
+her reply. The doctor wanted to hear no more; he at once advised that
+Kitty should be taken to the seaside, and that everything which might
+remind her of the absent friend--books, presents, even articles of
+clothing likely to revive old associations--should be left at home. A
+new life, in new air. When pen, ink, and paper were offered to him, that
+was the doctor’s prescription.
+
+Mrs. Linley consulted her husband on the choice of the seaside place to
+which the child should be removed.
+
+The blank which Sydney’s departure left in the life of the household was
+felt by the master and mistress of Mount Morven--and felt, unhappily,
+without any open avowal on either side of what was passing in their
+minds. In this way the governess became a forbidden subject between
+them; the husband waited for the wife to set the example of approaching
+it, and the wife waited for the husband. The trial of temper produced by
+this state of hesitation, and by the secret doubts which it encouraged,
+led insensibly to a certain estrangement--which Linley in particular was
+morbidly unwilling to acknowledge. If, when the dinner-hour brought them
+together, he was silent and dull in his wife’s presence, he attributed
+it to anxiety on the subject of his brother--then absent on a critical
+business errand in London. If he sometimes left the house the first
+thing in the morning, and only returned at night, it was because the
+management of the model farm had become one of his duties, in Randal’s
+absence. Mrs. Linley made no attempt to dispute this view of the altered
+circumstances in home-life--but she submitted with a mind ill at ease.
+Secretly fearing that Linley was suffering under Miss Westerfield’s
+absence, she allowed herself to hope that Kitty’s father would see a
+necessity, in his own case, for change of scene, and would accompany
+them to the seaside.
+
+“Won’t you come with us, Herbert?” she suggested, when they had both
+agreed on the choice of a place.
+
+His temper was in a state of constant irritation. Without meaning it he
+answered her harmless question sharply.
+
+“How can I go away with you, when we are losing by the farm, and when
+there is nobody to check the ruinous expenses but myself?”
+
+Mrs. Linley’s thoughts naturally turned to Randal’s prolonged absence.
+“What can be keeping him all this time in London?” she said.
+
+Linley’s failing patience suffered a severe trial.
+
+“Don’t you know,” he broke out, “that I have inherited my poor mother’s
+property in England, saddled with a lawsuit? Have you never heard
+of delays and disappointments, and quibbles and false pretenses,
+encountered by unfortunate wretches like me who are obliged to go to
+law? God only knows when Randal will be free to return, or what bad news
+he may bring with him when he does come back.”
+
+“You have many anxieties, Herbert; and I ought to have remembered them.”
+
+That gentle answer touched him. He made the best apology in his power:
+he said his nerves were out of order, and asked her to excuse him if he
+had spoken roughly. There was no unfriendly feeling on either side; and
+yet there was something wanting in the reconciliation. Mrs. Linley left
+her husband, shaken by a conflict of feelings. At one moment she felt
+angry with him; at another she felt angry with herself.
+
+With the best intentions (as usual) Mrs. Presty made mischief,
+nevertheless. Observing that her daughter was in tears, and feeling
+sincerely distressed by the discovery, she was eager to administer
+consolation. “Make your mind easy, my dear, if you have any doubt about
+Herbert’s movements when he is away from home. I followed him myself the
+day before yesterday when he went out. A long walk for an old woman--but
+I can assure you that he does really go to the farm.”
+
+Implicitly trusting her husband--and rightly trusting him--Linley’s wife
+replied by a look which Mrs. Presty received in silent indignation. She
+summoned her dignity and marched out of the room.
+
+Five minutes afterward, Mrs. Linley received an intimation that her
+mother was seriously offended, in the form of a little note:
+
+“I find that my maternal interest in your welfare, and my devoted
+efforts to serve you, are only rewarded with furious looks. The less
+we see of each other the better. Permit me to thank you for your
+invitation, and to decline accompanying you when you leave Mount Morven
+tomorrow.” Mrs. Linley answered the note in person. The next day Kitty’s
+grandmother--ripe for more mischief--altered her mind, and thoroughly
+enjoyed her journey to the seaside.
+
+
+
+Chapter XVI. The Child.
+
+
+During the first week there was an improvement in the child’s health,
+which justified the doctor’s hopeful anticipations. Mrs. Linley wrote
+cheerfully to her husband; and the better nature of Mrs. Linley’s
+mother seemed, by some inscrutable process, to thrive morally under the
+encouraging influences of the sea air. It may be a bold thing to say,
+but it is surely true that our virtues depend greatly on the state of
+our health.
+
+During the second week, the reports sent to Mount Morven were less
+encouraging. The improvement in Kitty was maintained; but it made no
+further progress.
+
+The lapse of the third week brought with it depressing results. There
+could be no doubt now that the child was losing ground. Bitterly
+disappointed, Mrs. Linley wrote to her medical adviser, describing the
+symptoms, and asking for instructions. The doctor wrote back: “Find out
+where your supply of drinking water comes from. If from a well, let me
+know how it is situated. Answer by telegraph.” The reply arrived: “A
+well near the parish church.” The doctor’s advice ran back along the
+wires: “Come home instantly.”
+
+They returned the same day--and they returned too late.
+
+Kitty’s first night at home was wakeful and restless; her little hands
+felt feverish, and she was tormented by perpetual thirst. The good
+doctor still spoke hopefully; attributing the symptoms to fatigue after
+the journey. But, as the days followed each other, his medical visits
+were paid at shorter intervals. The mother noticed that his pleasant
+face became grave and anxious, and implored him to tell her the truth.
+The truth was told in two dreadful words: “Typhoid Fever.”
+
+A day or two later, the doctor spoke privately with Mr. Linley. The
+child’s debilitated condition--that lowered state of the vital
+power which he had observed when Kitty’s case was first submitted to
+him--placed a terrible obstacle in the way of successful resistance to
+the advance of the disease. “Say nothing to Mrs. Linley just yet. There
+is no absolute danger so far, unless delirium sets in.” “Do you think it
+likely?” Linley asked. The doctor shook his head, and said “God knows.”
+
+On the next evening but one, the fatal symptom showed itself. There
+was nothing violent in the delirium. Unconscious of past events in the
+family life, the poor child supposed that her governess was living
+in the house as usual. She piteously wondered why Sydney remained
+downstairs in the schoolroom. “Oh, don’t keep her away from me! I want
+Syd! I want Syd!” That was her one cry. When exhaustion silenced her,
+they hoped that the sad delusion was at an end. No! As the slow fire of
+the fever flamed up again, the same words were on the child’s lips, the
+same fond hope was in her sinking heart.
+
+The doctor led Mrs. Linley out of the room. “Is this the governess?” he
+asked.
+
+“Yes!”
+
+“Is she within easy reach?”
+
+“She is employed in the family of a friend of ours, living five miles
+away from us.”
+
+“Send for her instantly!”
+
+Mrs. Linley looked at him with a wildly-mingled expression of hope and
+fear. She was not thinking of herself--she was not even thinking, for
+that one moment, of the child. What would her husband say, if she (who
+had extorted his promise never to see the governess again) brought
+Sydney Westerfield back to the house?
+
+The doctor spoke to her more strongly still.
+
+“I don’t presume to inquire into your private reasons for hesitating to
+follow my advice,” he said; “but I am bound to tell you the truth. My
+poor little patient is in serious danger--every hour of delay is an hour
+gained by death. Bring that lady to the bedside as fast as your carriage
+can fetch her, and let us see the result. If Kitty recognizes her
+governess--there, I tell you plainly, is the one chance of saving the
+child’s life.”
+
+Mrs. Linley’s resolution flashed on him in her weary eyes--the eyes
+which, by day and night alike, had known so little rest. She rang for
+her maid. “Tell your master I want to speak to him.”
+
+The woman answered: “My master has gone out.”
+
+The doctor watched the mother’s face. No sign of hesitation appeared in
+it--the one thought in her mind now was the thought of the child. She
+called the maid back.
+
+“Order the carriage.”
+
+“At what time do you want it, ma’am?”
+
+“At once!”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XVII. The Husband.
+
+
+Mrs. Linley’s first impulse in ordering the carriage was to use it
+herself. One look at the child reminded her that her freedom of action
+began and ended at the bedside. More than an hour must elapse before
+Sydney Westerfield could be brought back to Mount Morven; the bare
+thought of what might happen in that interval, if she was absent, filled
+the mother with horror. She wrote to Mrs. MacEdwin, and sent her maid
+with the letter.
+
+Of the result of this proceeding it was not possible to entertain a
+doubt.
+
+Sydney’s love for Kitty would hesitate at no sacrifice; and Mrs.
+MacEdwin’s conduct had already answered for her. She had received
+the governess with the utmost kindness, and she had generously and
+delicately refrained from asking any questions. But one person at Mount
+Morven thought it necessary to investigate the motives under which she
+had acted. Mrs. Presty’s inquiring mind arrived at discoveries; and Mrs.
+Presty’s sense of duty communicated them to her daughter.
+
+“There can be no sort of doubt, Catherine, that our good friend and
+neighbor has heard, probably from the servants, of what has happened;
+and (having her husband to consider--men are so weak!) has drawn her own
+conclusions. If she trusts our fascinating governess, it’s because she
+knows that Miss Westerfield’s affections are left behind her in this
+house. Does my explanation satisfy you?”
+
+Mrs. Linley said: “Never let me hear it again!”
+
+And Mrs. Presty answered: “How very ungrateful!”
+
+The dreary interval of expectation, after the departure of the carriage,
+was brightened by a domestic event.
+
+Thinking it possible that Mrs. Presty might know why her husband had
+left the house, Mrs. Linley sent to ask for information. The message
+in reply informed her that Linley had received a telegram announcing
+Randal’s return from London. He had gone to the railway station to meet
+his brother.
+
+Before she went downstairs to welcome Randal, Mrs. Linley paused
+to consider her situation. The one alternative before her was to
+acknowledge at the first opportunity that she had assumed the serious
+responsibility of sending for Sydney Westerfield. For the first time in
+her life, Catherine Linley found herself planning beforehand what she
+would say to her husband.
+
+A second message interrupted her, announcing that the two brothers had
+just arrived. She joined them in the drawing-room.
+
+Linley was sitting in a corner by himself. The dreadful discovery
+that the child’s life (by the doctor’s confession) was in danger had
+completely overwhelmed him: he had never even lifted his head when his
+wife opened the door. Randal and Mrs. Presty were talking together.
+The old lady’s insatiable curiosity was eager for news from London: she
+wanted to know how Randal had amused himself when he was not attending
+to business.
+
+He was grieving for Kitty; and he was looking sadly at his brother.
+“I don’t remember,” he answered, absently. Other women might have
+discovered that they had chosen their time badly. Mrs. Presty, with the
+best possible intentions, remonstrated.
+
+“Really, Randal, you must rouse yourself. Surely you can tell us
+something. Did you meet with any agreeable people, while you were away?”
+
+“I met one person who interested me,” he said, with weary resignation.
+
+Mrs. Presty smiled. “A woman, of course!”
+
+“A man,” Randal answered; “a guest like myself at a club dinner.”
+
+“Who is he?”
+
+“Captain Bennydeck.”
+
+“In the army?”
+
+“No: formerly in the navy.”
+
+“And you and he had a long talk together?”
+
+Randal’s tones began to betray irritation. “No,” he said “the Captain
+went away early.”
+
+Mrs. Presty’s vigorous intellect discovered an improbability here. “Then
+how came you to feel interested in him?” she objected.
+
+Even Randal’s patience gave way. “I can’t account for it,” he said
+sharply. “I only know I took a liking to Captain Bennydeck.” He left
+Mrs. Presty and sat down by his brother. “You know I feel for you,” he
+said, taking Linley’s hand. “Try to hope.”
+
+The bitterness of the father’s despair broke out in his answer. “I
+can bear other troubles, Randal, as well as most men. This affliction
+revolts me. There’s something so horribly unnatural in the child being
+threatened by death, while the parents (who should die first) are alive
+and well--” He checked himself. “I had better say no more, I shall only
+shock you.”
+
+The misery in his face wrung the faithful heart of his wife. She forgot
+the conciliatory expressions which she had prepared herself to use.
+“Hope, my dear, as Randal tells you,” she said, “because there _is_
+hope.”
+
+His face flushed, his dim eyes brightened. “Has the doctor said it?” he
+asked.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Why haven’t I been told of it before?”
+
+“When I sent for you, I heard that you had gone out.”
+
+The explanation passed by him unnoticed--perhaps even unheard. “Tell me
+what the doctor said,” he insisted; “I want it exactly, word for word.”
+
+She obeyed him to the letter.
+
+The sinister change in his face, as the narrative proceeded was observed
+by both the other persons present, as well as by his wife. She waited
+for a kind word of encouragement. He only said, coldly: “What have you
+done?”
+
+Speaking coldly on her side, she answered: “I have sent the carriage to
+fetch Miss Westerfield.”
+
+There was a pause. Mrs. Presty whispered to Randal: “I knew she would
+come back again! The Evil Genius of the family--that’s what I call Miss
+Westerfield. The name exactly fits her!”
+
+The idea in Randal’s mind was that the name exactly fitted Mrs. Presty.
+He made no reply; his eyes rested in sympathy on his sister-in-law. She
+saw, and felt, his kindness at a time when kindness was doubly precious.
+Her tones trembled a little as she spoke to her silent husband.
+
+“Don’t you approve of what I have done, Herbert?”
+
+His nerves were shattered by grief and suspense; but he made an effort
+this time to speak gently. “How can I say that,” he replied, “if the
+poor child’s life depends on Miss Westerfield? I ask one favor--give me
+time to leave the house before she comes here.”
+
+Mrs. Linley looked at him in amazement.
+
+Her mother touched her arm; Randal tried by a sign to warn her to be
+careful. Their calmer minds had seen what the wife’s agitation had
+prevented her from discovering. In Linley’s position, the return of the
+governess was a trial to his self-control which he had every reason to
+dread: his look, his voice, his manner proclaimed it to persons
+capable of quietly observing him. He had struggled against his
+guilty passion--at what sacrifice of his own feelings no one knew but
+himself--and here was the temptation, at the very time when he was
+honorably resisting it, brought back to him by his wife! Her motive did
+unquestionably excuse, perhaps even sanction, what she had done; but
+this was an estimate of her conduct which commended itself to others.
+From his point of view--motive or no motive--he saw the old struggle
+against himself in danger of being renewed; he felt the ground that he
+had gained slipping from under him already.
+
+In spite of the well-meant efforts made by her relatives to prevent it,
+Mrs. Linley committed the very error which it was the most important
+that she should avoid. She justified herself, instead of leaving it to
+events to justify her. “Miss Westerfield comes here,” she argued, “on an
+errand that is beyond reproach--an errand of mercy. Why should you leave
+the house?”
+
+“In justice to you,” Linley answered.
+
+Mrs. Presty could restrain herself no longer. “Drop it, Catherine!” she
+said in a whisper.
+
+Catherine refused to drop it; Linley’s short and sharp reply had
+irritated her. “After my experience,” she persisted, “have I no reason
+to trust you?”
+
+“It is part of your experience,” he reminded her, “that I promised not
+to see Miss Westerfield again.”
+
+“Own it at once!” she broke out, provoked beyond endurance; “though I
+may be willing to trust you--you are afraid to trust yourself.”
+
+Unlucky Mrs. Presty interfered again. “Don’t listen to her, Herbert.
+Keep out of harm’s way, and you keep right.”
+
+She patted him on the shoulder, as if she had been giving good advice to
+a boy. He expressed his sense of his mother-in-law’s friendly offices in
+language which astonished her.
+
+“Hold your tongue!”
+
+“Do you hear that?” Mrs. Presty asked, appealing indignantly to her
+daughter.
+
+Linley took his hat. “At what time do you expect Miss Westerfield to
+arrive?” he said to his wife.
+
+She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Before the half-hour
+strikes. Don’t be alarmed,” she added, with an air of ironical sympathy;
+“you will have time to make your escape.”
+
+He advanced to the door, and looked at her.
+
+“One thing I beg you will remember,” he said. “Every half-hour while
+I am away (I am going to the farm) you are to send and let me know how
+Kitty is--and especially if Miss Westerfield justifies the experiment
+which the doctor has advised us to try.”
+
+Having given those instructions he went out.
+
+The sofa was near Mrs. Linley. She sank on it, overpowered by the utter
+destruction of the hopes that she had founded on the separation of
+Herbert and the governess. Sydney Westerfield was still in possession of
+her husband’s heart!
+
+Her mother was surely the right person to say a word of comfort to her.
+Randal made the suggestion--with the worst possible result. Mrs. Presty
+had not forgotten that she had been told--at her age, in her position as
+the widow of a Cabinet Minister--to hold her tongue. “Your brother has
+insulted me,” she said to Randal. He was weak enough to attempt to make
+an explanation. “I was speaking of my brother’s wife,” he said. “Your
+brother’s wife has allowed me to be insulted.” Having received that
+reply, Randal could only wonder. This woman went to church every Sunday,
+and kept a New Testament, bound in excellent taste, on her toilet-table!
+The occasion suggested reflection on the system which produces average
+Christians at the present time. Nothing more was said by Mrs. Presty;
+Mrs. Linley remained absorbed in her own bitter thoughts. In silence
+they waited for the return of the carriage, and the appearance of the
+governess.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XVIII. The Nursemaid.
+
+
+Pale, worn, haggard with anxiety, Sydney Westerfield entered the room,
+and looked once more on the faces which she had resigned herself never
+to see again. She appeared to be hardly conscious of the kind reception
+which did its best to set her at her ease.
+
+“Am I in time?” were the first words that escaped her on entering the
+room. Reassured by the answer, she turned back to the door, eager to
+hurry upstairs to Kitty’s bedside.
+
+Mrs. Linley’s gentle hand detained her.
+
+The doctor had left certain instructions, warning the mother to guard
+against any accident that might remind Kitty of the day on which Sydney
+had left her. At the time of that bitter parting, the child had seen
+her governess in the same walking-dress which she wore now. Mrs. Linley
+removed the hat and cloak, and laid them on a chair.
+
+“There is one other precaution which we must observe,” she said; “I
+must ask you to wait in my room until I find that you may show yourself
+safely. Now come with me.”
+
+Mrs. Presty followed them, and begged earnestly for leave to wait the
+result of the momentous experiment, at the door of Kitty’s bedroom. Her
+self-asserting manner had vanished; she was quiet, she was even humble.
+While the last chance for the child’s life was fast becoming a matter
+of minutes only, the grandmother’s better nature showed itself on the
+surface. Randal opened the door for them as the three went out together.
+He was in that state of maddening anxiety about his poor little niece
+in which men of his imaginative temperament become morbid, and say
+strangely inappropriate things. In the same breath with which he
+implored his sister-in-law to let him hear what had happened, without an
+instant of delay, he startled Mrs. Presty by one of his familiar remarks
+on the inconsistencies in her character. “You disagreeable old woman,”
+ he whispered, as she passed him, “you have got a heart, after all.”
+
+Left alone, he was never for one moment in repose, while the slow
+minutes followed each other in the silent house.
+
+He walked about the room, he listened at the door, he arranged and
+disarranged the furniture. When the nursemaid descended from the upper
+regions with her mistress’s message for him, he ran out to meet her; saw
+the good news in her smiling face; and, for the first and last time in
+his life kissed one of his brother’s female servants. Susan--a well-bred
+young person, thoroughly capable in ordinary cases of saying “For shame,
+sir!” and looking as if she expected to feel an arm round her waist
+next--trembled with terror under that astounding salute. Her master’s
+brother, a pattern of propriety up to that time, a man declared by her
+to be incapable of kissing a woman unless she had a right to insist on
+it in the licensed character of his wife, had evidently taken leave of
+his senses. Would he bite her next? No: he only looked confused, and
+said (how very extraordinary!) that he would never do it again. Susan
+gave her message gravely. Here was an unintelligible man; she felt the
+necessity of being careful in her choice of words.
+
+“Miss Kitty stared at Miss Westerfield--only for a moment, sir--as
+if she didn’t quite understand, and then knew her again directly. The
+doctor had just called. He drew up the blind to let the light in, and
+he looked, and he says: ‘Only be careful’--” Tender-hearted Susan broke
+down, and began to cry. “I can’t help it, sir; we are all so fond of
+Miss Kitty, and we are so happy. ‘Only be careful’ (those were the exact
+words, if you please), ‘and I answer for her life.’--Oh, dear! what have
+I said to make him run away from me?”
+
+Randal had left her abruptly, and had shut himself into the
+drawing-room. Susan’s experience of men had not yet informed her that a
+true Englishman is ashamed to be seen (especially by his inferiors) with
+the tears in his eyes.
+
+He had barely succeeded in composing himself, when another servant
+appeared--this time a man--with something to say to him.
+
+“I don’t know whether I have done right, sir,” Malcolm began. “There’s a
+stranger downstairs among the tourists who are looking at the rooms and
+the pictures. He said he knew you. And he asked if you were not related
+to the gentleman who allowed travelers to see his interesting old
+house.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“Well, sir, I said Yes. And then he wanted to know if you happened to be
+here at the present time.”
+
+Randal cut the man’s story short. “And you said Yes again, and he gave
+you his card. Let me look at it.”
+
+Malcolm produced the card, and instantly received instructions to
+show the gentleman up. The name recalled the dinner at the London
+club--Captain Bennydeck.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XIX. The Captain.
+
+
+The fair complexion of the Captain’s youthful days had been darkened by
+exposure to hard weather and extreme climates. His smooth face of twenty
+years since was scored by the telltale marks of care; his dark beard was
+beginning to present variety of color by means of streaks of gray; and
+his hair was in course of undisguised retreat from his strong broad
+forehead. Not rising above the middle height, the Captain’s spare figure
+was well preserved. It revealed power and activity, severely tested
+perhaps at some former time, but capable even yet of endurance under
+trial. Although he looked older than his age, he was still, personally
+speaking, an attractive man. In repose, his eyes were by habit sad and a
+little weary in their expression. They only caught a brighter light
+when he smiled. At such times, helped by this change and by his simple,
+earnest manner, they recommended him to his fellow-creatures before he
+opened his lips. Men and women taking shelter with him, for instance,
+from the rain, found the temptation to talk with Captain Bennydeck
+irresistible; and, when the weather cleared, they mostly carried away
+with them the same favorable impression: “One would like to meet with
+that gentleman again.”
+
+Randal’s first words of welcome relieved the Captain of certain modest
+doubts of his reception, which appeared to trouble him when he entered
+the room. “I am glad to find you remember me as kindly as I remember
+you.” Those were his first words when he and Randal shook hands.
+
+“You might have felt sure of that,” Randal said.
+
+The Captain’s modesty still doubted.
+
+“You see, the circumstances were a little against me. We met at a
+dull dinner, among wearisome worldly men, full of boastful talk
+about themselves. It was all ‘I did this,’ and ‘I said that’--and the
+gentlemen who were present had always been right; and the gentlemen
+who were absent had always been wrong. And, oh, dear, when they came to
+politics, how they bragged about what they would have done if they had
+only been at the head of the Government; and how cruelly hard to please
+they were in the matter of wine! Do you remember recommending me to
+spend my next holiday in Scotland?”
+
+“Perfectly. My advice was selfish--it really meant that I wanted to see
+you again.”
+
+“And you have your wish, at your brother’s house! The guide book did it.
+First, I saw your family name. Then, I read on and discovered that there
+were pictures at Mount Morven and that strangers were allowed to see
+them. I like pictures. And here I am.”
+
+This allusion to the house naturally reminded Randal of the master.
+“I wish I could introduce you to my brother and his wife,” he said.
+“Unhappily their only child is ill--”
+
+Captain Bennydeck started to his feet. “I am ashamed of having intruded
+on you,” he began. His new friend pressed him back into his chair
+without ceremony. “On the contrary, you have arrived at the best of all
+possible times--the time when our suspense is at an end. The doctor
+has just told us that his poor little patient is out of danger. You may
+imagine how happy we are.”
+
+“And how grateful to God!” The Captain said those words in tones that
+trembled--speaking to himself.
+
+Randal was conscious of feeling a momentary embarrassment. The character
+of his visitor had presented itself in a new light. Captain Bennydeck
+looked at him--understood him--and returned to the subject of his
+travels.
+
+“Do you remember your holiday-time when you were a boy, and when you had
+to go back to school?” he asked with a smile. “My mind is in much the
+same state at leaving Scotland, and going back to my work in London. I
+hardly know which I admire most--your beautiful country or the
+people who inhabit it. I have had some pleasant talk with your poorer
+neighbors; the one improvement I could wish for among them is a keener
+sense of their religious duties.”
+
+This was an objection new in Randal’s experience of travelers in
+general.
+
+“Our Highlanders have noble qualities,” he said. “If you knew them as
+well as I do, you would find a true sense of religion among them; not
+presenting itself, however, to strangers as strongly--I had almost
+said as aggressively--as the devotional feeling of the Lowland Scotch.
+Different races, different temperaments.”
+
+“And all,” the Captain added, gravely and gently, “with souls to be
+saved. If I sent to these poor people some copies of the New Testament,
+translated into their own language, would my gift be accepted?”
+
+Strongly interested by this time, in studying Captain Bennydeck’s
+character on the side of it which was new to him, Randal owned that he
+observed with surprise the interest which his friend felt in perfect
+strangers. The Captain seemed to wonder why this impression should have
+been produced by what he had just said.
+
+“I only try,” he answered, “to do what good I can, wherever I go.”
+
+“Your life must be a happy one,” Randal said.
+
+Captain Bennydeck’s head drooped. The shadows that attend on the gloom
+of melancholy remembrance showed their darkening presence on his face.
+Briefly, almost sternly, he set Randal right.
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“Forgive me,” the younger man pleaded, “if I have spoken thoughtlessly.”
+
+“You have mistaken me,” the Captain explained; “and it is my fault.
+My life is an atonement for the sins of my youth. I have reached my
+fortieth year--and that one purpose is before me for the rest of my
+days. Sufferings and dangers which but few men undergo awakened my
+conscience. My last exercise of the duties of my profession associated
+me with an expedition to the Polar Seas. Our ship was crushed in the
+ice. Our march to the nearest regions inhabited by humanity was a
+hopeless struggle of starving men, rotten with scurvy, against the
+merciless forces of Nature. One by one my comrades dropped and died. Out
+of twenty men there were three left with a last flicker in them of the
+vital flame when the party of rescue found us. One of the three died on
+the homeward journey. One lived to reach his native place, and to sink
+to rest with his wife and children round his bed. The last man left,
+out of that band of martyrs to a hopeless cause, lives to be worthier
+of God’s mercy--and tries to make God’s creatures better and happier in
+this world, and worthier of the world that is to come.”
+
+Randal’s generous nature felt the appeal that had been made to it. “Will
+you let me take your hand, Captain?” he said.
+
+They clasped hands in silence.
+
+Captain Bennydeck was the first to speak again. That modest distrust
+of himself, which a man essentially noble and brave is generally the
+readiest of men to feel, seemed to be troubling him once more--just as
+it had troubled him when he first found himself in Randal’s presence.
+
+“I hope you won’t think me vain,” he resumed; “I seldom say so much
+about myself as I have said to you.”
+
+“I only wish you would say more,” Randal rejoined. “Can’t you put off
+your return to London for a day or two?”
+
+The thing was not to be done. Duties which it was impossible to trifle
+with called the Captain back. “It’s quite likely,” he said, alluding
+pleasantly to the impression which he had produced in speaking of the
+Highlanders, “that I shall find more strangers to interest me in the
+great city.”
+
+“Are they always strangers?” Randal asked. “Have you never met by
+accident with persons whom you may once have known?”
+
+“Never--yet. But it may happen on my return.”
+
+“In what way?”
+
+“In this way. I have been in search of a poor girl who has lost both her
+parents: she has, I fear, been left helpless at the mercy of the world.
+Her father was an old friend of mine--once an officer in the Navy like
+myself. The agent whom I formerly employed (without success) to trace
+her, writes me word that he has reason to believe she has obtained a
+situation as pupil-teacher at a school in the suburbs of London; and
+I am going back (among other things) to try if I can follow the clew
+myself. Good-by, my friend. I am heartily sorry to go!”
+
+“Life is made up of partings,” Randal answered.
+
+“And of meetings,” the Captain wisely reminded him. “When you are in
+London, you will always hear of me at the club.”
+
+Heartily reciprocating his good wishes, Randal attended Captain
+Bennydeck to the door. On the way back to the drawing-room, he found
+his mind dwelling, rather to his surprise, on the Captain’s contemplated
+search for the lost girl.
+
+Was the good man likely to find her? It seemed useless enough to
+inquire--and yet Randal asked himself the question. Her father had been
+described as an officer in the Navy. Well, and what did that matter?
+Inclined to laugh at his own idle curiosity, he was suddenly struck by
+a new idea. What had his brother told him of Miss Westerfield? _She_ was
+the daughter of an officer in the Navy; _she_ had been pupil-teacher at
+a school. Was it really possible that Sydney Westerfield could be the
+person whom Captain Bennydeck was attempting to trace? Randal threw up
+the window which overlooked the drive in front of the house. Too late!
+The carriage which had brought the Captain to Mount Morven was no longer
+in sight.
+
+The one other course that he could take was to mention Captain
+Bennydeck’s name to Sydney, and be guided by the result.
+
+As he approached the bell, determining to send a message upstairs,
+he heard the door opened behind him. Mrs. Presty had entered the
+drawing-room, with a purpose (as it seemed) in which Randal was
+concerned.
+
+
+
+Chapter XX.
+
+The Mother-in-Law.
+
+
+Strong as the impression was which Captain Bennydeck had produced on
+Randal, Mrs. Presty’s first words dismissed it from his mind. She asked
+him if he had any message for his brother.
+
+Randal instantly looked at the clock. “Has Catherine not sent to the
+farm, yet?” he asked in astonishment.
+
+Mrs. Presty’s mind seemed to be absorbed in her daughter. “Ah, poor
+Catherine! Worn out with anxiety and watching at Kitty’s bedside. Night
+after night without any sleep; night after night tortured by suspense.
+As usual, she can depend on her old mother for sympathy. I have taken
+all her household duties on myself, till she is in better health.”
+
+Randal tried again. “Mrs. Presty, am I to understand (after the plain
+direction Herbert gave) that no messenger has been sent to the farm?”
+
+Mrs. Presty held her venerable head higher than ever, when Randal
+pronounced his brother’s name. “I see no necessity for being in a
+hurry,” she answered stiffly, “after the brutal manner in which Herbert
+has behaved to me. Put yourself in my place--and imagine what you would
+feel if you were told to hold your tongue.”
+
+Randal wasted no more time on ears that were deaf to remonstrance.
+Feeling the serious necessity of interfering to some good purpose, he
+asked where he might find his sister-in-law.
+
+“I have taken Catherine into the garden,” Mrs. Presty announced. “The
+doctor himself suggested--no, I may say, ordered it. He is afraid
+that _she_ may fall ill next, poor soul, if she doesn’t get air and
+exercise.”
+
+In Mrs. Linley’s own interests, Randal resolved on advising her to write
+to her husband by the messenger; explaining that she was not to blame
+for the inexcusable delay which had already taken place. Without a word
+more to Mrs. Presty, he hastened out of the room. That inveterately
+distrustful woman called him back. She desired to know where he was
+going, and why he was in a hurry.
+
+“I am going to the garden,” Randal answered.
+
+“To speak to Catherine?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Needless trouble, my dear Randal. She will be back in a quarter of an
+hour, and she will pass through this room on her way upstairs.”
+
+Another quarter of an hour was a matter of no importance to Mrs. Presty!
+Randal took his own way--the way into the garden.
+
+His silence and his determination to join his sister-in-law roused Mrs.
+Presty’s ready suspicions; she concluded that he was bent on making
+mischief between her daughter and herself. The one thing to do in this
+case was to follow him instantly. The active old lady trotted out of
+the room, strongly inclined to think that the Evil Genius of the family
+might be Randal Linley after all!
+
+They had both taken the shortest way to the garden; that is to say, the
+way through the library, which communicated at its furthest end with the
+corridor and the vaulted flight of stairs leading directly out of the
+house. Of the two doors in the drawing-room, one, on the left, led to
+the grand staircase and the hall; the other, on the right, opened on the
+backstairs, and on a side entrance to the house, used by the family when
+they were pressed for time, as well as by the servants.
+
+The drawing-room had not been empty more than a few minutes when the
+door on the right was suddenly opened. Herbert Linley, entered with
+hurried, uncertain steps. He took the chair that was nearest to him, and
+dropped into it like a man overpowered by agitation or fatigue.
+
+He had ridden from the farm at headlong speed, terrified by the
+unexplained delay in the arrival of the messenger from home. Unable any
+longer to suffer the torment of unrelieved suspense, he had returned to
+make inquiry at the house. As he interpreted the otherwise inexplicable
+neglect of his instructions, the last chance of saving the child’s life
+had failed, and his wife had been afraid to tell him the dreadful truth.
+
+After an interval, he rose and went into the library.
+
+It was empty, like the drawing-room. The bell was close by him. He
+lifted his hand to ring it--and drew back. As brave a man as ever lived,
+he knew what fear was now. The father’s courage failed him before the
+prospect of summoning a servant, and hearing, for all he knew to the
+contrary, that his child was dead.
+
+How long he stood there, alone and irresolute, he never remembered when
+he thought of it in after-days. All he knew was that there came a time
+when a sound in the drawing-room attracted his attention. It was nothing
+more important than the opening of a door.
+
+The sound came from that side of the room which was nearest to the grand
+staircase--and therefore nearest also to the hall in one direction, and
+to the bed-chambers in the other.
+
+Some person had entered the room. Whether it was one of the family or
+one of the servants, he would hear in either case what had happened
+in his absence. He parted the curtains over the library entrance, and
+looked through.
+
+The person was a woman. She stood with her back turned toward the
+library, lifting a cloak off a chair. As she shook the cloak out before
+putting it on, she changed her position. He saw the face, never to be
+forgotten by him to the last day of his life. He saw Sydney Westerfield.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XXI. The Governess.
+
+
+Linley had one instant left, in which he might have drawn, back into
+the library in time to escape Sydney’s notice. He was incapable of the
+effort of will. Grief and suspense had deprived him of that elastic
+readiness of mind which springs at once from thought to action. For a
+moment he hesitated. In that moment she looked up and saw him.
+
+With a faint cry of alarm she let the cloak drop from her hands. As
+helpless as he was, as silent as he was, she stood rooted to the spot.
+
+He tried to control himself. Hardly knowing what he said, he made
+commonplace excuses, as if he had been a stranger: “I am sorry to have
+startled you; I had no idea of finding you in this room.”
+
+Sydney pointed to her cloak on the floor, and to her hat on a chair near
+it. Understanding the necessity which had brought her into the room, he
+did his best to reconcile her to the meeting that had followed.
+
+“It’s a relief to me to have seen you,” he said, “before you leave us.”
+
+A relief to him to see her! Why? How? What did that strange word mean,
+addressed to _her?_ She roused herself, and put the question to him.
+
+“It’s surely better for me,” he answered, “to hear the miserable news
+from you than from a servant.”
+
+“What miserable news?” she asked, still as perplexed as ever.
+
+He could preserve his self-control no longer; the misery in him forced
+its way outward at last. The convulsive struggles for breath which burst
+from a man in tears shook him from head to foot.
+
+“My poor little darling!” he gasped. “My only child!”
+
+All that was embarrassing in her position passed from Sydney’s mind in
+an instant. She stepped close up to him; she laid her hand gently and
+fearlessly on his arm. “Oh, Mr. Linley, what dreadful mistake is this?”
+
+His dim eyes rested on her with a piteous expression of doubt. He heard
+her--and he was afraid to believe her. She was too deeply distressed,
+too full of the truest pity for him, to wait and think before she spoke.
+“Yes! yes!” she cried, under the impulse of the moment. “The dear child
+knew me again, the moment I spoke to her. Kitty’s recovery is only a
+matter of time.”
+
+He staggered back--with a livid change in his face startling to see.
+The mischief done by Mrs. Presty’s sense of injury had led already to
+serious results. If the thought in Linley, at that moment, had shaped
+itself into words, he would have said, “And Catherine never told me
+of it!” How bitterly he thought of the woman who had left him in
+suspense--how gratefully he felt toward the woman who had lightened his
+heart of the heaviest burden ever laid on it!
+
+Innocent of all suspicion of the feeling that she had aroused, Sydney
+blamed her own want of discretion as the one cause of the change that
+she perceived in him. “How thoughtless, how cruel of me,” she said, “not
+to have been more careful in telling you the good news! Pray forgive
+me.”
+
+“You thoughtless! you cruel!” At the bare idea of her speaking in that
+way of herself, his sense of what he owed to her defied all restraint.
+He seized her hands and covered them with grateful kisses. “Dear Sydney!
+dear, good Sydney!”
+
+She drew back from him; not abruptly, not as if she felt offended. Her
+fine perception penetrated the meaning of those harmless kisses--the
+uncontrollable outburst of a sense of relief beyond the reach of
+expression in words. But she changed the subject. Mrs. Linley (she told
+him) had kindly ordered fresh horses to be put to the carriage, so that
+she might go back to her duties if the doctor sanctioned it.
+
+She turned away to take up her cloak. Linley stopped her. “You can’t
+leave Kitty,” he said, positively.
+
+A faint smile brightened her face for a moment. “Kitty has fallen
+asleep--such a sweet, peaceful sleep! I don’t think I should have left
+her but for that. The maid is watching at the bedside, and Mrs. Linley
+is only away for a little while.”
+
+“Wait a few minutes,” he pleaded; “it’s so long since we have seen each
+other.”
+
+The tone in which he spoke warned her to persist in leaving him while
+her resolution remained firm. “I had arranged with Mrs. MacEdwin,” she
+began, “if all went well--”
+
+“Speak of yourself,” he interposed. “Tell me if you are happy.”
+
+She let this pass without a reply. “The doctor sees no harm,” she went
+on, “in my being away for a few hours. Mrs. MacEdwin has offered to send
+me here in the evening, so that I can sleep in Kitty’s room.”
+
+“You don’t look well, Sydney. You are pale and worn--you are not happy.”
+
+She began to tremble. For the second time, she turned away to take up
+her cloak. For the second time, he stopped her.
+
+“Not just yet,” he said. “You don’t know how it distresses me to see
+you so sadly changed. I remember the time when you were the happiest
+creature living. Do you remember it, too?”
+
+“Don’t ask me!” was all she could say.
+
+He sighed as he looked at her. “It’s dreadful to think of your
+young life, that ought to be so bright, wasting and withering among
+strangers.” He said those words with increasing agitation; his eyes
+rested on her eagerly with a wild look in them. She made a resolute
+effort to speak to him coldly--she called him “Mr. Linley”--she bade him
+good-by.
+
+It was useless. He stood between her and the door; he disregarded what
+she had said as if he had not heard it. “Hardly a day passes,” he owned
+to her, “that I don’t think of you.”
+
+“You shouldn’t tell me that!”
+
+“How can I see you again--and not tell you?”
+
+She burst out with a last entreaty. “For God’s sake, let us say
+good-by!”
+
+His manner became undisguisedly tender; his language changed in the
+one way of all others that was most perilous to her--he appealed to her
+pity: “Oh, Sydney, it’s so hard to part with you!”
+
+“Spare me!” she cried, passionately. “You don’t know how I suffer.”
+
+“My sweet angel, I do know it--by what I suffer myself! Do you ever feel
+for me as I feel for you?”
+
+“Oh, Herbert! Herbert!”
+
+“Have you ever thought of me since we parted?”
+
+She had striven against herself, and against him, till her last effort
+at resistance was exhausted. In reckless despair she let the truth
+escape her at last.
+
+“When do I ever think of anything else! I am a wretch unworthy of all
+the kindness that has been shown to me. I don’t deserve your interest; I
+don’t even deserve your pity. Send me away--be hard on me--be brutal
+to me. Have some mercy on a miserable creature whose life is one long
+hopeless effort to forget you!” Her voice, her look, maddened him. He
+drew her to his bosom; he held her in his arms; she struggled vainly to
+get away from him. “Oh,” she murmured, “how cruel you are! Remember,
+my dear one, remember how young I am, how weak I am. Oh, Herbert, I’m
+dying--dying--dying!” Her voice grew fainter and fainter; her head sank
+on his breast. He lifted her face to him with whispered words of love.
+He kissed her again and again.
+
+
+The curtains over the library entrance moved noiselessly when they were
+parted. The footsteps of Catherine Linley were inaudible as she passed
+through, and entered the room.
+
+She stood still for a moment in silent horror.
+
+Not a sound warned them when she advanced. After hesitating for a
+moment, she raised her hand toward her husband, as if to tell him of her
+presence by a touch; drew it back, suddenly recoiling from her own first
+intention; and touched Sydney instead.
+
+Then, and then only, they knew what had happened.
+
+Face to face, those three persons--with every tie that had once united
+them snapped asunder in an instant--looked at each other. The man owed
+a duty to the lost creature whose weakness had appealed to his mercy in
+vain. The man broke the silence.
+
+“Catherine--”
+
+With immeasurable contempt looking brightly out of her steady eyes, his
+wife stopped him.
+
+“Not a word!”
+
+He refused to be silent. “It is I,” he said; “I only who am to blame.”
+
+“Spare yourself the trouble of making excuses,” she answered; “they
+are needless. Herbert Linley, the woman who was once your wife despises
+you.”
+
+Her eyes turned from him and rested on Sydney Westerfield.
+
+“I have a last word to say to _you_. Look at me, if you can.”
+
+Sydney lifted her head. She looked vacantly at the outraged woman before
+her, as if she saw a woman in a dream.
+
+With the same terrible self-possession which she had preserved from
+the first--standing between her husband and her governess--Mrs. Linley
+spoke.
+
+“Miss Westerfield, you have saved my child’s life.” She paused--her
+eyes still resting on the girl’s face. Deadly pale, she pointed to her
+husband, and said to Sydney: “Take him!”
+
+She passed out of the room--and left them together.
+
+
+
+
+THIRD BOOK.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXII. Retrospect.
+
+
+The autumn holiday-time had come to an end; and the tourists had left
+Scotland to the Scots.
+
+In the dull season, a solitary traveler from the North arrived at the
+nearest post-town to Mount Morven. A sketchbook and a color-box formed
+part of his luggage, and declared him to be an artist. Falling into talk
+over his dinner with the waiter at the hotel, he made inquiries about
+a picturesque house in the neighborhood, which showed that Mount Morven
+was well known to him by reputation. When he proposed paying a visit to
+the old border fortress the next day, the waiter said: “You can’t see
+the house.” When the traveler asked Why, this man of few words merely
+added: “Shut up.”
+
+The landlord made his appearance with a bottle of wine and proved to be
+a more communicative person in his relations with strangers. Presented
+in an abridged form, and in the English language, these (as he related
+them) were the circumstances under which Mount Morven had been closed to
+the public.
+
+A complete dispersion of the family had taken place not long since. For
+miles round everybody was sorry for it. Rich and poor alike felt
+the same sympathy with the good lady of the house. She had been most
+shamefully treated by her husband, and by a good-for-nothing girl
+employed as governess. To put it plainly, the two had run away together;
+one report said they had gone abroad, and another declared that
+they were living in London. Mr. Linley’s conduct was perfectly
+incomprehensible. He had always borne the highest character--a good
+landlord, a kind father, a devoted husband. And yet, after more than
+eight years of exemplary married life, he had disgraced himself. The
+minister of the parish, preaching on the subject, had attributed this
+extraordinary outbreak of vice on the part of an otherwise virtuous man,
+to a possession of the devil. Assuming “the devil,” in this case, to be
+only a discreet and clerical way of alluding from the pulpit to a woman,
+the landlord was inclined to agree with the minister. After what had
+happened, it was, of course, impossible that Mrs. Linley could remain
+in her husband’s house. She and her little girl, and her mother, were
+supposed to be living in retirement. They kept the place of their
+retreat a secret from everybody but Mrs. Linley’s legal adviser, who
+was instructed to forward letters. But one other member of the family
+remained to be accounted for. This was Mr. Linley’s younger brother,
+known at present to be traveling on the Continent. Two trustworthy old
+servants had been left in charge at Mount Morven--and there was the
+whole story; and that was why the house was shut up.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXIII. Separation.
+
+
+In a cottage on the banks of one of the Cumberland Lakes, two ladies
+were seated at the breakfast-table. The windows of the room opened on
+a garden which extended to the water’s edge, and on a boat-house and
+wooden pier beyond. On the pier a little girl was fishing, under the
+care of her maid. After a prevalence of rainy weather, the sun was
+warm this morning for the time of year; and the broad sheet of water
+alternately darkened and brightened as the moving masses of cloud now
+gathered and now parted over the blue beauty of the sky.
+
+The ladies had finished their breakfast; the elder of the two--that is
+to say, Mrs. Presty--took up her knitting and eyed her silent daughter
+with an expression of impatient surprise.
+
+“Another bad night, Catherine?”
+
+The personal attractions that distinguished Mrs. Linley were not derived
+from the short-lived beauty which depends on youth and health. Pale as
+she was, her face preserved its fine outline; her features had not lost
+their grace and symmetry of form. Presenting the appearance of a woman
+who had suffered acutely, she would have been more than ever (in the
+eyes of some men) a woman to be admired and loved.
+
+“I seldom sleep well now,” she answered, patiently.
+
+“You don’t give yourself a chance,” Mrs. Presty remonstrated. “Here’s
+a fine morning--come out for a sail on the lake. To-morrow there’s a
+concert in the town--let’s take tickets. There’s a want of what I call
+elastic power in your mind, Catherine--the very quality for which your
+father was so remarkable; the very quality which Mr. Presty used to say
+made him envy Mr. Norman. Look at your dress! Where’s the common-sense,
+at your age, of wearing nothing but black? Nobody’s dead who belongs to
+us, and yet you do your best to look as if you were in mourning.”
+
+“I have no heart, mamma, to wear colors.”
+
+Mrs. Presty considered this reply to be unworthy of notice. She went on
+with her knitting, and only laid it down when the servant brought in the
+letters which had arrived by the morning’s post. They were but two
+in number--and both were for Mrs. Linley. In the absence of any
+correspondence of her own, Mrs. Presty took possession of her daughter’s
+letters.
+
+“One addressed in the lawyer’s handwriting,” she announced; “and one
+from Randal. Which shall I open for you first?”
+
+“Randal’s letter, if you please.”
+
+Mrs. Presty handed it across the table. “Any news is a relief from the
+dullness of this place,” she said. “If there are no secrets, Catherine,
+read it out.”
+
+There were no secrets on the first page.
+
+Randal announced his arrival in London from the Continent, and his
+intention of staying there for a while. He had met with a friend
+(formerly an officer holding high rank in the Navy) whom he was glad to
+see again--a rich man who used his wealth admirably in the interest of
+his poor and helpless fellow-creatures. A “Home,” established on a new
+plan, was just now engaging all his attention: he was devoting himself
+so unremittingly to the founding of this institution that his doctor
+predicted injury to his health at no distant date. If it was possible to
+persuade him to take a holiday, Randal might return to the Continent as
+the traveling-companion of his friend.
+
+“This must be the man whom he first met at the club,” Mrs. Presty
+remarked. “Well, Catherine, I suppose there is some more of it. What’s
+the matter? Bad news?”
+
+“Something that I wish Randal had not written. Read it yourself--and
+don’t talk of it afterward.”
+
+Mrs. Presty read:
+
+“I know nothing whatever of my unfortunate brother. If you think this is
+a too-indulgent way of alluding to a man who has so shamefully wronged
+you, let my conviction that he is already beginning to suffer the
+penalty of his crime plead my excuse. Herbert’s nature is, in some
+respects, better known to me than it is to you. I am persuaded that your
+hold on his respect and his devotion is shaken--not lost. He has been
+misled by one of those passing fancies, disastrous and even criminal in
+their results, to which men are liable when they are led by no better
+influence than the influence of their senses. It is not, and never will
+be, in the nature of women to understand this. I fear I may offend you
+in what I am now writing; but I must speak what I believe to be the
+truth, at any sacrifice. Bitter repentance (if he is not already feeling
+it) is in store for Herbert, when he finds himself tied to a person who
+cannot bear comparison with you. I say this, pitying the poor girl most
+sincerely, when I think of her youth and her wretched past life. How it
+will end I cannot presume to say. I can only acknowledge that I do not
+look to the future with the absolute despair which you naturally felt
+when I last saw you.”
+
+Mrs. Presty laid the letter down, privately resolving to write to
+Randal, and tell him to keep his convictions for the future to himself.
+A glance at her daughter’s face warned her, if she said anything, to
+choose a new subject.
+
+The second letter still remained unnoticed. “Shall we see what the
+lawyer says?” she suggested--and opened the envelope. The lawyer had
+nothing to say. He simply inclosed a letter received at his office.
+
+Mrs. Presty had long passed the age at which emotion expresses itself
+outwardly by a change of color. She turned pale, nevertheless, when she
+looked at the second letter.
+
+The address was in Herbert Linley’s handwriting.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXIV. Hostility.
+
+
+When she was not eating her meals or asleep in her bed, absolute silence
+on Mrs. Presty’s part was a circumstance without precedent in the
+experience of her daughter. Mrs. Presty was absolutely silent now. Mrs.
+Linley looked up.
+
+She at once perceived the change in her mother’s face and asked what
+it meant. “Mamma, you look as if something had frightened you. Is it
+anything in that letter?” She bent over the table, and looked a little
+closer at the letter. Mrs. Presty had turned it so that the address was
+underneath; and the closed envelope was visible still intact. “Why don’t
+you open it?” Mrs. Linley asked.
+
+Mrs. Presty made a strange reply. “I am thinking of throwing it into the
+fire.”
+
+“My letter?”
+
+“Yes; your letter.”
+
+“Let me look at it first.”
+
+“You had better not look at it, Catherine.”
+
+Naturally enough, Mrs. Linley remonstrated. “Surely I ought to read a
+letter forwarded by my lawyer. Why are you hiding the address from me?
+Is it from some person whose handwriting we both know?” She looked again
+at her silent mother--reflected--and guessed the truth. “Give it to me
+directly,” she said; “my husband has written to me.”
+
+Mrs. Presty’s heavy eyebrows gathered into a frown. “Is it possible,”
+ she asked sternly, “that you are still fond enough of that man to care
+about what he writes to you?” Mrs. Linley held out her hand for the
+letter. Her wise mother found it desirable to try persuasion next. “If
+you really won’t give way, my dear, humor me for once. Will you let me
+read it to you?”
+
+“Yes--if you promise to read every word of it.”
+
+Mrs. Presty promised (with a mental reservation), and opened the letter.
+
+At the two first words, she stopped and began to clean her spectacles.
+Had her own eyes deceived her? Or had Herbert Linley actually addressed
+her daughter--after having been guilty of the cruelest wrong that a
+husband can inflict on a wife--as “Dear Catherine”? Yes: there were the
+words, when she put her spectacles on again. Was he in his right senses?
+or had he written in a state of intoxication?
+
+Mrs. Linley waited, with a preoccupied mind: she showed no signs of
+impatience or surprise. As it presently appeared, she was not thinking
+of the letter addressed to her by Herbert, but of the letter written by
+Randal. “I want to look at it again.” With that brief explanation she
+turned at once to the closing lines which had offended her when she
+first read them.
+
+Mrs. Presty hazarded a guess at what was going on in her daughter’s
+mind. “Now your husband has written to you,” she said, “are you
+beginning to think Randal’s opinion may be worth considering again?”
+ With her eyes still on Randal’s letter, Mrs. Linley merely answered:
+“Why don’t you begin?” Mrs. Presty began as follows, leaving out the
+familiarity of her son-in-law’s address to his wife.
+
+“I hope and trust you will forgive me for venturing to write to you,
+in consideration of the subject of my letter. I have something to say
+concerning our child. Although I have deserved the worst you can think
+of me, I believe you will not deny that even your love for our little
+Kitty (while we were living together) was not a truer love than mine.
+Bad as I am, my heart has that tender place left in it still. I cannot
+endure separation from my child.”
+
+Mrs. Linley rose to her feet. The first vague anticipations of future
+atonement and reconciliation, suggested by her brother-in-law, no longer
+existed in her mind: she foresaw but too plainly what was to come. “Read
+faster,” she said, “or let me read it for myself.”
+
+Mrs. Presty went on: “There is no wish, on my part, to pain you by any
+needless allusion to my claims as a father. My one desire is to enter
+into an arrangement which shall be as just toward you, as it is toward
+me. I propose that Kitty shall live with her father one half of the
+year, and shall return to her mother’s care for the other half If there
+is any valid objection to this, I confess I fail to see it.”
+
+Mrs. Linley could remain silent no longer.
+
+“Does he see no difference,” she broke out, “between his position and
+mine? What consolation--in God’s name, what consolation is left to me
+for the rest of my life but my child? And he threatens to separate us
+for six months in every year! And he takes credit to himself for an act
+of exalted justice on his part! Is there no such thing as shame in the
+hearts of men?”
+
+Under ordinary circumstances, her mother would have tried to calm her.
+But Mrs. Presty had turned to the next page of the letter, at the moment
+when her daughter spoke.
+
+What she found written, on that other side, produced a startling effect
+on her. She crumpled the letter up in her hand, and threw it into the
+fireplace. It fell under the grate instead of into the grate. With
+amazing activity for a woman of her age, she ran across the room to burn
+it. Younger and quicker, Mrs. Linley got to the fireplace first, and
+seized the letter. “There is something more!” she exclaimed. “And you
+are afraid of my knowing what it is.”
+
+“Don’t read it!” Mrs. Presty called out.
+
+There was but one sentence left to read: “If your maternal anxiety
+suggests any misgiving, let me add that a woman’s loving care will watch
+over our little girl while she is under my roof. You will remember how
+fond Miss Westerfield was of Kitty, and you will believe me when I tell
+you that she is as truly devoted to the child as ever.”
+
+“I tried to prevent you from reading it,” said Mrs. Presty.
+
+Mrs. Linley looked at her mother with a strange unnatural smile.
+
+“I wouldn’t have missed this for anything!” she said. “The cruelest of
+all separations is proposed to me--and I am expected to submit to it,
+because my husband’s mistress is fond of my child!” She threw the letter
+from her with a frantic gesture of contempt and burst into a fit of
+hysterical laughter.
+
+The old mother’s instinct--not the old mother’s reason--told her what
+to do. She drew her daughter to the open window, and called to Kitty to
+come in. The child (still amusing herself by fishing in the lake) laid
+down her rod. Mrs. Linley saw her running lightly along the little
+pier, on her way to the house. _That_ influence effected what no other
+influence could have achieved. The outraged wife controlled herself,
+for the sake of her child. Mrs. Presty led her out to meet Kitty in
+the garden; waited until she saw them together; and returned to the
+breakfast-room.
+
+Herbert Linley’s letter lay on the floor; his discreet mother-in-law
+picked it up. It could do no more harm now, and there might be reasons
+for keeping the husband’s proposal. “Unless I am very much mistaken,”
+ Mrs. Presty concluded, “we shall hear more from the lawyer before long.”
+ She locked up the letter, and wondered what her daughter would do next.
+
+In half an hour Mrs. Linley returned--pale, silent, self-contained.
+
+She seated herself at her desk; wrote literally one line; signed it
+without an instant’s hesitation, and folded the paper. Before it was
+secured in the envelope, Mrs. Presty interfered with a characteristic
+request. “You are writing to Mr. Linley, of course,” she said. “May I
+see it?”
+
+Mrs. Linley handed the letter to her. The one line of writing contained
+these words: “I refuse positively to part with my child.--Catherine
+Linley.”
+
+“Have you considered what is likely to happen, when he gets this?” Mrs.
+Presty inquired.
+
+“No, mamma.”
+
+“Will you consult Randal?”
+
+“I would rather not consult him.”
+
+“Will you let me consult him for you?”
+
+“Thank you--no.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“After what Randal has written to me, I don’t attach any value to his
+opinion.” With that reply she sent her letter to the post, and went back
+again to Kitty.
+
+After this, Mrs. Presty resolved to wait the arrival of Herbert Linley’s
+answer, and to let events take their course. The view from the window
+(as she passed it, walking up and down the room) offered her little
+help in forecasting the future. Kitty had returned to her fishing; and
+Kitty’s mother was walking slowly up and down the pier, deep in thought.
+Was she thinking of what might happen, and summoning the resolution
+which so seldom showed itself on ordinary occasions?
+
+
+
+Chapter XXV. Consultation.
+
+
+No second letter arrived. But a telegram was received from the lawyer
+toward the end of the week.
+
+“Expect me to-morrow on business which requires personal consultation.”
+
+That was the message. In taking the long journey to Cumberland, Mrs.
+Linley’s legal adviser sacrificed two days of his precious time in
+London. Something serious must assuredly have happened.
+
+In the meantime, who was the lawyer?
+
+He was Mr. Sarrazin, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
+
+Was he an Englishman or a Frenchman?
+
+He was a curious mixture of both. His ancestors had been among the
+persecuted French people who found a refuge in England, when the
+priest-ridden tyrant, Louis the Fourteenth, revoked the Edict of Nantes.
+A British subject by birth, and a thoroughly competent and trustworthy
+man, Mr. Sarrazin labored under one inveterate delusion; he firmly
+believed that his original French nature had been completely eradicated,
+under the influence of our insular climate and our insular customs.
+No matter how often the strain of the lively French blood might assert
+itself, at inconvenient times and under regrettable circumstances,
+he never recognized this foreign side of his character. His excellent
+spirits, his quick sympathies, his bright mutability of mind--all
+those qualities, in short, which were most mischievously ready to raise
+distrust in the mind of English clients, before their sentiment changed
+for the better under the light of later experience--were attributed
+by Mr. Sarrazin to the exhilarating influence of his happy domestic
+circumstances and his successful professional career. His essentially
+English wife; his essentially English children; his whiskers, his
+politics, his umbrella, his pew at church, his plum pudding, his _Times_
+newspaper, all answered for him (he was accustomed to say) as an inbred
+member of the glorious nation that rejoices in hunting the fox, and
+believes in innumerable pills.
+
+This excellent man arrived at the cottage, desperately fatigued after
+his long journey, but in perfect possession of his incomparable temper,
+nevertheless.
+
+He afforded a proof of this happy state of mind, on sitting down to his
+supper. An epicure, if ever there was one yet, he found the solid part
+of the refreshments offered to him to consist of a chop. The old
+French blood curdled at the sight of it--but the true-born Englishman
+heroically devoted himself to the national meal. At the same time the
+French vivacity discovered a kindred soul in Kitty; Mr. Sarrazin became
+her intimate friend in five minutes. He listened to her and talked to
+her, as if the child had been his client, and fishing from the pier the
+business which had brought him from London. To Mrs. Presty’s disgust,
+he turned up a corner of the table-cloth, when he had finished his
+chop, and began to conjure so deftly with the spoons and forks that poor
+little Kitty (often dull, now, under the changed domestic circumstances
+of her life) clapped her hands with pleasure, and became the joyous
+child of the happy old times once more. Mrs. Linley, flattered in her
+maternal love and her maternal pride, never thought of recalling this
+extraordinary lawyer to the business that was waiting to be discussed.
+But Mrs. Presty looked at the clock, and discovered that her grandchild
+ought to have been in bed half-an-hour ago.
+
+“Time to say good-night,” the grandmother suggested.
+
+The grandchild failed to see the subject of bed in the same light. “Oh,
+not yet,” she pleaded; “I want to speak to Mr.--” Having only heard the
+visitor’s name once, and not finding her memory in good working order
+after the conjuring, Kitty hesitated. “Isn’t your name something like
+Saracen?” she asked.
+
+“Very like!” cried the genial lawyer. “Try my other name, my dear. I’m
+Samuel as well as Sarrazin.”
+
+“Ah, that’ll do,” said Kitty. “Grandmamma, before I go to bed, I’ve
+something to ask Samuel.”
+
+Grandmamma persisted in deferring the question until the next morning.
+Samuel administered consolation before he said good-night. “I’ll get
+up early,” he whispered, “and we’ll go on the pier before breakfast and
+fish.”
+
+Kitty expressed her gratitude in her own outspoken way. “Oh, dear, how
+nice it would be, Samuel, if you lived with us!” Mrs. Linley laughed for
+the first time, poor soul, since the catastrophe which had broken up her
+home. Mrs. Presty set a proper example. She moved her chair so that she
+faced the lawyer, and said: “Now, Mr. Sarrazin!”
+
+He acknowledged that he understood what this meant, by a very
+unprofessional choice of words. “We are in a mess,” he began, “and the
+sooner we are out of it the better.”
+
+“Only let me keep Kitty,” Mrs. Linley declared, “and I’ll do whatever
+you think right.”
+
+“Stick to that, dear madam, when you have heard what I have to tell
+you--and I shall not have taken my journey in vain. In the first place,
+may I look at the letter which I had the honor of forwarding some days
+since?”
+
+Mrs. Presty gave him Herbert Linley’s letter. He read it with the
+closest attention, and tapped the breast-pocket of his coat when he had
+done.
+
+“If I didn’t know what I have got here,” he remarked, “I should have
+said: Another person dictated this letter, and the name of the person is
+Miss Westerfield.”
+
+“Just my idea!” Mrs. Presty exclaimed. “There can’t be a doubt of it.”
+
+“Oh, but there is a very great doubt of it, ma’am; and you will say
+so too when you know what your severe son-in-law threatens to do.” He
+turned to Mrs. Linley. “After having seen that pretty little friend of
+mine who has just gone to bed (how much nicer it would be for all of
+us if we could go to bed too!), I think I know how you answered your
+husband’s letter. But I ought perhaps to see how you have expressed
+yourself. Have you got a copy?”
+
+“It was too short, Mr. Sarrazin, to make a copy necessary.”
+
+“Do you mean you can remember it?”
+
+“I can repeat it word for word. This was my reply: I refuse, positively,
+to part with my child.”
+
+“No more like that?”
+
+“No more.”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin looked at his client with undisguised admiration. “The
+only time in all my long experience,” he said, “in which I have found a
+lady’s letter capable of expressing itself strongly in a few words. What
+a lawyer you will make, Mrs. Linley, when the rights of women invade my
+profession!”
+
+He put his hand into his pocket and produced a letter addressed to
+himself.
+
+Watching him anxiously, the ladies saw his bright face become
+overclouded with anxiety. “I am the wretched bearer of bad news,” he
+resumed, “and if I fidget in my chair, that is the reason for it. Let us
+get to the point--and let us get off it again as soon as possible. Here
+is a letter, written to me by Mr. Linley’s lawyer. If you will take my
+advice you will let me say what the substance of it is, and then put
+it back in my pocket. I doubt if a woman has influenced these cruel
+instructions, Mrs. Presty; and, therefore, I doubt if a woman influenced
+the letter which led the way to them. Did I not say just now that I was
+coming to the point? and here I am wandering further and further away
+from it. A lawyer is human; there is the only excuse. Now, Mrs. Linley,
+in two words; your husband is determined to have little Miss Kitty; and
+the law, when he applies to it, is his obedient humble servant.”
+
+“Do you mean that the law takes my child away from me?”
+
+“I am ashamed, madam, to think that I live by the law; but that, I must
+own, is exactly what it is capable of doing in the present case. Compose
+yourself, I beg and pray. A time will come when women will remind men
+that the mother bears the child and feeds the child, and will
+insist that the mother’s right is the best right of the two. In the
+meanwhile--”
+
+“In the meanwhile, Mr. Sarrazin, I won’t submit to the law.”
+
+“Quite right, Catherine!” cried Mrs. Presty. “Exactly what I should do,
+in your place.”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin listened patiently. “I am all attention, good ladies,” he
+said, with the gentlest resignation. “Let me hear how you mean to do
+it.”
+
+The good ladies looked at each other. They discovered that it is one
+thing to set an abuse at defiance in words, and another thing to
+apply the remedy in deeds. The kind-hearted lawyer helped them with a
+suggestion. “Perhaps you think of making your escape with the child, and
+taking refuge abroad?”
+
+Mrs. Linley eagerly accepted the hint. “The first train to-morrow
+morning starts at half-past seven,” she said. “We might catch some
+foreign steamer that sails from the east coast of Scotland.”
+
+Mrs. Presty, keeping a wary eye on Mr. Sarrazin, was not quite so
+ready as her daughter in rushing at conclusions. “I am afraid,” she
+acknowledged, “our worthy friend sees some objection. What is it?”
+
+“I don’t presume to offer a positive opinion, ma’am; but I think Mr.
+Linley and his lawyer have their suspicions. Plainly speaking, I am
+afraid spies are set to watch us already.”
+
+“Impossible!”
+
+“You shall hear. I travel second-class; one saves money and one finds
+people to talk to--and at what sacrifice? Only a hard cushion to sit
+on! In the same carriage with me there was a very conversable person--a
+smart young man with flaming red hair. When we took the omnibus at your
+station here, all the passengers got out in the town except two. I was
+one exception, and the smart young man was the other. When I stopped
+at your gate, the omnibus went on a few yards, and set down my
+fellow-traveler at the village inn. My profession makes me sly. I waited
+a little before I rang your bell; and, when I could do it without being
+seen, I crossed the road, and had a look at the inn. There is a moon
+to-night; I was very careful. The young man didn’t see me. But I saw a
+head of flaming hair, and a pair of amiable blue eyes, over the blind of
+a window; and it happened to be the one window of the inn which commands
+a full view of your gate. Mere suspicion, you will say! I can’t deny it,
+and yet I have my reasons for suspecting. Before I left London, one of
+my clerks followed me in a great hurry to the terminus, and caught me
+as I was opening the carriage door. ‘We have just made a discovery,’ he
+said; ‘you and Mrs. Linley are to be reckoned up.’ Reckoned up is, if
+you please, detective English for being watched. My clerk might have
+repeated a false report, of course. And my fellow-traveler might have
+come all the way from London to look out of the window of an inn, in a
+Cumberland village. What do you think yourselves?”
+
+It seemed to be easier to dispute the law than to dispute Mr. Sarrazin’s
+conclusions.
+
+“Suppose I choose to travel abroad, and to take my child with me,” Mrs.
+Linley persisted, “who has any right to prevent me?”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin reluctantly reminded her that the father had a right. “No
+person--not even the mother--can take the child out of the father’s
+custody,” he said, “except with the father’s consent. His authority is
+the supreme authority--unless it happens that the law has deprived him
+of his privilege, and has expressly confided the child to the mother’s
+care. Ha!” cried Mr. Sarrazin, twisting round in his chair and fixing
+his keen eyes on Mrs. Presty, “look at your good mother; _she_ sees what
+I am coming to.”
+
+“I see something more than you think,” Mrs. Presty answered. “If I know
+anything of my daughter’s nature, you will find yourself, before long,
+on delicate ground.”
+
+“What do you mean, mamma?”
+
+Mrs. Presty had lived in the past age when persons occasionally used
+metaphor as an aid to the expression of their ideas. Being called
+upon to explain herself, she did it in metaphor, to her own entire
+satisfaction.
+
+“Our learned friend here reminds me, my dear Catherine, of a traveler
+exploring a strange town. He takes a turning, in the confident
+expectation that it will reward him by leading him to some satisfactory
+result--and he finds himself in a blind alley, or, as the French put
+it (I speak French fluently), in a _cool de sack_. Do I make my meaning
+clear, Mr. Sarrazin?”
+
+“Not the least in the world, ma’am.”
+
+“How very extraordinary! Perhaps I have been misled by my own vivid
+imagination. Let me endeavor to express myself plainly--let me say that
+my fancy looks prophetically at what you are going to do, and sincerely
+wishes you well out of it. Pray go on.”
+
+“And pray speak more plainly than my mother has spoken,” Mrs. Linley
+added. “As I understood what you said just now, there is a law, after
+all, that will protect me in the possession of my little girl. I don’t
+care what it costs; I want that law.”
+
+“May I ask first,” Mr. Sarrazin stipulated, “whether you are positively
+resolved not to give way to your husband in this matter of Kitty?”
+
+“Positively.”
+
+“One more question, if you please, on a matter of fact. I have heard
+that you were married in Scotland. Is that true?”
+
+“Quite true.”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin exhibited himself once more in a highly unprofessional
+aspect. He clapped his hands, and cried, “Bravo!” as if he had been in a
+theater.
+
+Mrs. Linley caught the infection of the lawyer’s excitement. “How dull
+I am!” she exclaimed. “There is a thing they call ‘incompatibility of
+temper’--and married people sign a paper at the lawyer’s and promise
+never to trouble each other again as long as they both live. And they’re
+readier to do it in Scotland than they are in England. That’s what you
+mean--isn’t it?”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin found it necessary to reassume his professional character.
+
+“No, indeed, madam,” he said, “I should be unworthy of your confidence
+if I proposed nothing better than that. You can only secure the sole
+possession of little Kitty by getting the help of a judge--”
+
+“Get it at once,” Mrs. Linley interposed.
+
+“And you can only prevail on the judge to listen to you,” Mr. Sarrazin
+proceeded, “in one way. Summon your courage, madam. Apply for a
+divorce.”
+
+There was a sudden silence. Mrs. Linley rose trembling, as if she
+saw--not good Mr. Sarrazin--but the devil himself tempting her. “Do you
+hear that?” she said to her mother.
+
+Mrs. Presty only bowed.
+
+“Think of the dreadful exposure!”
+
+Mrs. Presty bowed again.
+
+The lawyer had his opportunity now.
+
+“Well, Mrs. Linley,” he asked, “what do you say?”
+
+“No--never!” She made that positive reply; and disposed beforehand of
+everything that might have been urged, in the way of remonstrance and
+persuasion, by leaving the room. The two persons who remained, sitting
+opposite to each other, took opposite views.
+
+“Mr. Sarrazin, she won’t do it.”
+
+“Mrs. Presty, she will.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XXVI. Decision.
+
+
+Punctual to his fishing appointment with Kitty, Mr. Sarrazin was out in
+the early morning, waiting on the pier.
+
+Not a breath of wind was stirring; the lazy mist lay asleep on the
+further shore of the lake. Here and there only the dim tops of the hills
+rose like shadows cast by the earth on the faint gray of the sky. Nearer
+at hand, the waters of the lake showed a gloomy surface; no birds flew
+over the colorless calm; no passing insects tempted the fish to
+rise. From time to time a last-left leaf on the wooded shore dropped
+noiselessly and died. No vehicles passed as yet on the lonely road; no
+voices were audible from the village; slow and straight wreaths of smoke
+stole their way out of the chimneys, and lost their vapor in the misty
+sky. The one sound that disturbed the sullen repose of the morning was
+the tramp of the lawyer’s footsteps, as he paced up and down the pier.
+He thought of London and its ceaseless traffic, its roaring high tide of
+life in action--and he said to himself, with the strong conviction of a
+town-bred man: How miserable this is!
+
+A voice from the garden cheered him, just as he reached the end of the
+pier for the fiftieth time, and looked with fifty-fold intensity of
+dislike at the dreary lake.
+
+There stood Kitty behind the garden-gate, with a fishing-rod in each
+hand. A tin box was strapped on one side of her little body and a basket
+on the other. Burdened with these impediments, she required assistance.
+Susan had let her out of the house; and Samuel must now open the gate
+for her. She was pleased to observe that the raw morning had reddened
+her friend’s nose; and she presented her own nose to notice as
+exhibiting perfect sympathy in this respect. Feeling a misplaced
+confidence in Mr. Sarrazin’s knowledge and experience as an angler, she
+handed the fishing-rods to him. “My fingers are cold,” she said; “you
+bait the hooks.” He looked at his young friend in silent perplexity; she
+pointed to the tin box. “Plenty of bait there, Samuel; we find maggots
+do best.” Mr. Sarrazin eyed the box with undisguised disgust; and Kitty
+made an unexpected discovery. “You seem to know nothing about it,” she
+said. And Samuel answered, cordially, “Nothing!” In five minutes more he
+found himself by the side of his young friend--with his hook baited, his
+line in the water, and strict injunctions to keep an eye on the float.
+
+They began to fish.
+
+Kitty looked at her companion, and looked away again in silence. By way
+of encouraging her to talk, the good-natured lawyer alluded to what she
+had said when they parted overnight. “You wanted to ask me something,”
+ he reminded her. “What is it?”
+
+Without one preliminary word of warning to prepare him for the shock,
+Kitty answered: “I want you to tell me what has become of papa, and why
+Syd has gone away and left me. You know who Syd is, don’t you?”
+
+The only alternative left to Mr. Sarrazin was to plead ignorance. While
+Kitty was instructing him on the subject of her governess, he had time
+to consider what he should say to her next. The result added one more to
+the lost opportunities of Mr. Sarrazin’s life.
+
+“You see,” the child gravely continued, “you are a clever man; and you
+have come here to help mamma. I have got that much out of grandmamma, if
+I have got nothing else. Don’t look at me; look at your float. My papa
+has gone away and Syd has left me without even saying good-by, and we
+have given up our nice old house in Scotland and come to live here. I
+tell you I don’t understand it. If you see your float begin to tremble,
+and then give a little dip down as if it was going to sink, pull your
+line out of the water; you will most likely find a fish at the end of
+it. When I ask mamma what all this means, she says there is a reason,
+and I am not old enough to understand it, and she looks unhappy, and
+she gives me a kiss, and it ends in that way. You’ve got a bite; no you
+haven’t; it’s only a nibble; fish are so sly. And grandmamma is worse
+still. Sometimes she tells me I’m a spoiled child; and sometimes she
+says well-behaved little girls don’t ask questions. That’s nonsense--and
+I think it’s hard on me. You look uncomfortable. Is it my fault? I don’t
+want to bother you; I only want to know why Syd has gone away. When I
+was younger I might have thought the fairies had taken her. Oh, no! that
+won’t do any longer; I’m too old. Now tell me.”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin weakly attempted to gain time: he looked at his watch.
+Kitty looked over his shoulder: “Oh, we needn’t be in a hurry; breakfast
+won’t be ready for half an hour yet. Plenty of time to talk of Syd; go
+on.”
+
+Most unwisely (seeing that he had to deal with a clever child, and
+that child a girl), Mr. Sarrazin tried flat denial as a way out of the
+difficulty. He said: “I don’t know why she has gone away.” The next
+question followed instantly: “Well, then, what do you _think_ about it?”
+ In sheer despair, the persecuted friend said the first thing that came
+into his head.
+
+“I think she has gone to be married.”
+
+Kitty was indignant.
+
+“Gone to be married, and not tell me!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean
+by that?”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin’s professional experience of women and marriages failed
+to supply him with an answer. In this difficulty he exerted his
+imagination, and invented something that no woman ever did yet. “She’s
+waiting,” he said, “to see how her marriage succeeds, before she tells
+anybody about it.”
+
+This sounded probable to the mind of a child.
+
+“I hope she hasn’t married a beast,” Kitty said, with a serious face and
+an ominous shake of the head. “When shall I hear from Syd?”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin tried another prevarication--with better results this
+time. “You will be the first person she writes to, of course.” As that
+excusable lie passed his lips, his float began to tremble. Here was a
+chance of changing the subject--“I’ve got a fish!” he cried.
+
+Kitty was immediately interested. She threw down her own rod, and
+assisted her ignorant companion. A wretched little fish appeared in the
+air, wriggling. “It’s a roach,” Kitty pronounced. “It’s in pain,” the
+merciful lawyer added; “give it to me.” Kitty took it off the hook, and
+obeyed. Mr. Sarrazin with humane gentleness of handling put it back
+into the water. “Go, and God bless you,” said this excellent man, as
+the roach disappeared joyously with a flick of its tail. Kitty was
+scandalized. “That’s not sport!” she said. “Oh, yes, it is,” he
+answered--“sport to the fish.”
+
+They went on with their angling. What embarrassing question would Kitty
+ask next? Would she want to be told why her father had left her? No: the
+last image in the child’s mind had been the image of Sydney Westerfield.
+She was still thinking of it when she spoke again.
+
+“I wonder whether you’re right about Syd?” she began. “You might be
+mistaken, mightn’t you? I sometimes fancy mamma and Sydney may have had
+a quarrel. Would you mind asking mamma if that’s true?” the affectionate
+little creature said, anxiously. “You see, I can’t help talking of Syd,
+I’m so fond of her; and I do miss her so dreadfully every now and then;
+and I’m afraid--oh, dear, dear, I’m afraid I shall never see her again!”
+ She let her rod drop on the pier, and put her little hands over her face
+and burst out crying.
+
+Shocked and distressed, good Mr. Sarrazin kissed her, and consoled her,
+and told another excusable lie.
+
+“Try to be comforted, Kitty; I’m sure you will see her again.”
+
+His conscience reproached him as he held out that false hope. It could
+never be! The one unpardonable sin, in the judgment of fallible
+human creatures like herself, was the sin that Sydney Westerfield had
+committed. Is there something wrong in human nature? or something wrong
+in human laws? All that is best and noblest in us feels the influence
+of love--and the rules of society declare that an accident of position
+shall decide whether love is a virtue or a crime.
+
+These thoughts were in the lawyer’s mind. They troubled him and
+disheartened him: it was a relief rather than an interruption when he
+felt Kitty’s hand on his arm. She had dried her tears, with a child’s
+happy facility in passing from one emotion to another, and was now
+astonished and interested by a marked change in the weather.
+
+“Look for the lake!” she cried. “You can’t see it.”
+
+A dense white fog was closing round them. Its stealthy advance over the
+water had already begun to hide the boathouse at the end of the pier
+from view. The raw cold of the atmosphere made the child shiver. As Mr.
+Sarrazin took her hand to lead her indoors, he turned and looked back
+at the faint outline of the boathouse, disappearing in the fog. Kitty
+wondered. “Do you see anything?” she asked.
+
+He answered that there was nothing to see, in the absent tone of a man
+busy with his own thoughts. They took the garden path which led to the
+cottage. As they reached the door he roused himself, and looked round
+again in the direction of the invisible lake.
+
+“Was the boat-house of any use now,” he inquired--“was there a boat in
+it, for instance?” “There was a capital boat, fit to go anywhere.” “And
+a man to manage it?” “To be sure! the gardener was the man; he had been
+a sailor once; and he knew the lake as well as--” Kitty stopped, at a
+loss for a comparison. “As well as you know your multiplication table?”
+ said Mr. Sarrazin, dropping his serious questions on a sudden. Kitty
+shook her head. “Much better,” she honestly acknowledged.
+
+Opening the breakfast-room door they saw Mrs. Presty making coffee.
+Kitty at once retired. When she had been fishing, her grandmamma
+inculcated habits of order by directing her to take the rods to pieces,
+and to put them away in their cases in the lumber-room. While she was
+absent, Mr. Sarrazin profited by the opportunity, and asked if Mrs.
+Linley had thought it over in the night, and had decided on applying for
+a Divorce.
+
+“I know nothing about my daughter,” Mrs. Presty answered, “except that
+she had a bad night. Thinking, no doubt, over your advice,” the old lady
+added with a mischievous smile.
+
+“Will you kindly inquire if Mrs. Linley has made up her mind yet?” the
+lawyer ventured to say.
+
+“Isn’t that your business?” Mrs. Presty asked slyly. “Suppose you write
+a little note, and I will send it up to her room.” The worldly-wisdom
+which prompted this suggestion contemplated a possible necessity for
+calling a domestic council, assembled to consider the course of action
+which Mrs. Linley would do well to adopt. If the influence of her
+mother was among the forms of persuasion which might be tried, that wary
+relative maneuvered to make the lawyer speak first, and so to reserve to
+herself the advantage of having the last word.
+
+Patient Mr. Sarrazin wrote the note.
+
+He modestly asked for instructions; and he was content to receive them
+in one word--Yes or No. In the event of the answer being Yes, he would
+ask for a few minutes’ conversation with Mrs. Linley, at her earliest
+convenience. That was all.
+
+The reply was returned in a form which left Yes to be inferred: “I will
+receive you as soon as you have finished your breakfast.”
+
+
+
+Chapter XXVII. Resolution.
+
+
+Having read Mrs. Linley’s answer, Mr. Sarrazin looked out of the
+breakfast-room window, and saw that the fog had reached the cottage.
+Before Mrs. Presty could make any remark on the change in the weather,
+he surprised her by an extraordinary question.
+
+“Is there an upper room here, ma’am, which has a view of the road before
+your front gate?”
+
+“Certainly!”
+
+“And can I go into it without disturbing anybody?”
+
+Mrs. Presty said, “Of course!” with an uplifting of her eye brows which
+expressed astonishment not unmixed with suspicion. “Do you want to go up
+now?” she added, “or will you wait till you have had your breakfast?”
+
+“I want to go up, if you please, before the fog thickens. Oh, Mrs.
+Presty, I am ashamed to trouble you! Let the servant show me the room.”
+
+No. For the first time in her life Mrs. Presty insisted on doing
+servant’s duty. If she had been crippled in both legs her curiosity
+would have helped her to get up the stairs on her hands. “There!” she
+said, opening the door of the upper room, and placing herself exactly in
+the middle of it, so that she could see all round her: “Will that do for
+you?”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin went to the window; hid himself behind the curtain; and
+cautiously peeped out. In half a minute he turned his back on the misty
+view of the road, and said to himself: “Just what I expected.”
+
+Other women might have asked what this mysterious proceeding meant.
+Mrs. Presty’s sense of her own dignity adopted a system of independent
+discovery. To Mr. Sarrazin’s amusement, she imitated him to his face.
+Advancing to the window, she, too, hid herself behind the curtain, and
+she, too, peeped out. Still following her model, she next turned her
+back on the view--and then she became herself again. “Now we have both
+looked out of window,” she said to the lawyer, in her own inimitably
+impudent way, “suppose we compare our impressions.”
+
+This was easily done. They had both seen the same two men walking
+backward and forward, opposite the front gate of the cottage. Before
+the advancing fog made it impossible to identify him, Mr. Sarrazin
+had recognized in one of the men his agreeable fellow-traveler on the
+journey from London. The other man--a stranger--was in all probability
+an assistant spy obtained in the neighborhood. This discovery suggested
+serious embarrassment in the future. Mrs. Presty asked what was to be
+done next. Mr. Sarrazin answered: “Let us have our breakfast.”
+
+In another quarter of an hour they were both in Mrs. Linley’s room.
+
+Her agitated manner, her reddened eyes, showed that she was still
+suffering under the emotions of the past night. The moment the lawyer
+approached her, she crossed the room with hurried steps, and took both
+his hands in her trembling grasp. “You are a good man, you are a kind
+man,” she said to him wildly; “you have my truest respect and regard.
+Tell me, are you--really--really--really sure that the one way in which
+I can keep my child with me is the way you mentioned last night?”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin led her gently back to her chair.
+
+The sad change in her startled and distressed him. Sincerely,
+solemnly even, he declared that the one alternative before her was the
+alternative that he had mentioned. He entreated her to control herself.
+It was useless, she still held him as if she was holding to her last
+hope.
+
+“Listen to me!” she cried. “There’s something more; there’s another
+chance for me. I must, and will, know what you think of it.”
+
+“Wait a little. Pray wait a little!”
+
+“No! not a moment. Is there any hope in appealing to the lawyer whom Mr.
+Linley has employed? Let me go back with you to London. I will persuade
+him to exert his influence--I will go down on my knees to him--I will
+never leave him till I have won him over to my side--I will take Kitty
+with me; he shall see us both, and pity us, and help us!”
+
+“Hopeless. Quite hopeless, Mrs. Linley.”
+
+“Oh, don’t say that!”
+
+“My dear lady, my poor dear lady, I must say it. The man you are talking
+of is the last man in the world to be influenced as you suppose. He is
+notoriously a lawyer, and nothing but a lawyer. If you tried to move him
+to pity you, he would say, ‘Madam, I am doing my duty to my client’; and
+he would ring his bell and have you shown out. Yes! even if he saw you
+crushed and crying at his feet.”
+
+Mrs. Presty interfered for the first time.
+
+“In your place, Catherine,” she said, “I would put my foot down on that
+man and crush _him_. Consent to the Divorce, and you may do it.”
+
+Mrs. Linley lay prostrate in her chair. The excitement which had
+sustained her thus far seemed to have sunk with the sinking of her last
+hope. Pale, exhausted, yielding to hard necessity, she looked up
+when her mother said, “Consent to the Divorce,” and answered, “I have
+consented.”
+
+“And trust me,” Mr. Sarrazin said fervently, “to see that Justice is
+done, and to protect you in the meanwhile.”
+
+Mrs. Presty added her tribute of consolation.
+
+“After all,” she asked, “what is there to terrify you in the prospect
+of a Divorce? You won’t hear what people say about it--for we see no
+society now. And, as for the newspapers, keep them out of the house.”
+
+Mrs. Linley answered with a momentary revival of energy:
+
+“It is not the fear of exposure that has tortured me,” she said. “When I
+was left in the solitude of the night, my heart turned to Kitty; I felt
+that any sacrifice of myself might be endured for her sake. It’s the
+remembrance of my marriage, Mr. Sarrazin, that is the terrible trial to
+me. Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder. Is there
+nothing to terrify me in setting that solemn command at defiance? I do
+it--oh, I do it--in consenting to the Divorce! I renounce the vows
+which I bound myself to respect in the presence of God; I profane the
+remembrance of eight happy years, hallowed by true love. Ah, you needn’t
+remind me of what my husband has done. I don’t forget how cruelly he has
+wronged me; I don’t forget that his own act has cast me from him. But
+whose act destroys our marriage? Mine, mine! Forgive me, mamma; forgive
+me, my kind friend--the horror that I have of myself forces its way to
+my lips. No more of it! My child is my one treasure left. What must I do
+next? What must I sign? What must I sacrifice? Tell me--and it shall be
+done. I submit! I submit!”
+
+Delicately and mercifully Mr. Sarrazin answered that sad appeal.
+
+All that his knowledge, experience and resolution could suggest he
+addressed to Mrs. Presty. Mrs. Linley could listen or not listen, as
+her own wishes inclined. In the one case or in the other, her interests
+would be equally well served. The good lawyer kissed her hand. “Rest,
+and recover,” he whispered. And then he turned to her mother--and became
+a man of business once more.
+
+“The first thing I shall do, ma’am, is to telegraph to my agent in
+Edinburgh. He will arrange for the speediest possible hearing of our
+case in the Court of Session. Make your mind easy so far.”
+
+Mrs. Presty’s mind was by this time equally inaccessible to information
+and advice. “I want to know what is to be done with those two men who
+are watching the gate,” was all she said in the way of reply.
+
+Mrs. Linley raised her head in alarm.
+
+“Two!” she exclaimed--and looked at Mr. Sarrazin. “You only spoke of one
+last night.”
+
+“And I add another this morning. Rest your poor head, Mrs. Linley, I
+know how it aches; I know how it burns.” He still persisted in speaking
+to Mrs. Presty. “One of those two men will follow me to the station, and
+see me off on my way to London. The other will look after you, or your
+daughter, or the maid, or any other person who may try to get away into
+hiding with Kitty. And they are both keeping close to the gate, in the
+fear of losing sight of us in the fog.”
+
+“I wish we lived in the Middle Ages!” said Mrs. Presty.
+
+“What would be the use of that, ma’am?”
+
+“Good heavens, Mr. Sarrazin, don’t you see? In those grand old days you
+would have taken a dagger, and the gardener would have taken a dagger,
+and you would have stolen out, and stabbed those two villains as a
+matter of course. And this is the age of progress! The vilest rogue in
+existence is a sacred person whose life we are bound to respect. Ah,
+what good that national hero would have done who put his barrels of
+gunpowder in the right place on the Fifth of November! I have always
+said it, and I stick to it, Guy Fawkes was a great statesman.”
+
+In the meanwhile Mrs. Linley was not resting, and not listening to
+the expression of her mother’s political sentiments. She was intently
+watching Mr. Sarrazin’s face.
+
+“There is danger threatening us,” she said. “Do you see a way out of
+it?”
+
+To persist in trying to spare her was plainly useless; Mr. Sarrazin
+answered her directly.
+
+“The danger of legal proceedings to obtain possession of the child,”
+ he said, “is more near and more serious than I thought it right
+to acknowledge, while you were in doubt which way to decide. I was
+careful--too careful, perhaps--not to unduly influence you in a matter
+of the utmost importance to your future life. But you have made up your
+mind. I don’t scruple now to remind you that an interval of time must
+pass before the decree for your Divorce can be pronounced, and the care
+of the child be legally secured to the mother. The only doubt and the
+only danger are there. If you are not frightened by the prospect of a
+desperate venture which some women would shrink from, I believe I see a
+way of baffling the spies.”
+
+Mrs. Linley started to her feet. “Say what I am to do,” she cried, “and
+judge for yourself if I am as easily frightened as some women.”
+
+The lawyer pointed with a persuasive smile to her empty chair. “If
+you allow yourself to be excited,” he said, “you will frighten me.
+Please--oh, please sit down again!”
+
+Mrs. Linley felt the strong will, asserting itself in terms of courteous
+entreaty. She obeyed. Mrs. Presty had never admired the lawyer as she
+admired him now. “Is that how you manage your wife?” she asked.
+
+Mr. Sarrazin was equal to the occasion, whatever it might be. “In your
+time, ma’am,” he said, “did you reveal the mysteries of conjugal life?”
+ He turned to Mrs. Linley. “I have something to ask first,” he resumed,
+“and then you shall hear what I propose. How many people serve you in
+this cottage?”
+
+“Three. Our landlady, who is housekeeper and cook. Our own maid. And the
+landlady’s daughter, who does the housework.”
+
+“Any out-of-door servants?”
+
+“Only the gardener.”
+
+“Can you trust these people?”
+
+“In what way, Mr. Sarrazin?”
+
+“Can you trust them with a secret which only concerns yourself?”
+
+“Certainly! The maid has been with us for years; no truer woman ever
+lived. The good old landlady often drinks tea with us. Her daughter
+is going to be married; and I have given the wedding-dress. As for the
+gardener, let Kitty settle the matter with him, and I answer for the
+rest. Why are you pointing to the window?”
+
+“Look out, and tell me what you see.”
+
+“I see the fog.”
+
+“And I, Mrs. Linley, have seen the boathouse. While the spies are
+watching your gate, what do you say to crossing the lake, under cover of
+the fog?”
+
+
+
+
+FOURTH BOOK.
+
+
+Chapter XXVIII. Mr. Randal Linley.
+
+
+Winter had come and gone; spring was nearing its end, and London still
+suffered under the rigid regularity of easterly winds. Although in less
+than a week summer would begin with the first of June, Mr. Sarrazin was
+glad to find his office warmed by a fire, when he arrived to open the
+letters of the day.
+
+The correspondence in general related exclusively to proceedings
+connected with the law. Two letters only presented an exception to the
+general rule. The first was addressed in Mrs. Linley’s handwriting, and
+bore the postmark of Hanover. Kitty’s mother had not only succeeded in
+getting to the safe side of the lake--she and her child had crossed
+the German Ocean as well. In one respect her letter was a remarkable
+composition. Although it was written by a lady, it was short enough to
+be read in less than a minute:
+
+
+
+“MY DEAR MR. SARRAZIN--I have just time to write by this evening’s post.
+Our excellent courier has satisfied himself that the danger of discovery
+has passed away. The wretches have been so completely deceived that
+they are already on their way back to England, to lie in wait for us
+at Folkestone and Dover. To-morrow morning we leave this charming
+place--oh, how unwillingly!--for Bremen, to catch the steamer to Hull.
+You shall hear from me again on our arrival. Gratefully yours,
+
+“CATHERINE LINLEY.”
+
+
+Mr. Sarrazin put this letter into a private drawer and smiled as he
+turned the key. “Has she made up her mind at last?” he asked himself.
+“But for the courier, I shouldn’t feel sure of her even now.”
+
+The second letter agreeably surprised him. It was announced that the
+writer had just returned from the United States; it invited him
+to dinner that evening; and it was signed “Randal Linley.” In Mr.
+Sarrazin’s estimation, Randal had always occupied a higher place than
+his brother. The lawyer had known Mrs. Linley before her marriage, and
+had been inclined to think that she would have done wisely if she
+had given her hand to the younger brother instead of the elder. His
+acquaintance with Randal ripened rapidly into friendship. But his
+relations with Herbert made no advance toward intimacy: there was a
+gentlemanlike cordiality between them, and nothing more.
+
+At seven o’clock the two friends sat at a snug little table, in the
+private room of a hotel, with an infinite number of questions to ask
+of each other, and with nothing to interrupt them but a dinner of such
+extraordinary merit that it insisted on being noticed, from the first
+course to the last.
+
+Randal began. “Before we talk of anything else,” he said, “tell me about
+Catherine and the child. Where are they?”
+
+“On their way to England, after a residence in Germany.”
+
+“And the old lady?”
+
+“Mrs. Presty has been staying with friends in London.”
+
+“What! have they parted company? Has there been a quarrel?”
+
+“Nothing of the sort; a friendly separation, in the strictest sense of
+the word. Oh, Randal, what are you about? Don’t put pepper into this
+perfect soup. It’s as good as the _gras double_ at the Cafe Anglais in
+Paris.”
+
+“So it is; I wasn’t paying proper attention to it. But I am anxious
+about Catherine. Why did she go abroad?”
+
+“Haven’t you heard from her?”
+
+“Not for six months or more. I innocently vexed her by writing a
+little too hopefully about Herbert. Mrs. Presty answered my letter,
+and recommended me not to write again. It isn’t like Catherine to bear
+malice.”
+
+“Don’t even think such a thing possible!” the lawyer answered,
+earnestly. “Attribute her silence to the right cause. Terrible anxieties
+have been weighing on her mind since you went to America.”
+
+“Anxieties caused by my brother? Oh, I hope not!”
+
+“Caused entirely by your brother--if I must tell the truth. Can’t you
+guess how?”
+
+“Is it the child? You don’t mean to tell me that Herbert has taken Kitty
+away from her mother!”
+
+“While I am her mother’s lawyer, my friend, your brother won’t do that.
+Welcome back to England in the first glass of sherry; good wine, but a
+little too dry for my taste. No, we won’t talk of domestic troubles
+just yet. You shall hear all about it after dinner. What made you go to
+America? You haven’t been delivering lectures, have you?”
+
+“I have been enjoying myself among the most hospitable people in the
+world.”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin shook his head; he had a case of copyright in hand just
+then. “A people to be pitied,” he said.
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because their Government forgets what is due to the honor of the
+nation.”
+
+“How?”
+
+“In this way. The honor of a nation which confers right of property
+in works of art, produced by its own citizens, is surely concerned in
+protecting from theft works of art produced by other citizens.”
+
+“That’s not the fault of the people.”
+
+“Certainly not. I have already said it’s the fault of the Government.
+Let’s attend to the fish now.”
+
+Randal took his friend’s advice. “Good sauce, isn’t it?” he said.
+
+The epicure entered a protest. “Good?” he repeated. “My dear fellow,
+it’s absolute perfection. I don’t like to cast a slur on English
+cookery. But think of melted butter, and tell me if anybody but a
+foreigner (I don’t like foreigners, but I give them their due) could
+have produced this white wine sauce? So you really had no particular
+motive in going to America?”
+
+“On the contrary, I had a very particular motive. Just remember what
+my life used to be when I was in Scotland--and look at my life now!
+No Mount Morven; no model farm to look after; no pleasant Highland
+neighbors; I can’t go to my brother while he is leading his present
+life; I have hurt Catherine’s feelings; I have lost dear little Kitty;
+I am not obliged to earn my living (more’s the pity); I don’t care
+about politics; I have a pleasure in eating harmless creatures, but no
+pleasure in shooting them. What is there left for me to do, but to try
+change of scene, and go roaming around the world, a restless creature
+without an object in life? Have I done something wrong again? It isn’t
+the pepper this time--and yet you’re looking at me as if I was trying
+your temper.”
+
+The French side of Mr. Sarrazin’s nature had got the better of him once
+more. He pointed indignantly to a supreme preparation of fowl on his
+friend’s plate. “Do I actually see you picking out your truffles, and
+putting them on one side?” he asked.
+
+“Well,” Randal acknowledged, “I don’t care about truffles.”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin rose, with his plate in his hand and his fork ready for
+action. He walked round the table to his friend’s side, and reverently
+transferred the neglected truffles to his own plate. “Randal, you will
+live to repent this,” he said solemnly. “In the meantime, I am the
+gainer.” Until he had finished the truffles, no word fell from his
+lips. “I think I should have enjoyed them more,” he remarked, “if I had
+concentrated my attention by closing my eyes; but you would have thought
+I was going to sleep.” He recovered his English nationality, after this,
+until the dessert had been placed on the table, and the waiter was
+ready to leave the room. At that auspicious moment, he underwent another
+relapse. He insisted on sending his compliments and thanks to the cook.
+
+“At last,” said Randal, “we are by ourselves--and now I want to know why
+Catherine went to Germany.”
+
+
+
+Chapter XXIX.
+
+Mr. Sarrazin.
+
+As a lawyer, Randal’s guest understood that a narrative of events can
+only produce the right effect, on one condition: it must begin at the
+beginning. Having related all that had been said and done during his
+visit to the cottage, including his first efforts in the character of
+an angler under Kitty’s supervision, he stopped to fill his glass
+again--and then astonished Randal by describing the plan that he had
+devised for escaping from the spies by crossing the lake in the fog.
+
+“What did the ladies say to it?” Randal inquired. “Who spoke first?”
+
+“Mrs. Presty, of course! She objected to risk her life on the water, in
+a fog. Mrs. Linley showed a resolution for which I was not prepared. She
+thought of Kitty, saw the value of my suggestion, and went away at once
+to consult with the landlady. In the meantime I sent for the gardener,
+and told him what I was thinking of. He was one of those stolid
+Englishmen, who possess resources which don’t express themselves
+outwardly. Judging by his face, you would have said he was subsiding
+into a slumber under the infliction of a sermon, instead of listening
+to a lawyer proposing a stratagem. When I had done, the man showed the
+metal he was made of. In plain English, he put three questions which
+gave me the highest opinion of his intelligence. ‘How much luggage,
+sir?’ ‘As little as they can conveniently take with them,’ I said. ‘How
+many persons?’ ‘The two ladies, the child, and myself.’ ‘Can you row,
+sir?’ ‘In any water you like, Mr. Gardener, fresh or salt’. Think of
+asking Me, an athletic Englishman, if I could row! In an hour more we
+were ready to embark, and the blessed fog was thicker than ever. Mrs.
+Presty yielded under protest; Kitty was wild with delight; her mother
+was quiet and resigned. But one circumstance occurred that I didn’t
+quite understand--the presence of a stranger on the pier with a gun in
+his hand.”
+
+“You don’t mean one of the spies?”
+
+“Nothing of the sort; I mean an idea of the gardener’s. He had been a
+sailor in his time--and that’s a trade which teaches a man (if he’s
+good for anything) to think, and act on his thought, at one and the same
+moment. He had taken a peep at the blackguards in front of the house,
+and had recognized the shortest of the two as a native of the place,
+perfectly well aware that one of the features attached to the cottage
+was a boathouse. ‘That chap is not such a fool as he looks,’ says the
+gardener. ‘If he mentions the boat-house, the other fellow from London
+may have his suspicions. I thought I would post my son on the pier--that
+quiet young man there with the gun--to keep a lookout. If he sees
+another boat (there are half a dozen on this side of the lake) putting
+off after us, he has orders to fire, on the chance of our hearing him.
+A little notion of mine, sir, to prevent our being surprised in the fog.
+Do you see any objection to it?’ Objection! In the days when diplomacy
+was something more than a solemn pretense, what a member of Congress
+that gardener would have made! Well, we shipped our oars, and away we
+went. Not quite haphazard--for we had a compass with us. Our course was
+as straight as we could go, to a village on the opposite side of the
+lake, called Brightfold. Nothing happened for the first quarter of an
+hour--and then, by the living Jingo (excuse my vulgarity), we heard the
+gun!”
+
+“What did you do?”
+
+“Went on rowing, and held a council. This time I came out as the clever
+one of the party. The men were following us in the dark; they would
+have to guess at the direction we had taken, and they would most likely
+assume (in such weather as we had) that we should choose the shortest
+way across the lake. At my suggestion we changed our course, and made
+for a large town, higher up on the shore, called Tawley. We landed, and
+waited for events, and made no discovery of another boat behind us. The
+fools had justified my confidence in them--they had gone to Brightfold.
+There was half-an-hour to spare before the next train came to Tawley;
+and the fog was beginning to lift on that side of the lake. We looked at
+the shops; and I made a purchase in the town.”
+
+“Stop a minute,” said Randal. “Is Brightfold on the railway?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Is there an electric telegraph at the place?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“That was awkward, wasn’t it? The first thing those men would do would
+be to telegraph to Tawley.”
+
+“Not a doubt of it. How would they describe us, do you think?”
+
+Randal answered. “A middle-aged gentleman--two ladies, one of them
+elderly--and a little girl. Quite enough to identify you at Tawley, if
+the station-master understood the message.”
+
+“Shall I tell you what the station-master discovered, with the message
+in his hand? No elderly lady, no middle-aged gentleman; nothing more
+remarkable than _one_ lady--and a little boy.”
+
+Randal’s face brightened. “You parted company, of course,” he said; “and
+you disguised Kitty! How did you manage it?”
+
+“Didn’t I say just now that we looked at the shops, and that I made a
+purchase in the town? A boy’s ready-made suit--not at all a bad fit for
+Kitty! Mrs. Linley put on the suit, and tucked up the child’s hair under
+a straw hat, in an empty yard--no idlers about in that bad weather. We
+said good-by, and parted, with grievous misgivings on my side, which
+proved (thank God!) to have been quite needless. Kitty and her mother
+went to the station, and Mrs. Presty and I hired a carriage, and drove
+away to the head of the lake, to catch the train to London. Do you know,
+Randal, I have altered my opinion of Mrs. Presty?”
+
+Randal smiled. “You too have found something in that old woman,” he
+said, “which doesn’t appear on the surface.”
+
+“The occasion seems to bring that something out,” the lawyer remarked.
+“When I proposed the separation, and mentioned my reasons, I expected
+to find some difficulty in persuading Mrs. Presty to give up the
+adventurous journey with her daughter and her grandchild. I reminded her
+that she had friends in London who would receive her, and got snubbed
+for taking the liberty. ‘I know that as well as you do. Come along--I’m
+ready to go with you.’ It isn’t agreeable to my self-esteem to own it,
+but I expected to hear her say that she would consent to any sacrifice
+for the sake of her dear daughter. No such clap-trap as that passed her
+lips. She owned the true motive with a superiority to cant which won
+my sincerest respect. ‘I’ll do anything,’ she said, ‘to baffle Herbert
+Linley and the spies he has set to watch us.’ I can’t tell you how glad
+I was that she had her reward on the same day. We were too late at the
+station, and we had to wait for the next train. And what do you think
+happened? The two scoundrels followed us instead of following Mrs.
+Linley! They had inquired no doubt at the livery stables where we hired
+the carriage--had recognized the description of us--and had taken the
+long journey to London for nothing. Mrs. Presty and I shook hands at the
+terminus the best friends that ever traveled together with the best of
+motives. After that, I think I deserve another glass of wine.”
+
+“Go on with your story, and you shall have another bottle!” cried
+Randal. “What did Catherine and the child do after they left you?”
+
+“They did the safest thing--they left England. Mrs. Linley distinguished
+herself on this occasion. It was her excellent idea to avoid popular
+ports of departure, like Folkestone and Dover, which were sure to be
+watched, and to get away (if the thing could be done) from some place on
+the east coast. We consulted our guide and found that a line of steamers
+sailed from Hull to Bremen once a week. A tedious journey from our part
+of Cumberland, with some troublesome changing of trains, but they got
+there in time to embark. My first news of them reached me in a telegram
+from Bremen. There they waited for further instructions. I sent the
+instructions by a thoroughly capable and trustworthy man--an Italian
+courier, known to me by an experience of twenty years. Shall I confess
+it? I thought I had done rather a clever thing in providing Mrs. Linley
+with a friend in need while I was away from her.”
+
+“I think so, too,” said Randal.
+
+“Wrong, completely wrong. I had made a mistake--I had been too clever,
+and I got my reward accordingly. You know how I advised Mrs. Linley?”
+
+“Yes. You persuaded her, with the greatest difficulty, to apply for a
+Divorce.”
+
+“Very well. I had made all the necessary arrangements for the trial,
+when I received a letter from Germany. My charming client had changed
+her mind, and declined to apply for the Divorce. There was my reward for
+having been too clever!”
+
+“I don’t understand you.”
+
+“My dear fellow, you are dull to-night. I had been so successful in
+protecting Mrs. Linley and the child, and my excellent courier had
+found such a charming place of retreat for them in one of the suburbs of
+Hanover, that ‘she saw no reason now for taking the shocking course
+that I had recommended to her--so repugnant to all her most cherished
+convictions; so sinful and so shameful in its doing of evil that good
+might come. Experience had convinced her that (thanks to me) there was
+no fear of Kitty being discovered and taken from her. She therefore
+begged me to write to my agent in Edinburgh, and tell him that her
+application to the court was withdrawn.’ Ah, you understand my position
+at last. The headstrong woman was running a risk which renewed all my
+anxieties. By every day’s post I expected to hear that she had paid the
+penalty of her folly, and that your brother had succeeded in getting
+possession of the child. Wait a little before you laugh at me. But for
+the courier, the thing would have really happened a week since.”
+
+Randal looked astonished. “Months must have passed,” he objected.
+“Surely, after that lapse of time, Mrs. Linley must have been safe from
+discovery.”
+
+“Take your own positive view of it! I only know that the thing happened.
+And why not? The luck had begun by being on one side--why shouldn’t the
+other side have had its turn next?”
+
+“Do you really believe in luck?”
+
+“Devoutly. A lawyer must believe in something. He knows the law too well
+to put any faith in that: and his clients present to him (if he is a man
+of any feeling) a hideous view of human nature. The poor devil believes
+in luck--rather than believe in nothing. I think it quite likely that
+accident helped the person employed by the husband to discover the wife
+and child. Anyhow, Mrs. Linley and Kitty were seen in the streets of
+Hanover; seen, recognized, and followed. The courier happened to be with
+them--luck again! For thirty years and more, he had been traveling
+in every part of Europe; there was not a landlord of the smallest
+pretensions anywhere who didn’t know him and like him. ‘I pretended not
+to see that anybody was following us,’ he said (writing from Hanover
+to relieve my anxiety); ‘and I took the ladies to a hotel. The hotel
+possessed two merits from our point of view--it had a way out at the
+back, through the stables, and it was kept by a landlord who was an
+excellent good friend of mine. I arranged with him what he was to say
+when inquiries were made; and I kept my poor ladies prisoners in their
+lodgings for three days. The end of it is that Mr. Linley’s policeman
+has gone away to watch the Channel steam-service, while we return
+quietly by way of Bremen and Hull.’ There is the courier’s account of
+it. I have only to add that poor Mrs. Linley has been fairly frightened
+into submission. She changes her mind again, and pledges herself once
+more to apply for the Divorce. If we are only lucky enough to get our
+case heard without any very serious delay, I am not afraid of my client
+slipping through my fingers for the second time. When will the courts of
+session be open to us? You have lived in Scotland, Randal--”
+
+“But I haven’t lived in the courts of law. I wish I could give you the
+information you want.”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin looked at his watch. “For all I know to the contrary,” he
+said, “we may be wasting precious time while we are talking here. Will
+you excuse me if I go away to my club?”
+
+“Are you going in search of information?”
+
+“Yes. We have some inveterate old whist-players who are always to be
+found in the card-room. One of them formerly practiced, I believe, in
+the Scotch courts. It has just occurred to me that the chance is worth
+trying.”
+
+“Will you let me know if you succeed?” Randal asked.
+
+The lawyer took his hand at parting. “You seem to be almost as anxious
+about it as I am,” he said.
+
+“To tell you the truth, I am a little alarmed when I think of Catherine.
+If there is another long delay, how do we know what may happen before
+the law has confirmed the mother’s claim to the child? Let me send one
+of the servants here to wait at your club. Will you give him a line
+telling me when the trial is likely to take place?”
+
+“With the greatest pleasure. Good-night.”
+
+Left alone, Randal sat by the fireside for a while, thinking of the
+future. The prospect, as he saw it, disheartened him. As a means of
+employing his mind on a more agreeable subject for reflection, he opened
+his traveling desk and took out two or three letters. They had been
+addressed to him, while he was in America, by Captain Bennydeck.
+
+The captain had committed an error of which most of us have been guilty
+in our time. He had been too exclusively devoted to work that interested
+him to remember what was due to the care of his health. The doctor’s
+warnings had been neglected; his over-strained nerves had given way; and
+the man whose strong constitution had resisted cold and starvation in
+the Arctic wastes, had broken down under stress of brain-work in London.
+
+This was the news which the first of the letters contained.
+
+The second, written under dictation, alluded briefly to the remedies
+suggested. In the captain’s case, the fresh air recommended was the air
+of the sea. At the same time he was forbidden to receive either letters
+or telegrams, during his absence from town, until the doctor had
+seen him again. These instructions pointed, in Captain Bennydeck’s
+estimation, to sailing for pleasure’s sake, and therefore to hiring a
+yacht.
+
+The third and last letter announced that the yacht had been found, and
+described the captain’s plans when the vessel was ready for sea.
+
+He proposed to sail here and there about the Channel, wherever it might
+please the wind to take him. Friends would accompany him, but not in any
+number. The yacht was not large enough to accommodate comfortably more
+than one or two guests at a time. Every now and then, the vessel would
+come to an anchor in the bay of the little coast town of Sandyseal, to
+accommodate friends going and coming and (in spite of medical advice) to
+receive letters. “You may have heard of Sandyseal,” the Captain wrote,
+“as one of the places which have lately been found out by the doctors.
+They are recommending the air to patients suffering from nervous
+disorders all over England. The one hotel in the place, and the few
+cottages which let lodgings, are crammed, as I hear, and the speculative
+builder is beginning his operations at such a rate that Sandyseal will
+be no longer recognizable in a few months more. Before the crescents
+and terraces and grand hotels turn the town into a fashionable
+watering-place, I want to take a last look at scenes familiar to me
+under their old aspect. If you are inclined to wonder at my feeling
+such a wish as this, I can easily explain myself. Two miles inland from
+Sandyseal, there is a lonely old moated house. In that house I was born.
+When you return from America, write to me at the post-office, or at the
+hotel (I am equally well known in both places), and let us arrange for
+a speedy meeting. I wish I could ask you to come and see me in my
+birth-place. It was sold, years since, under instructions in my father’s
+will, and was purchased for the use of a community of nuns. We may look
+at the outside, and we can do no more. In the meantime, don’t despair of
+my recovery; the sea is my old friend, and my trust is in God’s mercy.”
+
+These last lines were added in a postscript:
+
+“Have you heard any more of that poor girl, the daughter of my old
+friend Roderick Westerfield--whose sad story would never have been
+known to me but for you? I feel sure that you have good reasons for not
+telling me the name of the man who has misled her, or the address at
+which she may be found. But you may one day be at liberty to break your
+silence. In that case, don’t hesitate to do so because there may happen
+to be obstacles in my way. No difficulties discourage me, when my end in
+view is the saving of a soul in peril.”
+
+Randal returned to his desk to write to the Captain. He had only got as
+far as the first sentences, when the servant returned with the lawyer’s
+promised message. Mr. Sarrazin’s news was communicated in these cheering
+terms:
+
+“I am a firmer believer in luck than ever. If we only make haste--and
+won’t I make haste!--we may get the Divorce, as I calculate, in three
+weeks’ time.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XXX. The Lord President.
+
+
+Mrs. Linley’s application for a Divorce was heard in the first division
+of the Court of Session at Edinburgh, the Lord President being the
+judge.
+
+To the disappointment of the large audience assembled, no defense was
+attempted on the part of the husband--a wise decision, seeing that
+the evidence of the wife and her witnesses was beyond dispute. But one
+exciting incident occurred toward the close of the proceedings. Sudden
+illness made Mrs. Linley’s removal necessary, at the moment of all
+others most interesting to herself--the moment before the judge’s
+decision was announced.
+
+But, as the event proved, the poor lady’s withdrawal was the most
+fortunate circumstance that could have occurred, in her own interests.
+After condemning the husband’s conduct with unsparing severity, the Lord
+President surprised most of the persons present by speaking of the wife
+in these terms:
+
+“Grievously as Mrs. Linley has been injured, the evidence shows that she
+was herself by no means free from blame. She has been guilty, to say the
+least of it, of acts of indiscretion. When the criminal attachment which
+had grown up between Mr. Herbert Linley and Miss Westerfield had been
+confessed to her, she appears to have most unreasonably overrated
+whatever merit there might have been in their resistance to the final
+temptation. She was indeed so impulsively ready to forgive (without
+waiting to see if the event justified the exercise of mercy) that she
+owns to having given her hand to Miss Westerfield, at parting, not half
+an hour after that young person’s shameless forgetfulness of the claims
+of modesty, duty and gratitude had been first communicated to her. To
+say that this was the act of an inconsiderate woman, culpably indiscreet
+and, I had almost added, culpably indelicate, is only to say what she
+has deserved. On the next occasion to which I feel bound to advert, her
+conduct was even more deserving of censure. She herself appears to have
+placed the temptation under which he fell in her husband’s way, and so
+(in some degree at least) to have provoked the catastrophe which has
+brought her before this court. I allude, it is needless to say, to her
+having invited the governess--then out of harm’s way; then employed
+elsewhere--to return to her house, and to risk (what actually occurred)
+a meeting with Mr. Herbert Linley when no third person happened to be
+present. I know that the maternal motive which animated Mrs. Linley is
+considered, by many persons, to excuse and even to justify that most
+regrettable act; and I have myself allowed (I fear weakly allowed) more
+than due weight to this consideration in pronouncing for the Divorce.
+Let me express the earnest hope that Mrs. Linley will take warning by
+what has happened; and, if she finds herself hereafter placed in other
+circumstances of difficulty, let me advise her to exercise more control
+over impulses which one might expect perhaps to find in a young girl,
+but which are neither natural nor excusable in a woman of her age.”
+
+His lordship then decreed the Divorce in the customary form, giving the
+custody of the child to the mother.
+
+                       * * * * *
+
+As fast as a hired carriage could take him, Mr. Sarrazin drove from the
+court to Mrs. Linley’s lodgings, to tell her that the one great object
+of securing her right to her child had been achieved.
+
+At the door he was met by Mrs. Presty. She was accompanied by a
+stranger, whose medical services had been required. Interested
+professionally in hearing the result of the trial, this gentleman
+volunteered to communicate the good news to his patient. He had been
+waiting to administer a composing draught, until the suspense from which
+Mrs. Linley was suffering might be relieved, and a reasonable hope be
+entertained that the medicine would produce the right effect. With that
+explanation he left the room.
+
+While the doctor was speaking, Mrs. Presty was drawing her own
+conclusions from a close scrutiny of Mr. Sarrazin’s face.
+
+“I am going to make a disagreeable remark,” she announced. “You look ten
+years older, sir, than you did when you left us this morning to go to
+the Court. Do me a favor--come to the sideboard.” The lawyer having
+obeyed, she poured out a glass of wine. “There is the remedy,” she
+resumed, “when something has happened to worry you.”
+
+“‘Worry’ isn’t the right word,” Mr. Sarrazin declared. “I’m furious!
+It’s a most improper thing for a person in my position to say of a
+person in the Lord President’s position; but I do say it--he ought to be
+ashamed of himself.”
+
+“After giving us our Divorce!” Mrs. Presty exclaimed. “What has he
+done?”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin repeated what the judge had said of Mrs. Linley. “In
+my opinion,” he added, “such language as that is an insult to your
+daughter.”
+
+“And yet,” Mrs. Presty repeated, “he has given us our Divorce.” She
+returned to the sideboard, poured out a second dose of the remedy
+against worry, and took it herself. “What sort of character does the
+Lord President bear?” she asked when she had emptied her glass.
+
+This seemed to be an extraordinary question to put, under the
+circumstances. Mr. Sarrazin answered it, however, to the best of his
+ability. “An excellent character,” he said--“that’s the unaccountable
+part of it. I hear that he is one of the most careful and considerate
+men who ever sat on the bench. Excuse me, Mrs. Presty, I didn’t intend
+to produce that impression on you.”
+
+“What impression, Mr. Sarrazin?”
+
+“You look as if you thought there was some excuse for the judge.”
+
+“That’s exactly what I do think.”
+
+“You find an excuse for him?”
+
+“I do.”
+
+“What is it, ma’am?”
+
+“Constitutional infirmity, sir.”
+
+“May I ask of what nature?”
+
+“You may. Gout.”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin thought he understood her at last. “You know the Lord
+President,” he said.
+
+Mrs. Presty denied it positively. “No, Mr. Sarrazin, I don’t get at it
+in that way. I merely consult my experience of another official person
+of high rank, and apply it to the Lord President. You know that my first
+husband was a Cabinet Minister?”
+
+“I have heard you say so, Mrs. Presty, on more than one occasion.”
+
+“Very well. You may also have heard that the late Mr. Norman was a
+remarkably well-bred man. In and out of the House of Commons, courteous
+almost to a fault. One day I happened to interrupt him when he was
+absorbed over an Act of Parliament. Before I could apologize--I tell you
+this in the strictest confidence--he threw the Act of Parliament at
+my head. Ninety-nine women out of a hundred would have thrown it back
+again. Knowing his constitution, I decided on waiting a day or two. On
+the second day, my anticipations were realized. Mr. Norman’s great toe
+was as big as my fist and as red as a lobster; he apologized for the Act
+of Parliament with tears in his eyes. Suppressed gout in Mr. Norman’s
+temper; suppressed gout in the Lord President’s temper. _He_ will have a
+toe; and, if I can prevail upon my daughter to call upon him, I have not
+the least doubt he will apologize to her with tears in _his_ eyes.”
+
+This interesting experiment was never destined to be tried. Right or
+wrong, Mrs. Presty’s theory remained the only explanation of the judge’s
+severity. Mr. Sarrazin attempted to change the subject. Mrs. Presty had
+not quite done with it yet. “There is one more thing I want to say,” she
+proceeded. “Will his lordship’s remarks appear in the newspapers?”
+
+“Not a doubt of it.”
+
+“In that case I will take care (for my daughter’s sake) that no
+newspapers enter the house to-morrow. As for visitors, we needn’t be
+afraid of them. Catherine is not likely to be able to leave her room;
+the worry of this miserable business has quite broken her down.”
+
+The doctor returned at that moment.
+
+Without taking the old lady’s gloomy view of his patient, he admitted
+that she was in a low nervous condition, and he had reason to suppose,
+judging by her reply to a question which he had ventured to put, that
+she had associations with Scotland which made a visit to that country
+far from agreeable to her. His advice was that she should leave
+Edinburgh as soon as possible, and go South. If the change of climate
+led to no improvement, she would at least be in a position to consult
+the best physicians in London. In a day or two more it would be safe to
+remove her--provided she was not permitted to exhaust her strength by
+taking long railway journeys.
+
+Having given his advice, the doctor took leave. Soon after he had gone,
+Kitty made her appearance, charged with a message from Mrs. Linley’s
+room.
+
+“Hasn’t the physic sent your mother to sleep yet?” Mrs. Presty inquired.
+
+Kitty shook her head. “Mamma wants to go away tomorrow, and no physic
+will make her sleep till she has seen you, and settled about it. That’s
+what she told me to say. If _I_ behaved in that way about my physic, I
+should catch it.”
+
+Mrs. Presty left the room; watched by her granddaughter with an
+appearance of anxiety which it was not easy to understand.
+
+“What’s the matter?” Mr. Sarrazin asked. “You look very serious to-day.”
+
+Kitty held up a warning hand. “Grandmamma sometimes listens at doors,”
+ she whispered; “I don’t want her to hear me.” She waited a little
+longer, and then approached Mr. Sarrazin, frowning mysteriously. “Take
+me up on your knee,” she said. “There’s something wrong going on in this
+house.”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin took her on his knee, and rashly asked what had gone wrong.
+Kitty’s reply puzzled him.
+
+“I go to mamma’s room every morning when I wake,” the child began. “I
+get into her bed, and I give her a kiss, and I say ‘Good-morning’--and
+sometimes, if she isn’t in a hurry to get up, I stop in her bed, and
+go to sleep again. Mamma thought I was asleep this morning. I wasn’t
+asleep--I was only quiet. I don’t know why I was quiet.”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin’s kindness still encouraged her. “Well,” he said, “and what
+happened after that?”
+
+“Grandmamma came in. She told mamma to keep up her spirits. She says,
+‘It will all be over in a few hours more.’ She says, ‘What a burden
+it will be off your mind!’ She says, ‘Is that child asleep?’ And mamma
+says, ‘Yes.’ And grandmamma took one of mamma’s towels. And I thought
+she was going to wash herself. What would _you_ have thought?”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin began to doubt whether he would do well to discuss Mrs.
+Presty’s object in taking the towel. He only said, “Go on.”
+
+“Grandmamma dipped it into the water-jug,” Kitty continued, with a grave
+face; “but she didn’t wash herself. She went to one of mamma’s boxes.
+Though she’s so old, she’s awfully strong, I can tell you. She rubbed
+off the luggage-label in no time. Mamma says, ‘What are you doing that
+for?’ And grandmamma says--this is the dreadful thing that I want you
+to explain; oh, I can remember it all; it’s like learning lessons, only
+much nicer--grandmamma says, ‘Before the day’s over, the name on your
+boxes will be your name no longer.’”
+
+Mr. Sarrazin now became aware of the labyrinth into which his young
+friend had innocently led him. The Divorce, and the wife’s inevitable
+return (when the husband was no longer the husband) to her maiden
+name--these were the subjects on which Kitty’s desire for enlightenment
+applied to the wisest person within her reach, her mother’s legal
+adviser.
+
+Mr. Sarrazin tried to put her off his knee. She held him round the neck.
+He thought of the railway as a promising excuse, and told her he must go
+back to London. She held him a little tighter. “I really can’t wait, my
+dear;” he got up as he said it. Kitty hung on to him with her legs
+as well as her arms, and finding the position uncomfortable, lost her
+temper. “Mamma’s going to have a new name,” she shouted, as if the
+lawyer had suddenly become deaf. “Grandmamma says she must be Mrs.
+Norman. And I must be Miss Norman. I won’t! Where’s papa? I want to
+write to him; I know he won’t allow it. Do you hear? Where’s papa?”
+
+She fastened her little hands on Mr. Sarrazin’s coat collar and tried
+to shake him, in a fury of resolution to know what it all meant. At that
+critical moment Mrs. Presty opened the door, and stood petrified on the
+threshold.
+
+“Hanging on to Mr. Sarrazin with her arms _and_ her legs!” exclaimed the
+old lady. “You little wretch, which are you, a monkey or a child?”
+
+The lawyer gently deposited Kitty on the floor.
+
+“Mind this, Samuel,” she whispered, as he set her down on her feet, “I
+won’t be Miss Norman.”
+
+Mrs. Presty pointed sternly at the open door. “You were screaming just
+now, when quiet in the house is of the utmost importance to your mother.
+If I hear you again, bread and water and no doll for the rest of the
+week.”
+
+Kitty retired in disgrace, and Mrs. Presty sharpened her tongue on Mr.
+Sarrazin next. “I’m astonished, sir, at your allowing that impudent
+grandchild of mine to take such liberties with you. Who would suppose
+that you were a married man, with children of your own?”
+
+“That’s just the reason, my dear madam,” Mr. Sarrazin smartly replied.
+“I romp with my own children--why not with Kitty? Can I do anything
+for you in London?” he went on, getting a little nearer to the door; “I
+leave Edinburgh by the next train. And I promise you,” he added, with
+the spirit of mischief twinkling in his eyes, “this shall be my last
+confidential interview with your grandchild. When she wants to ask any
+more questions, I transfer her to you.”
+
+Mrs. Presty looked after the retreating lawyer thoroughly mystified.
+What “confidential interview”? What “questions”? After some
+consideration, her experience of her granddaughter suggested that a
+little exercise of mercy might be attended with the right result. She
+looked at a cake on the sideboard. “I have only to forgive Kitty,” she
+decided, “and the child will talk about it of her own accord.”
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXI.
+
+Mr. Herbert Linley.
+
+Of the friends and neighbors who had associated with Herbert Linley, in
+bygone days, not more than two or three kept up their intimacy with him
+at the later time of his disgrace. Those few, it is needless to say,
+were men.
+
+One of the faithful companions, who had not shrunk from him yet, had
+just left the London hotel at which Linley had taken rooms for Sydney
+Westerfield and himself--in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert. This
+old friend had been shocked by the change for the worse which he had
+perceived in the fugitive master of Mount Morven. Linley’s stout figure
+of former times had fallen away, as if he had suffered under long
+illness; his healthy color had faded; he made an effort to assume
+the hearty manner that had once been natural to him which was simply
+pitiable to see. “After sacrificing all that makes life truly decent
+and truly enjoyable for a woman, he has got nothing, not even false
+happiness, in return!” With that dreary conclusion the retiring visitor
+descended the hotel steps, and went his way along the street.
+
+Linley returned to the newspaper which he had been reading when his
+friend was shown into the room.
+
+Line by line he followed the progress of the law report, which informed
+its thousands of readers that his wife had divorced him, and had taken
+lawful possession of his child. Word by word, he dwelt with morbid
+attention on the terms of crushing severity in which the Lord President
+had spoken of Sydney Westerfield and of himself. Sentence by sentence
+he read the reproof inflicted on the unhappy woman whom he had vowed to
+love and cherish. And then--even then--urged by his own self-tormenting
+suspicion, he looked for more. On the opposite page there was a leading
+article, presenting comments on the trial, written in the tone of lofty
+and virtuous regret; taking the wife’s side against the judge, but
+declaring, at the same time, that no condemnation of the conduct of the
+husband and the governess could be too merciless, and no misery that
+might overtake them in the future more than they had deserved.
+
+He threw the newspaper on the table at his side, and thought over what
+he had read.
+
+If he had done nothing else, he had drained the bitter cup to the dregs.
+When he looked back, he saw nothing but the life that he had wasted.
+When his thoughts turned to the future, they confronted a prospect empty
+of all promise to a man still in the prime of life. Wife and child
+were as completely lost to him as if they had been dead--and it was the
+wife’s doing. Had he any right to complain? Not the shadow of a right.
+As the newspapers said, he had deserved it.
+
+The clock roused him, striking the hour.
+
+He rose hurriedly, and advanced toward the window. As he crossed the
+room, he passed by a mirror. His own sullen despair looked at him in the
+reflection of his face. “She will be back directly,” he remembered; “she
+mustn’t see me like this!” He went on to the window to divert his mind
+(and so to clear his face) by watching the stream of life flowing by
+in the busy street. Artificial cheerfulness, assumed love in Sydney’s
+presence--that was what his life had come to already.
+
+If he had known that she had gone out, seeking a temporary separation,
+with _his_ fear of self-betrayal--if he had suspected that she, too, had
+thoughts which must be concealed: sad forebodings of losing her hold on
+his heart, terrifying suspicions that he was already comparing her, to
+her own disadvantage, with the wife whom he had deserted--if he had made
+these discoveries, what would the end have been? But she had, thus far,
+escaped the danger of exciting his distrust. That she loved him, he
+knew. That she had begun to doubt his attachment to her he would
+not have believed, if his oldest friend had declared it on the best
+evidence. She had said to him, that morning, at breakfast: “There was
+a good woman who used to let lodgings here in London, and who was very
+kind to me when I was a child;” and she had asked leave to go to the
+house, and inquire if that friendly landlady was still living--with
+nothing visibly constrained in her smile, and with no faltering tone in
+her voice. It was not until she was out in the street that the tell-tale
+tears came into her eyes, and the bitter sigh broke from her, and
+mingled its little unheard misery with the grand rise and fall of the
+tumult of London life. While he was still at the window, he saw her
+crossing the street on her way back to him. She came into the room with
+her complexion heightened by exercise; she kissed him, and said with her
+pretty smile: “Have you been lonely without me?” Who would have supposed
+that the torment of distrust, and the dread of desertion, were busy at
+this woman’s heart?
+
+He placed a chair for her, and seating himself by her side asked if she
+felt tired. Every attention that she could wish for from the man whom
+she loved, offered with every appearance of sincerity on the surface!
+She met him halfway, and answered as if her mind was quite at ease.
+
+“No, dear, I’m not tired--but I’m glad to get back.”
+
+“Did you find your old landlady still alive?”
+
+“Yes. But oh, so altered, poor thing! The struggle for life must have
+been a hard one, since I last saw her.”
+
+“She didn’t recognize you, of course?”
+
+“Oh! no. She looked at me and my dress in great surprise and said her
+lodgings were hardly fit for a young lady like me. It was too sad. I
+said I had known her lodgings well, many years ago--and, with that to
+prepare her, I told her who I was. Ah, it was a melancholy meeting for
+both of us. She burst out crying when I kissed her; and I had to tell
+her that my mother was dead, and my brother lost to me in spite of every
+effort to find him. I asked to go into the kitchen, thinking the change
+would be a relief to both of us. The kitchen used to be a paradise to me
+in those old days; it was so warm to a half-starved child--and I always
+got something to eat when I was there. You have no idea, Herbert, how
+poor and how empty the place looked to me now. I was glad to get out of
+it, and go upstairs. There was a lumber-room at the top of the house;
+I used to play in it, all by myself. More changes met me the moment I
+opened the door.”
+
+“Changes for the better?”
+
+“My dear, it couldn’t have changed for the worse! My dirty old play-room
+was cleaned and repaired; the lumber taken away, and a nice little bed
+in one corner. Some clerk in the City had taken the room--I shouldn’t
+have known it again. But there was another surprise waiting for me; a
+happy surprise this time. In cleaning out the garret, what do you think
+the landlady found? Try to guess.”
+
+Anything to please her! Anything to make her think that he was as fond
+of her as ever! “Was it something you had left behind you,” he said, “at
+the time when you lodged there.”
+
+“Yes! you are right at the first guess--a little memorial of my father.
+Only some torn crumpled leaves from a book of children’s songs that he
+used to teach me to sing; and a small packet of his letters, which my
+mother may have thrown aside and forgotten. See! I have brought them
+back with me; I mean to look over the letters at once--but this doesn’t
+interest you?”
+
+“Indeed it does.”
+
+He made that considerate reply mechanically, as if thinking of something
+else. She was afraid to tell him plainly that she saw this; but she
+could venture to say that he was not looking well. “I have noticed it
+for some time past,” she confessed. “You have been accustomed to live in
+the country; I am afraid London doesn’t agree with you.”
+
+He admitted that she might be right; still speaking absently, still
+thinking of the Divorce. She laid the packet of letters and the poor
+relics of the old song-book on the table, and bent over him. Tenderly,
+and a little timidly, she put her arm around his neck. “Let us try some
+purer air,” she suggested; “the seaside might do you good. Don’t you
+think so?”
+
+“I daresay, my dear. Where shall we go?”
+
+“Oh, I leave that to you.”
+
+“No, Sydney. It was I who proposed coming to London. You shall decide
+this time.”
+
+She submitted, and promised to think of it. Leaving him, with the first
+expression of trouble that had shown itself in her face, she took up
+the songs and put them into the pocket of her dress. On the point of
+removing the letters next, she noticed the newspaper on the table.
+“Anything interesting to-day?” she asked--and drew the newspaper toward
+her to look at it. He took it from her suddenly, almost roughly. The
+next moment he apologized for his rudeness. “There is nothing worth
+reading in the paper,” he said, after begging her pardon. “You don’t
+care about politics, do you?”
+
+Instead of answering, she looked at him attentively.
+
+The heightened color which told of recent exercise, healthily enjoyed,
+faded from her face. She was silent; she was pale. A little confused, he
+smiled uneasily. “Surely,” he resumed, trying to speak gayly, “I haven’t
+offended you?”
+
+“There is something in the newspaper,” she said, “which you don’t want
+me to read.”
+
+He denied it--but he still kept the newspaper in his own possession. Her
+voice sank low; her face turned paler still.
+
+“Is it all over?” she asked. “And is it put in the newspaper?”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean the Divorce.”
+
+He went back again to the window and looked out. It was the easiest
+excuse that he could devise for keeping his face turned away from her.
+She followed him.
+
+“I don’t want to read it, Herbert. I only ask you to tell me if you are
+a free man again.”
+
+Quiet as it was, her tone left him no alternative but to treat her
+brutally or to reply. Still looking out at the street, he said “Yes.”
+
+“Free to marry, if you like?” she persisted.
+
+He said “Yes” once more--and kept his face steadily turned away from
+her. She waited a while. He neither moved nor spoke.
+
+Surviving the slow death little by little of all her other illusions,
+one last hope had lingered in her heart. It was killed by that cruel
+look, fixed on the view of the street.
+
+“I’ll try to think of a place that we can go to at the seaside.” Having
+said those words she slowly moved away to the door, and turned back,
+remembering the packet of letters. She took it up, paused, and looked
+toward the window. The streets still interested him. She left the room.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXII. Miss Westerfield.
+
+
+She locked the door of her bedchamber, and threw off her walking-dress;
+light as it was, she felt as if it would stifle her. Even the ribbon
+round her neck was more than she could endure and breathe freely. Her
+overburdened heart found no relief in tears. In the solitude of her room
+she thought of the future. The dreary foreboding of what it might be,
+filled her with a superstitious dread from which she recoiled. One of
+the windows was open already; she threw up the other to get more air. In
+the cooler atmosphere her memory recovered itself; she recollected the
+newspaper, that Herbert had taken from her. Instantly she rang for the
+maid. “Ask the first waiter you see downstairs for today’s newspaper;
+any one will do, so long as I don’t wait for it.” The report of the
+Divorce--she was in a frenzy of impatience to read what _he_ had
+read--the report of the Divorce.
+
+When her wish had been gratified, when she had read it from beginning to
+end, one vivid impression only was left on her mind. She could think of
+nothing but what the judge had said, in speaking of Mrs. Linley.
+
+A cruel reproof, and worse than cruel, a public reproof, administered
+to the generous friend, the true wife, the devoted mother--and for
+what? For having been too ready to forgive the wretch who had taken
+her husband from her, and had repaid a hundred acts of kindness by
+unpardonable ingratitude.
+
+She fell on her knees; she tried wildly to pray for inspiration that
+should tell her what to do. “Oh, God, how can I give that woman back the
+happiness of which I have robbed her!”
+
+The composing influence of prayer on a troubled mind was something that
+she had heard of. It was not something that she experienced now. An
+overpowering impatience to make the speediest and completest atonement
+possessed her. Must she wait till Herbert Linley no longer concealed
+that he was weary of her, and cast her off? No! It should be her own act
+that parted them, and that did it at once. She threw open the door, and
+hurried half-way down the stairs before she remembered the one terrible
+obstacle in her way--the Divorce.
+
+Slowly and sadly she submitted, and went back to her room.
+
+There was no disguising it; the two who had once been husband and wife
+were parted irrevocably--by the wife’s own act. Let him repent ever so
+sincerely, let him be ever so ready to return, would the woman whose
+faith Herbert Linley had betrayed take him back? The Divorce, the
+merciless Divorce, answered:--No!
+
+She paused, thinking of the marriage that was now a marriage no more.
+The toilet-table was close to her; she looked absently at her haggard
+face in the glass. What a lost wretch she saw! The generous impulses
+which other women were free to feel were forbidden luxuries to her. She
+was ashamed of her wickedness; she was eager to sacrifice herself, for
+the good of the once-dear friend whom she had wronged. Useless longings!
+Too late! too late!
+
+She regretted it bitterly. Why?
+
+Comparing Mrs. Linley’s prospects with hers, was there anything to
+justify regret for the divorced wife? She had her sweet little child to
+make her happy; she had a fortune of her own to lift her above sordid
+cares; she was still handsome, still a woman to be admired. While she
+held her place in the world as high as ever, what was the prospect
+before Sydney Westerfield? The miserable sinner would end as she had
+deserved to end. Absolutely dependent on a man who was at that moment
+perhaps lamenting the wife whom he had deserted and lost, how long would
+it be before she found herself an outcast, without a friend to help
+her--with a reputation hopelessly lost--face to face with the temptation
+to drown herself or poison herself, as other women had drowned
+themselves or poisoned themselves, when the brightest future before them
+was rest in death?
+
+If she had been a few years older, Herbert Linley might never again have
+seen her a living creature. But she was too young to follow any train of
+repellent thought persistently to its end. The man she had guiltily (and
+yet how naturally) loved was lord and master in her heart, doubt him as
+she might. Even in his absence he pleaded with her to have some faith in
+him still.
+
+She reviewed his language and his conduct toward her, when she had
+returned that morning from her walk. He had been kind and considerate;
+he had listened to her little story of the relics of her father, found
+in the garret, as if her interests were his interests. There had been
+nothing to disappoint her, nothing to complain of, until she had rashly
+attempted to discover whether he was free to make her his wife. She had
+only herself to blame if he was cold and distant when she had alluded
+to that delicate subject, on the day when he first knew that the Divorce
+had been granted and his child had been taken from him. And yet, he
+might have found a kinder way of reproving a sensitive woman than
+looking into the street--as if he had forgotten her in the interest of
+watching the strangers passing by! Perhaps he was not thinking of the
+strangers; perhaps his mind was dwelling fondly and regretfully on his
+wife?
+
+Instinctively, she felt that her thoughts were leading her back again to
+a state of doubt from which her youthful hopefulness recoiled. Was there
+nothing she could find to do which would offer some other subject to
+occupy her mind than herself and her future?
+
+Looking absently round the room, she noticed the packet of her father’s
+letters placed on the table by her bedside.
+
+The first three letters that she examined, after untying the packet,
+were briefly written, and were signed by names unknown to her. They all
+related to race-horses, and to cunningly devised bets which were certain
+to make the fortunes of the clever gamblers on the turf who laid them.
+Absolute indifference on the part of the winners to the ruin of the
+losers, who were not in the secret, was the one feeling in common, which
+her father’s correspondents presented. In mercy to his memory she threw
+the letters into the empty fireplace, and destroyed them by burning.
+
+The next letter which she picked out from the little heap was of some
+length, and was written in a clear and steady hand. By comparison with
+the blotted scrawls which she had just burned, it looked like the letter
+of a gentleman. She turned to the signature. The strange surname struck
+her; it was “Bennydeck.”
+
+Not a common name, and not a name which seemed to be altogether unknown
+to her. Had she heard her father mention it at home in the time of her
+early childhood? There were no associations with it that she could now
+call to mind.
+
+She read the letter. It addressed her father familiarly as “My dear
+Roderick,” and it proceeded in these words:--
+
+
+
+“The delay in the sailing of your ship offers me an opportunity of
+writing to you again. My last letter told you of my father’s death. I
+was then quite unprepared for an event which has happened, since that
+affliction befell me. Prepare yourself to be surprised. Our old moated
+house at Sandyseal, in which we have spent so many happy holidays when
+we were schoolfellows, is sold.
+
+“You will be almost as sorry as I was to hear this; and you will be
+quite as surprised as I was, when I tell you that Sandyseal Place has
+become a Priory of English Nuns, of the order of St. Benedict.
+
+“I think I see you look up from my letter, with your big black eyes
+staring straight before you, and say and swear that this must be one
+of my mystifications. Unfortunately (for I am fond of the old house in
+which I was born) it is only too true. The instructions in my father’s
+will, under which Sandyseal has been sold, are peremptory. They are the
+result of a promise made, many years since, to his wife.
+
+“You and I were both very young when my poor mother died; but I think
+you must remember that she, like the rest of her family, was a Roman
+Catholic.
+
+“Having reminded you of this, I may next tell you that Sandyseal Place
+was my mother’s property. It formed part of her marriage portion, and
+it was settled on my father if she died before him, and if she left
+no female child to survive her. I am her only child. My father was
+therefore dealing with his own property when he ordered the house to be
+sold. His will leaves the purchase money to me. I would rather have kept
+the house.
+
+“But why did my mother make him promise to sell the place at his death?
+
+“A letter, attached to my father’s will, answers this question, and
+tells a very sad story. In deference to my mother’s wishes it was kept
+strictly a secret from me while my father lived.
+
+“There was a younger sister of my mother’s who was the beauty of the
+family; loved and admired by everybody who was acquainted with her. It
+is needless to make this long letter longer by dwelling on the girl’s
+miserable story. You have heard it of other girls, over and over
+again. She loved and trusted; she was deceived and deserted. Alone and
+friendless in a foreign country; her fair fame blemished; her hope in
+the future utterly destroyed, she attempted to drown herself. This took
+place in France. The best of good women--a Sister of Charity--happened
+to be near enough to the river to rescue her. She was sheltered; she was
+pitied; she was encouraged to return to her family. The poor deserted
+creature absolutely refused; she could never forget that she had
+disgraced them. The good Sister of Charity won her confidence. A retreat
+which would hide her from the world, and devote her to religion for the
+rest of her days, was the one end to her wasted life that she longed
+for. That end was attained in a Priory of Benedictine Nuns, established
+in France. There she found protection and peace--there she passed the
+remaining years of her life among devoted Sister-friends--and there she
+died a quiet and even a happy death.
+
+“You will now understand how my mother’s grateful remembrance associated
+her with the interests of more than one community of Nuns; and you will
+not need to be told what she had in mind when she obtained my father’s
+promise at the time of her last illness.
+
+“He at once proposed to bequeath the house as a free gift to the
+Benedictines. My mother thanked him and refused. She was thinking of me.
+‘If our son fails to inherit the house from his father,’ she said, ‘it
+is only right that he should have the value of the house in money. Let
+it be sold.’
+
+“So here I am--rich already--with this additional sum of money in my
+banker’s care.
+
+“My idea is to invest it in the Funds, and to let it thrive at interest,
+until I grow older, and retire perhaps from service in the Navy.
+The later years of my life may well be devoted to the founding of a
+charitable institution, which I myself can establish and direct. If
+I die first--oh, there is a chance of it! We may have a naval war,
+perhaps, or I may turn out one of those incorrigible madmen who risk
+their lives in Arctic exploration. In case of the worst, therefore, I
+shall leave the interests of my contemplated Home in your honest and
+capable hands. For the present good-by, and a prosperous voyage outward
+bound.”
+
+
+
+So the letter ended.
+
+Sydney dwelt with reluctant attention on the latter half of it. The
+story of the unhappy favorite of the family had its own melancholy and
+sinister interest for her. She felt the foreboding that it might, in
+some of its circumstances, be her story too--without the peaceful end.
+Into what community of merciful women could _she_ be received, in her
+sorest need? What religious consolations would encourage her penitence?
+What prayers, what hopes, would reconcile her, on her death-bed, to the
+common doom?
+
+She sighed as she folded up Captain Bennydeck’s letter and put it in her
+bosom, to be read again. “If my lot had fallen among good people,” she
+thought, “perhaps I might have belonged to the Church which took care of
+that poor girl.”
+
+Her mind was still pursuing its own sad course of inquiry; she was
+wondering in what part of England Sandyseal might be; she was asking
+herself if the Nuns at the old moated house ever opened their doors to
+women, whose one claim on their common Christianity was the claim to be
+pitied--when she heard Linley’s footsteps approaching the door.
+
+His tone was kind; his manner was gentle; his tender interest in her
+seemed to have revived. Her long absence had alarmed him; he feared she
+might be ill. “I was only thinking,” she said. He smiled, and sat down
+by her, and asked if she had been thinking of the place that they should
+go to when they left London.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXIII. Mrs. Romsey.
+
+
+The one hotel in Sandyseal was full, from the topmost story to the
+ground floor; and by far the larger half of the landlord’s guests were
+invalids sent to him by the doctors.
+
+To persons of excitable temperament, in search of amusement, the place
+offered no attractions. Situated at the innermost end of a dull little
+bay, Sandyseal--so far as any view of the shipping in the Channel was
+concerned--might have been built on a remote island in the Pacific
+Ocean. Vessels of any importance kept well out of the way of treacherous
+shoals and currents lurking at the entrance of the bay. The anchorage
+ground was good; but the depth of water was suited to small vessels
+only--to shabby old fishing-smacks which seldom paid their expenses, and
+to dirty little coasters carrying coals and potatoes. At the back of the
+hotel, two slovenly rows of cottages took their crooked course inland.
+Sailing masters of yachts, off duty, sat and yawned at the windows; lazy
+fishermen looked wearily at the weather over their garden gates; and
+superfluous coastguards gathered together in a wooden observatory, and
+leveled useless telescopes at an empty sea. The flat open country, with
+its few dwarf trees and its mangy hedges, lay prostrate under the sky
+in all the desolation of solitary space, and left the famous restorative
+air free to build up dilapidated nerves, without an object to hinder its
+passage at any point of the compass. The lonely drab-colored road that
+led to the nearest town offered to visitors, taking airings, a view of
+a low brown object in the distance, said to be the convent in which the
+Nuns lived, secluded from mortal eyes. At one side of the hotel, the
+windows looked on a little wooden pier, sadly in want of repair. On the
+other side, a walled inclosure accommodated yachts of light tonnage,
+stripped of their rigging, and sitting solitary on a bank of mud
+until their owners wanted them. In this neighborhood there was a small
+outlying colony of shops: one that sold fruit and fish; one that
+dealt in groceries and tobacco; one shut up, with a bill in the window
+inviting a tenant; and one, behind the Methodist Chapel, answering the
+double purpose of a post-office and a storehouse for ropes and coals.
+Beyond these objects there was nothing (and this was the great charm of
+the place) to distract the attention of invalids, following the doctor’s
+directions, and from morning to night taking care of their health.
+
+
+
+The time was evening; the scene was one of the private sitting-rooms in
+the hotel; and the purpose in view was a little tea-party.
+
+Rich Mrs. Romsey, connected with commerce as wife of the chief partner
+in the firm of Romsey & Renshaw, was staying at the hotel in the
+interests of her three children. They were of delicate constitution;
+their complete recovery, after severe illness which had passed from one
+to the other, was less speedy than had been anticipated; and the doctor
+had declared that the nervous system was, in each case, more or less in
+need of repair. To arrive at this conclusion, and to recommend a visit
+to Sandyseal, were events which followed each other (medically speaking)
+as a matter of course.
+
+The health of the children had greatly improved; the famous air had
+agreed with them, and the discovery of new playfellows had agreed with
+them. They had made acquaintance with Lady Myrie’s well-bred boys, and
+with Mrs. Norman’s charming little Kitty. The most cordial good-feeling
+had established itself among the mothers. Owing a return for
+hospitalities received from Lady Myrie and Mrs. Norman, Mrs. Romsey had
+invited the two ladies to drink tea with her in honor of an interesting
+domestic event. Her husband, absent on the Continent for some time past,
+on business connected with his firm, had returned to England, and had
+that evening joined his wife and children at Sandyseal.
+
+Lady Myrie had arrived, and Mr. Romsey had been presented to her. Mrs.
+Norman, expected to follow, was represented by a courteous note of
+apology. She was not well that evening, and she begged to be excused.
+
+“This is a great disappointment,” Mrs. Romsey said to her husband. “You
+would have been charmed with Mrs. Norman--highly-bred, accomplished, a
+perfect lady. And she leaves us to-morrow. The departure will not be an
+early one; and I shall find an opportunity, my dear, of introducing you
+to my friend and her sweet little Kitty.”
+
+Mr. Romsey looked interested for a moment, when he first heard Mrs.
+Norman’s name. After that, he slowly stirred his tea, and seemed to be
+thinking, instead of listening to his wife.
+
+“Have you made the lady’s acquaintance here?” he inquired.
+
+“Yes--and I hope I have made a friend for life,” Mrs. Romsey said with
+enthusiasm.
+
+“And so do I,” Lady Myrie added.
+
+Mr. Romsey went on with his inquiries.
+
+“Is she a handsome woman?”
+
+Both the ladies answered the question together. Lady Myrie described
+Mrs. Norman, in one dreadful word, as “Classical.” By comparison with
+this, Mrs. Romsey’s reply was intelligible. “Not even illness can spoil
+her beauty!”
+
+“Including the headache she has got to-night?” Mr. Romsey suggested.
+
+“Don’t be ill-natured, dear! Mrs. Norman is here by the advice of one of
+the first physicians in London; she has suffered under serious troubles,
+poor thing.”
+
+Mr. Romsey persisted in being ill-natured. “Connected with her husband?”
+ he asked.
+
+Lady Myrie entered a protest. She was a widow; and it was notorious
+among her friends that the death of her husband had been the happiest
+event in her married life. But she understood her duty to herself as a
+respectable woman.
+
+“I think, Mr. Romsey, you might have spared that cruel allusion,” she
+said with dignity.
+
+Mr. Romsey apologized. He had his reasons for wishing to know something
+more about Mrs. Norman; he proposed to withdraw his last remark, and to
+put his inquiries under another form. Might he ask his wife if anybody
+had seen _Mr._ Norman?
+
+“No.”
+
+“Or heard of him?”
+
+Mrs. Romsey answered in the negative once more, and added a question on
+her own account. What did all this mean?
+
+“It means,” Lady Myrie interposed, “what we poor women are all exposed
+to--scandal.” She had not yet forgiven Mr. Romsey’s allusion, and she
+looked at him pointedly as she spoke. There are some impenetrable men on
+whom looks produce no impression. Mr. Romsey was one of them. He turned
+to his wife, and said, quietly: “What I mean is, that I know more of
+Mrs. Norman than you do. I have heard of her--never mind how or where.
+She is a lady who has been celebrated in the newspapers. Don’t be
+alarmed. She is no less a person than the divorced Mrs. Linley.”
+
+The two ladies looked at each other in blank dismay. Restrained by a
+sense of conjugal duty, Mrs. Romsey only indulged in an exclamation.
+Lady Myrie, independent of restraint, expressed her opinion, and said:
+“Quite impossible!”
+
+“The Mrs. Norman whom I mean,” Mr. Romsey went on, “has, as I have been
+told, a mother living. The old lady has been twice married. Her name is
+Mrs. Presty.”
+
+This settled the question. Mrs. Presty was established, in her own
+proper person, with her daughter and grandchild at the hotel. Lady Myrie
+yielded to the force of evidence; she lifted her hands in horror: “This
+is too dreadful!”
+
+Mrs. Romsey took a more compassionate view of the disclosure. “Surely
+the poor lady is to be pitied?” she gently suggested.
+
+Lady Myrie looked at her friend in astonishment. “My dear, you must have
+forgotten what the judge said about her. Surely you read the report of
+the case in the newspapers?”
+
+“No; I heard of the trial, and that’s all. What did the judge say?”
+
+“Say?” Lady Myrie repeated. “What did he not say! His lordship declared
+that he had a great mind not to grant the Divorce at all. He spoke of
+this dreadful woman who has deceived us in the severest terms; he
+said she had behaved in a most improper manner. She had encouraged the
+abominable governess; and if her husband had yielded to temptation, it
+was her fault. And more besides, that I don’t remember.”
+
+Mr. Romsey’s wife appealed to him in despair. “What am I to do?” she
+asked, helplessly.
+
+“Do nothing,” was the wise reply. “Didn’t you say she was going away
+to-morrow?”
+
+“That’s the worst of it!” Mrs. Romsey declared. “Her little girl Kitty
+gives a farewell dinner to-morrow to our children; and I’ve promised to
+take them to say good-by.”
+
+Lady Myrie pronounced sentence without hesitation. “Of course your girls
+mustn’t go. Daughters! Think of their reputations when they grow up!”
+
+“Are you in the same scrape with my wife?” Mr. Romsey asked.
+
+Lady Myrie corrected his language. “I have been deceived in the same
+way,” she said. “Though my children are boys (which perhaps makes a
+difference) I feel it is my duty as a mother not to let them get into
+bad company. I do nothing myself in an underhand way. No excuses! I
+shall send a note and tell Mrs. Norman why she doesn’t see my boys
+to-morrow.”
+
+“Isn’t that a little hard on her?” said merciful Mrs. Romsey.
+
+Mr. Romsey agreed with his wife, on grounds of expediency. “Never make
+a row if you can help it,” was the peaceable principle to which this
+gentleman committed himself. “Send word that the children have caught
+colds, and get over it in that way.”
+
+Mrs. Romsey looked gratefully at her admirable husband. “Just the
+thing!” she said, with an air of relief.
+
+Lady Myrie’s sense of duty expressed itself, with the strictest
+adherence to the laws of courtesy. She rose, smiled resignedly, and
+said, “Good-night.”
+
+Almost at the same moment, innocent little Kitty astonished her mother
+and her grandmother by appearing before them in her night-gown, after
+she had been put to bed nearly two hours since.
+
+“What will this child do next?” Mrs. Presty exclaimed.
+
+Kitty told the truth. “I can’t go to sleep, grandmamma.”
+
+“Why not, my darling?” her mother asked.
+
+“I’m so excited, mamma.”
+
+“About what, Kitty?”
+
+“About my dinner-party to-morrow. Oh,” said the child, clasping her
+hands earnestly as she thought of her playfellows, “I do so hope it will
+go off well!”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXIV. Mrs. Presty.
+
+
+Belonging to the generation which has lived to see the Age of Hurry,
+and has no sympathy with it, Mrs. Presty entered the sitting-room at
+the hotel, two hours before the time that had been fixed for leaving
+Sandyseal, with her mind at ease on the subject of her luggage. “My
+boxes are locked, strapped and labeled; I hate being hurried. What’s
+that you’re reading?” she asked, discovering a book on her daughter’s
+lap, and a hasty action on her daughter’s part, which looked like trying
+to hide it.
+
+Mrs. Norman made the most common, and--where the object is to baffle
+curiosity--the most useless of prevaricating replies. When her mother
+asked her what she was reading she answered: “Nothing.”
+
+“Nothing!” Mrs. Presty repeated with an ironical assumption of interest.
+“The work of all others, Catherine, that I most want to read.” She
+snatched up the book; opened it at the first page, and discovered
+an inscription in faded ink which roused her indignation. “To dear
+Catherine, from Herbert, on the anniversary of our marriage.” What
+unintended mockery in those words, read by the later light of the
+Divorce! “Well, this is mean,” said Mrs. Presty. “Keeping that wretch’s
+present, after the public exposure which he has forced on you. Oh,
+Catherine!”
+
+Catherine was not quite so patient with her mother as usual. “Keeping my
+best remembrance of the happy time of my life,” she answered.
+
+“Misplaced sentiment,” Mrs. Presty declared; “I shall put the book out
+of the way. Your brain is softening, my dear, under the influence of
+this stupefying place.”
+
+Catherine asserted her own opinion against her mother’s opinion, for
+the second time. “I have recovered my health at Sandyseal,” she said. “I
+like the place, and I am sorry to leave it.”
+
+“Give me the shop windows, the streets, the life, the racket, and the
+smoke of London,” cried Mrs. Presty. “Thank Heaven, these rooms are let
+over our heads, and out we must go, whether we like it or not.”
+
+This expression of gratitude was followed by a knock at the door, and
+by a voice outside asking leave to come in, which was, beyond all
+doubt, the voice of Randal Linley. With Catherine’s book still in her
+possession, Mrs. Presty opened the table-drawer, threw it in, and closed
+the drawer with a bang. Discovering the two ladies, Randal stopped in
+the doorway, and stared at them in astonishment.
+
+“Didn’t you expect to see us?” Mrs. Presty inquired.
+
+“I heard you were here, from our friend Sarrazin,” Randal said; “but I
+expected to see Captain Bennydeck. Have I mistaken the number? Surely
+these are his rooms?”
+
+Catherine attempted to explain. “They _were_ Captain Bennydeck’s rooms,”
+ she began; “but he was so kind, although we are perfect strangers to
+him--”
+
+Mrs. Presty interposed. “My dear Catherine, you have not had my
+advantages; you have not been taught to make a complicated statement
+in few words. Permit me to seize the points (in the late Mr. Presty’s
+style) and to put them in the strongest light. This place, Randal, is
+always full; and we didn’t write long enough beforehand to secure rooms.
+Captain Bennydeck happened to be downstairs when he heard that we were
+obliged to go away, and that one of us was a lady in delicate health.
+This sweetest of men sent us word that we were welcome to take his
+rooms, and that he would sleep on board his yacht. Conduct worthy of Sir
+Charles Grandison himself. When I went downstairs to thank him, he was
+gone--and here we have been for nearly three weeks; sometimes seeing the
+Captain’s yacht, but, to our great surprise, never seeing the Captain
+himself.”
+
+“There’s nothing to be surprised at, Mrs. Presty. Captain Bennydeck
+likes doing kind things, and hates being thanked for it. I expected him
+to meet me here to-day.”
+
+Catherine went to the window. “He is coming to meet you,” she said.
+“There is his yacht in the bay.”
+
+“And in a dead calm,” Randal added, joining her. “The vessel will not
+get here, before I am obliged to go away again.”
+
+Catherine looked at him timidly. “Do I drive you away?” she asked, in
+tones that faltered a little.
+
+Randal wondered what she could possibly be thinking of and acknowledged
+it in so many words.
+
+“She is thinking of the Divorce,” Mrs. Presty explained. “You have heard
+of it, of course; and perhaps you take your brother’s part?”
+
+“I do nothing of the sort, ma’am. My brother has been in the wrong from
+first to last.” He turned to Catherine. “I will stay with you as long as
+I can, with the greatest pleasure,” he said earnestly and kindly. “The
+truth is, I am on my way to visit some friends; and if Captain Bennydeck
+had got here in time to see me, I must have gone away to the junction
+to catch the next train westward, just as I am going now. I had only two
+words to say to the Captain about a person in whom he is interested--and
+I can say them in this way.” He wrote in pencil on one of his visiting
+cards, and laid it on the table. “I shall be back in London, in a week,”
+ he resumed, “and you will tell me at what address I can find you. In the
+meanwhile, I miss Kitty. Where is she?”
+
+Kitty was sent for. She entered the room looking unusually quiet and
+subdued--but, discovering Randal, became herself again in a moment, and
+jumped on his knee.
+
+“Oh, Uncle Randal, I’m so glad to see you!” She checked herself, and
+looked at her mother. “May I call him Uncle Randal?” she asked. “Or has
+_he_ changed his name, too?”
+
+Mrs. Presty shook a warning forefinger at her granddaughter, and
+reminded Kitty that she had been told not to talk about names. Randal
+saw the child’s look of bewilderment, and felt for her. “She may talk as
+she pleases to me,” he said “but not to strangers. She understands that,
+I am sure.”
+
+Kitty laid her cheek fondly against her uncle’s cheek. “Everything is
+changed,” she whispered. “We travel about; papa has left us, and Syd
+has left us, and we have got a new name. We are Norman now. I wish I was
+grown up, and old enough to understand it.”
+
+Randal tried to reconcile her to her own happy ignorance. “You have got
+your dear good mother,” he said, “and you have got me, and you have got
+your toys--”
+
+“And some nice boys and girls to play with,” cried Kitty, eagerly
+following the new suggestion. “They are all coming here directly to dine
+with me. You will stay and have dinner too, won’t you?”
+
+Randal promised to dine with Kitty when they met in London. Before he
+left the room he pointed to his card on the table. “Let my friend see
+that message,” he said, as he went out.
+
+The moment the door had closed on him, Mrs. Presty startled her daughter
+by taking up the card and looking at what Randal had written on it.
+“It isn’t a letter, Catherine; and you know how superior I am to common
+prejudices.” With that defense of her proceeding, she coolly read the
+message:
+
+
+“I am sorry to say that I can tell you nothing more of your old friend’s
+daughter as yet. I can only repeat that she neither needs nor deserves
+the help that you kindly offer to her.”
+
+
+Mrs. Presty laid the card down again and owned that she wished Randal
+had been a little more explicit. “Who can it be?” she wondered. “Another
+young hussy gone wrong?”
+
+Kitty turned to her mother with a look of alarm. “What’s a hussy?” she
+asked. “Does grandmamma mean me?” The great hotel clock in the hall
+struck two, and the child’s anxieties took a new direction. “Isn’t it
+time my little friends came to see me?” she said.
+
+It was half an hour past the time. Catherine proposed to send to Lady
+Myrie and Mrs. Romsey, and inquire if anything had happened to cause the
+delay. As she told Kitty to ring the bell, the waiter came in with two
+letters, addressed to Mrs. Norman.
+
+Mrs. Presty had her own ideas, and drew her own conclusions. She watched
+Catherine attentively. Even Kitty observed that her mother’s face
+grew paler and paler as she read the letters. “You look as if you were
+frightened, mamma.” There was no reply. Kitty began to feel so uneasy on
+the subject of her dinner and her guests, that she actually ventured on
+putting a question to her grandmother.
+
+“Will they be long, do you think, before they come?” she asked.
+
+The old lady’s worldly wisdom had passed, by this time from a state of
+suspicion to a state of certainty. “My child,” she answered, “they won’t
+come at all.”
+
+Kitty ran to her mother, eager to inquire if what Mrs. Presty had told
+her could possibly be true. Before a word had passed her lips, she
+shrank back, too frightened to speak.
+
+Never, in her little experience, had she been startled by such a look
+in her mother’s face as the look that confronted her now. For the first
+time Catherine saw her child trembling at the sight of her. Before that
+discovery, the emotions that shook her under the insult which she had
+received lost their hold. She caught Kitty up in her arms. “My darling,
+my angel, it isn’t you I am thinking of. I love you!--I love you! In the
+whole world there isn’t such a good child, such a sweet, lovable, pretty
+child as you are. Oh, how disappointed she looks--she’s crying. Don’t
+break my heart!--don’t cry!” Kitty held up her head, and cleared her
+eyes with a dash of her hand. “I won’t cry, mamma.” And child as she
+was, she was as good as her word. Her mother looked at her and burst
+into tears.
+
+Perversely reluctant, the better nature that was in Mrs. Presty rose to
+the surface, forced to show itself. “Cry, Catherine,” she said kindly;
+“it will do you good. Leave the child to me.”
+
+With a gentleness that astonished Kitty, she led her little
+granddaughter to the window, and pointed to the public walk in front
+of the house. “I know what will comfort you,” the wise old woman began;
+“look out of the window.” Kitty obeyed.
+
+“I don’t see my little friends coming,” she said. Mrs. Presty still
+pointed to some object on the public walk. “That’s better than nothing,
+isn’t it?” she persisted. “Come with me to the maid; she shall go with
+you, and take care of you.” Kitty whispered, “May I give mamma a kiss
+first?” Sensible Mrs. Presty delayed the kiss for a while. “Wait till
+you come back, and then you can tell your mamma what a treat you have
+had.” Arrived at the door on their way out, Kitty whispered again:
+“I want to say something”--“Well, what is it?”--“Will you tell the
+donkey-boy to make him gallop?”--“I’ll tell the boy he shall have
+sixpence if you are satisfied; and you will see what he does then.”
+ Kitty looked up earnestly in her grandmother’s face. “What a pity it
+is you are not always like what you are now!” she said. Mrs. Presty
+actually blushed.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXV. Captain Bennydeck.
+
+
+For some time, Catherine and her mother had been left together
+undisturbed.
+
+Mrs. Presty had read (and destroyed) the letters of Lady Myrie and Mrs.
+Romsey, with the most unfeigned contempt for the writers--had repeated
+what the judge had really said, as distinguished from Lady Myrie’s
+malicious version of it--and had expressed her intention of giving
+Catherine a word of advice, when she was sufficiently composed to profit
+by it. “You have recovered your good looks, after that fit of crying,”
+ Mrs. Presty admitted, “but not your good spirits. What is worrying you
+now?”
+
+“I can’t help thinking of poor Kitty.”
+
+“My dear, the child wants nobody’s pity. She’s blowing away all her
+troubles by a ride in the fresh air, on the favorite donkey that she
+feeds every morning. Yes, yes, you needn’t tell me you are in a false
+position; and nobody can deny that it’s shameful to make the child feel
+it. Now listen to me. Properly understood, those two spiteful women
+have done you a kindness. They have as good as told you how to protect
+yourself in the time to come. Deceive the vile world, Catherine, as it
+deserves to be deceived. Shelter yourself behind a respectable character
+that will spare you these insults in the future.” In the energy of her
+conviction, Mrs. Presty struck her fist on the table, and finished in
+three audacious words: “Be a Widow!”
+
+It was plainly said--and yet Catherine seemed to be at a loss to
+understand what her mother meant.
+
+“Don’t doubt about it,” Mrs. Presty went on; “do it. Think of Kitty if
+you won’t think of yourself. In a few years more she will be a young
+lady. She may have an offer of marriage which may be everything we
+desire. Suppose her sweetheart’s family is a religious family; and
+suppose your Divorce, and the judge’s remarks on it, are discovered.
+What will happen then?”
+
+“Is it possible that you are in earnest?” Catherine asked. “Have you
+seriously thought of the advice that you are giving me? Setting aside
+the deceit, you know as well as I do that Kitty would ask questions. Do
+you think I can tell my child that her father is dead? A lie--and such a
+dreadful lie as that?”
+
+“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Presty.
+
+“Nonsense?” Catherine repeated indignantly.
+
+“Rank nonsense,” her mother persisted. “Hasn’t your situation forced
+you to lie already? When the child asks why her father and her governess
+have left us, haven’t you been obliged to invent excuses which are lies?
+If the man who was once your husband isn’t as good as dead to _you_, I
+should like to know what your Divorce means! My poor dear, do you think
+you can go on as you are going on now? How many thousands of people
+have read the newspaper account of the trial? How many hundreds of
+people--interested in a handsome woman like you--will wonder why they
+never see Mr. Norman? What? You will go abroad again? Go where you may,
+you will attract attention; you will make an enemy of every ugly woman
+who looks at you. Strain at a gnat, Catherine, and swallow a camel. It’s
+only a question of time. Sooner or later you will be a Widow. Here’s the
+waiter again. What does the man want now?”
+
+The waiter answered by announcing:
+
+“Captain Bennydeck.”
+
+Catherine’s mother was nearer to the door than Catherine; she attracted
+the Captain’s attention first. He addressed his apologies to her. “Pray
+excuse me for disturbing you--”
+
+Mrs. Presty had an eye for a handsome man, irrespective of what his age
+might be. In the language of the conjurors a “magic change” appeared in
+her; she became brightly agreeable in a moment.
+
+“Oh, Captain Bennydeck, you mustn’t make excuses for coming into your
+own room!”
+
+Captain Bennydeck went on with his excuses, nevertheless. “The landlady
+tells me that I have unluckily missed seeing Mr. Randal Linley, and that
+he has left a message for me. I shouldn’t otherwise have ventured--”
+
+Mrs. Presty stopped him once more. The Captain’s claim to the Captain’s
+rooms was the principle on which she took her stand. She revived the
+irresistible smiles which had conquered Mr. Norman and Mr. Presty. “No
+ceremony, I beg and pray! You are at home here--take the easy-chair!”
+
+Catherine advanced a few steps; it was time to stop her mother, if the
+thing could be done. She felt just embarrassment enough to heighten her
+color, and to show her beauty to the greatest advantage. It literally
+staggered the Captain, the moment he looked at her. His customary
+composure, as a well-bred man, deserted him; he bowed confusedly; he had
+not a word to say. Mrs. Presty seized her opportunity, and introduced
+them to each other. “My daughter Mrs. Norman--Captain Bennydeck.”
+ Compassionating him under the impression that he was a shy man,
+Catherine tried to set him at his ease. “I am indeed glad to have an
+opportunity of thanking you,” she said, inviting him by a gesture to be
+seated. “In this delightful air, I have recovered my health, and I owe
+it to your kindness.”
+
+The Captain regained his self-possession. Expressions of gratitude had
+been addressed to him which, in his modest estimate of himself, he could
+not feel that he had deserved.
+
+“You little know,” he replied, “under what interested motives I have
+acted. When I established myself in this hotel, I was fairly driven out
+of my yacht by a guest who went sailing with me.”
+
+Mrs. Presty became deeply interested. “Dear me, what did he do?”
+
+Captain Bennydeck answered gravely: “He snored.”
+
+Catherine was amused; Mrs. Presty burst out laughing; the Captain’s dry
+humor asserted itself as quaintly as ever. “This is no laughing matter,”
+ he resumed, looking at Catherine. “My vessel is a small one. For two
+nights the awful music of my friend’s nose kept me sleepless. When I
+woke him, and said, ‘Don’t snore,’ he apologized in the sweetest manner,
+and began again. On the third day I anchored in the bay here, determined
+to get a night’s rest on shore. A dispute about the price of these
+rooms offered them to me. I sent a note of apology on board--and slept
+peacefully. The next morning, my sailing master informed me that there
+had been what he called ‘a little swell in the night.’ He reported the
+sounds made by my friend on this occasion to have been the awful sounds
+of seasickness. ‘The gentleman left the yacht, sir, the first thing this
+morning,’ he said; ‘and he’s gone home by railway.’ On the day when you
+happened to arrive, my cabin was my own again; and I can honestly thank
+you for relieving me of my rooms. Do you make a long stay, Mrs. Norman?”
+
+Catherine answered that they were going to London by the next train.
+Seeing Randal’s card still unnoticed on the table, she handed it to the
+Captain.
+
+“Is Mr. Linley an old friend of yours?” he asked, as he took the card.
+
+Mrs. Presty hastened to answer in the affirmative for her daughter. It
+was plain that Randal had discreetly abstained from mentioning his true
+connection with them. Would he preserve the same silence if the Captain
+spoke of his visit to Mrs. Norman, when he and his friend met next? Mrs.
+Presty’s mind might have been at ease on that subject, if she had known
+how to appreciate Randal’s character and Randal’s motives. The same keen
+sense of the family disgrace, which had led him to conceal from Captain
+Bennydeck his brother’s illicit relations with Sydney Westerfield, had
+compelled him to keep secret his former association, as brother-in-law,
+with the divorced wife. Her change of name had hitherto protected her
+from discovery by the Captain, and would in all probability continue to
+protect her in the future. The good Bennydeck had been enjoying himself
+at sea when the Divorce was granted, and when the newspapers reported
+the proceedings. He rarely went to his club, and he never associated
+with persons of either sex to whom gossip and scandal are as the breath
+of their lives. Ignorant of these circumstances, and remembering what
+had happened on that day, Mrs. Presty looked at him with some anxiety
+on her daughter’s account, while he was reading the message on Randal’s
+card. There was little to see. His fine face expressed a quiet sorrow,
+and he sighed as he put the card back in his pocket.
+
+An interval of silence followed. Captain Bennydeck was thinking over the
+message which he had just read. Catherine and her mother were looking
+at him with the same interest, inspired by very different motives.
+The interview so pleasantly begun was in some danger of lapsing into
+formality and embarrassment, when a new personage appeared on the scene.
+
+Kitty had returned in triumph from her ride. “Mamma! the donkey did more
+than gallop--he kicked, and I fell off. Oh, I’m not hurt!” cried the
+child, seeing the alarm in her mother’s face. “Tumbling off is such a
+funny sensation. It isn’t as if you fell on the ground; it’s as if the
+ground came up to _you_ and said--Bump!” She had got as far as that,
+when the progress of her narrative was suspended by the discovery of a
+strange gentleman in the room.
+
+The smile that brightened the captain’s face, when Kitty opened the
+door, answered for him as a man who loved children. “Your little girl,
+Mrs. Norman?” he said.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+(A common question and a common reply. Nothing worth noticing, in either
+the one or the other, at the time--and yet they proved to be important
+enough to turn Catherine’s life into a new course.)
+
+In the meanwhile, Kitty had been whispering to her mother. She wanted
+to know the strange gentleman’s name. The Captain heard her. “My name is
+Bennydeck,” he said; “will you come to me?”
+
+Kitty had heard the name mentioned in connection with a yacht. Like all
+children, she knew a friend the moment she looked at him. “I’ve
+seen your pretty boat, sir,” she said, crossing the room to Captain
+Bennydeck. “Is it very nice when you go sailing?”
+
+“If you were not going back to London, my dear, I should ask your
+mamma to let me take you sailing with me. Perhaps we shall have another
+opportunity.”
+
+The Captain’s answer delighted Kitty. “Oh, yes, tomorrow or next day!”
+ she suggested. “Do you know where to find me in London? Mamma, where do
+I live, when I am in London?” Before her mother could answer, she hit
+on a new idea. “Don’t tell me; I’ll find it for myself. It’s on
+grandmamma’s boxes, and they’re in the passage.”
+
+Captain Bennydeck’s eyes followed her, as she left the room, with
+an expression of interest which more than confirmed the favorable
+impression that he had already produced on Catherine. She was on the
+point of asking if he was married, and had children of his own, when
+Kitty came back, and declared the right address to be Buck’s Hotel,
+Sydenham. “Mamma puts things down for fear of forgetting them,” she
+added. “Will you put down Buck?”
+
+The Captain took out his pocketbook, and appealed pleasantly to Mrs.
+Norman. “May I follow your example?” he asked. Catherine not only
+humored the little joke, but, gratefully remembering his kindness, said:
+“Don’t forget, when you are in London, that Kitty’s invitation is my
+invitation, too.” At the same moment, punctual Mrs. Presty looked at her
+watch, and reminded her daughter that railways were not in the habit of
+allowing passengers to keep them waiting. Catherine rose, and gave her
+hand to the Captain at parting. Kitty improved on her mother’s form of
+farewell; she gave him a kiss and whispered a little reminder of her
+own: “There’s a river in London--don’t forget your boat.”
+
+Captain Bennydeck opened the door for them, secretly wishing that he
+could follow Mrs. Norman to the station and travel by the same train.
+
+Mrs. Presty made no attempt to remind him that she was still in the
+room. Where her family interests were concerned, the old lady was
+capable (on very slight encouragement) of looking a long way into
+the future. She was looking into the future now. The Captain’s social
+position was all that could be desired; he was evidently in easy
+pecuniary circumstances; he admired Catherine and Catherine’s child. If
+he only proved to be a single man, Mrs. Presty’s prophetic soul, without
+waiting an instant to reflect, perceived a dazzling future. Captain
+Bennydeck approached to take leave. “Not just yet,” pleaded the most
+agreeable of women; “my luggage was ready two hours ago. Sit down again
+for a few minutes. You seem to like my little granddaughter.”
+
+“If I had such a child as that,” the Captain answered, “I believe I
+should be the happiest man living.”
+
+“Ah, my dear sir, all isn’t gold that glitters,” Mrs. Presty remarked.
+“That proverb must have been originally intended to apply to children.
+May I presume to make you the subject of a guess? I fancy you are not a
+married man.”
+
+The Captain looked a little surprised. “You are quite right,” he said;
+“I have never been married.”
+
+At a later period, Mrs. Presty owned that she felt an inclination
+to reward him for confessing himself to be a bachelor, by a kiss. He
+innocently checked that impulse by putting a question. “Had you any
+particular reason,” he asked, “for guessing that I was a single man?”
+
+Mrs. Presty modestly acknowledged that she had only her own experience
+to help her. “You wouldn’t be quite so fond of other people’s children,”
+ she said, “if you were a married man. Ah, your time will come yet--I
+mean your wife will come.”
+
+He answered this sadly. “My time has gone by. I have never had the
+opportunities that have been granted to some favored men.” He thought of
+the favored man who had married Mrs. Norman. Was her husband worthy
+of his happiness? “Is Mr. Norman with you at this place?” the Captain
+asked.
+
+Serious issues depended on the manner in which this question was
+answered. For one moment, and for one moment only, Mrs. Presty
+hesitated. Then (in her daughter’s interest, of course) she put
+Catherine in the position of a widow, in the least blamable of all
+possible ways, by honestly owning the truth.
+
+“There is no Mr. Norman,” she said.
+
+“Your daughter is a widow!” cried the Captain, perfectly unable to
+control his delight at that discovery.
+
+“What else should she be?” Mrs. Presty replied, facetiously.
+
+What else, indeed! If “no Mr. Norman” meant (as it must surely mean)
+that Mr. Norman was dead, and if the beautiful mother of Kitty was an
+honest woman, her social position was beyond a doubt. Captain Bennydeck
+felt a little ashamed of his own impetuosity. Before he had made up
+his mind what to say next, the unlucky waiter (doomed to be a cause of
+disturbance on that day) appeared again.
+
+“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said; “the lady and gentleman who have
+taken these rooms have just arrived.”
+
+Mrs. Presty got up in a hurry, and cordially shook hands with the
+Captain. Looking round, she took up the railway guide and her knitting
+left on the table. Was there anything else left about? There was nothing
+to be seen. Mrs. Presty crossed the passage to her daughter’s bedroom,
+to hurry the packing. Captain Bennydeck went downstairs, on his way back
+to the yacht.
+
+In the hall of the hotel he passed the lady and gentleman--and, of
+course, noticed the lady. She was little and dark and would have been
+pretty, if she had not looked ill and out of spirits. What would he have
+said, what would he have done, if he had known that those two strangers
+were Randal Linley’s brother and Roderick Westerfield’s daughter?
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXVI
+
+
+
+Mr. and Mrs. Herbert.
+
+
+The stealthy influence of distrust fastens its hold on the mind by
+slow degrees. Little by little it reaches its fatal end, and disguises
+delusion successfully under the garb of truth.
+
+Day after day, the false conviction grew on Sydney’s mind that Herbert
+Linley was comparing the life he led now with the happier life which
+he remembered at Mount Morven. Day after day, her unreasoning fear
+contemplated the time when Herbert Linley would leave her friendless,
+in the world that had no place in it for women like herself.
+Delusion--fatal delusion that looked like truth! Morally weak as he
+might be, the man whom she feared to trust had not yet entirely lost the
+sense which birth and breeding had firmly fastened in him--the sense
+of honor. Acting under that influence, he was (if the expression may
+be permitted) consistent even in inconsistency. With equal sincerity of
+feeling, he reproached himself for his infidelity toward the woman whom
+he had deserted, and devoted himself to his duty toward the woman
+whom he had misled. In Sydney’s presence--suffer as he might under
+the struggle to maintain his resolution when he was alone--he kept his
+intercourse with her studiously gentle in manner, and considerate in
+language; his conduct offered assurances for the future which she could
+only see through the falsifying medium of her own distrust.
+
+In the delusion that now possessed her she read, over and over again,
+the letter which Captain Bennydeck had addressed to her father; she saw,
+more and more clearly, the circumstances which associated her situation
+with the situation of the poor girl who had closed her wasted life among
+the nuns in a French convent.
+
+Two results followed on this state of things.
+
+When Herbert asked to what part of England they should go, on leaving
+London, she mentioned Sandyseal as a place that she had heard of, and
+felt some curiosity to see. The same day--bent on pleasing her, careless
+where he lived now, at home or abroad--he wrote to engage rooms at the
+hotel.
+
+A time followed, during which they were obliged to wait until rooms were
+free. In this interval, brooding over the melancholy absence of a friend
+or relative in whom she could confide, her morbid dread of the future
+decided her on completing the parallel between herself and that
+other lost creature of whom she had read. Sydney opened communication
+anonymously with the Benedictine community at Sandyseal.
+
+She addressed the Mother Superior; telling the truth about herself with
+but one concealment, the concealment of names. She revealed her isolated
+position among her fellow-creatures; she declared her fervent desire to
+repent of her wickedness, and to lead a religious life; she acknowledged
+her misfortune in having been brought up by persons careless of
+religion, and she confessed to having attended a Protestant place of
+worship, as a mere matter of form connected with the duties of a teacher
+at a school. “The religion of any Christian woman who will help me to
+be more like herself,” she wrote, “is the religion to which I am willing
+and eager to belong. If I come to you in my distress, will you receive
+me?” To that simple appeal, she added a request that an answer might be
+addressed to “S.W., Post-office, Sandyseal.”
+
+When Captain Bennydeck and Sydney Westerfield passed each other as
+strangers, in the hall of the hotel, that letter had been posted in
+London a week since.
+
+
+
+The servant showed “Mr. and Mrs. Herbert” into their sitting-room, and
+begged that they would be so good as to wait for a few minutes, while
+the other rooms were being prepared for them.
+
+Sydney seated herself in silence. She was thinking of her letter, and
+wondering whether a reply was waiting for her at the post-office.
+
+Moving toward the window to look at the view, Herbert paused to examine
+some prints hanging on the walls, which were superior as works of art to
+the customary decorations of a room at a hotel. If he had gone straight
+to the window he might have seen his divorced wife, his child, and his
+wife’s mother, getting into the carriage which took them to the railway
+station.
+
+“Come, Sydney,” he said, “and look at the sea.”
+
+She joined him wearily, with a faint smile. It was a calm, sunny day.
+Bathing machines were on the beach; children were playing here and
+there; and white sails of pleasure boats were visible in the offing. The
+dullness of Sandyseal wore a quiet homely aspect which was pleasant to
+the eyes of strangers. Sydney said, absently, “I think I shall like the
+place.” And Herbert added: “Let us hope that the air will make you feel
+stronger.” He meant it and said it kindly--but, instead of looking at
+her while he spoke, he continued to look at the view. A woman sure of
+her position would not have allowed this trifling circumstance, even if
+she had observed it, to disturb her. Sydney thought of the day in London
+when he had persisted in looking out at the street, and returned in
+silence to her chair.
+
+Had he been so unfortunate as to offend her? And in what way? As that
+doubt occurred to Herbert his mind turned to Catherine. _She_ never
+took offense at trifles; a word of kindness from him, no matter how
+unimportant it might be, always claimed affectionate acknowledgment
+in the days when he was living with his wife. In another moment he had
+dismissed that remembrance, and could trust himself to return to Sydney.
+
+“If you find that Sandyseal confirms your first impression,” he said,
+“let me know it in time, so that I may make arrangements for a longer
+stay. I have only taken the rooms here for a fortnight.”
+
+“Thank you, Herbert; I think a fortnight will be long enough.”
+
+“Long enough for you?” he asked.
+
+Her morbid sensitiveness mistook him again; she fancied there was an
+undernote of irony in his tone.
+
+“Long enough for both of us,” she replied.
+
+He drew a chair to her side. “Do you take it for granted,” he said,
+smiling, “that I shall get tired of the place first?”
+
+She shrank, poor creature, even from his smile. There was, as she
+thought, something contemptuous in the good-humor of it.
+
+“We have been to many places,” she reminded him, “and we have got tired
+of them together.”
+
+“Is that my fault?”
+
+“I didn’t say it was.”
+
+He got up and approached the bell. “I think the journey has a little
+over-tired you,” he resumed. “Would you like to go to your room?”
+
+“I will go to my room, if you wish it.”
+
+He waited a little, and answered her as quietly as ever. “What I really
+wish,” he said, “is that we had consulted a doctor while we were in
+London. You seem to be very easily irritated of late. I observe a change
+in you, which I willingly attribute to the state of your health--”
+
+She interrupted him. “What change do you mean?”
+
+“It’s quite possible I may be mistaken, Sydney. But I have more than
+once, as I think, seen something in your manner which suggests that you
+distrust me.”
+
+“I distrust the evil life we are leading,” she burst out, “and I see the
+end of it coming. Oh, I don’t blame you! You are kind and considerate,
+you do your best to hide it; but you have lived long enough with me to
+regret the woman whom you have lost. You begin to feel the sacrifice you
+have made--and no wonder. Say the word, Herbert, and I release you.”
+
+“I will never say the word!”
+
+She hesitated--first inclined, then afraid, to believe him. “I have
+grace enough left in me,” she went on, “to feel the bitterest repentance
+for the wrong that I have done to Mrs. Linley. When it ends, as it must
+end, in our parting, will you ask your wife--?”
+
+Even his patience began to fail him; he refused--firmly, not angrily--to
+hear more. “She is no longer my wife,” he said.
+
+Sydney’s bitterness and Sydney’s penitence were mingled, as opposite
+emotions only _can_ be mingled in a woman’s breast. “Will you ask your
+wife to forgive you?” she persisted.
+
+“After we have been divorced at her petition?” He pointed to the window
+as he said it. “Look at the sea. If I was drowning out yonder, I might
+as well ask the sea to forgive me.”
+
+He produced no effect on her. She ignored the Divorce; her passionate
+remorse asserted itself as obstinately as ever. “Mrs. Linley is a good
+woman,” she insisted; “Mrs. Linley is a Christian woman.”
+
+“I have lost all claim on her--even the claim to remember her virtues,”
+ he answered, sternly. “No more of it, Sydney! I am sorry I have
+disappointed you; I am sorry if you are weary of me.”
+
+At those last words her manner changed. “Wound me as cruelly as you
+please,” she said, humbly. “I will try to bear it.”
+
+“I wouldn’t wound you for the world! Why do you persist in distressing
+me? Why do you feel suspicion of me which I have not deserved?” He
+stopped, and held out his hand. “Don’t let us quarrel, Sydney. Which
+will you do? Keep your bad opinion of me, or give me a fair trial?”
+
+She loved him dearly; she was so young--and the young are so ready to
+hope! Still, she struggled against herself. “Herbert! is it your pity
+for me that is speaking now?”
+
+He left her in despair. “It’s useless!” he said, sadly. “Nothing will
+conquer your inveterate distrust.”
+
+She followed him. With a faint cry of entreaty she made him turn to her,
+and held him in a trembling embrace, and rested her head on his bosom.
+“Forgive me--be patient with me--love me.” That was all she could say.
+
+He attempted to calm her agitation by speaking lightly. “At last,
+Sydney, we are friends again!” he said.
+
+Friends? All the woman in her recoiled from that insufficient word. “Are
+we Lovers?” she whispered.
+
+“Yes!”
+
+With that assurance her anxious heart was content. She smiled; she
+looked out at the sea with a new appreciation of the view. “The air of
+this place will do me good now,” she said. “Are my eyes red, Herbert?
+Let me go and bathe them, and make myself fit to be seen.”
+
+She rang the bell. The chambermaid answered it, ready to show the other
+rooms. She turned round at the door.
+
+“Let’s try to make our sitting-room look like home,” she suggested.
+“How dismal, how dreadfully like a thing that doesn’t belong to us, that
+empty table looks! Put some of your books and my keepsakes on it, while
+I am away. I’ll bring my work with me when I come back.”
+
+He had left his travelers’ bag on a chair, when he first came in. Now
+that he was alone, and under no restraint, he sighed as he unlocked
+the bag. “Home?” he repeated; “we have no home. Poor girl! poor unhappy
+girl! Let me help her to deceive herself.”
+
+He opened the bag. The little fragile presents, which she called her
+“keepsakes,” had been placed by her own hands in the upper part of the
+bag, so that the books should not weigh on them, and had been carefully
+protected by wrappings of cotton wool. Taking them out, one by one,
+Herbert found a delicate china candlestick (intended to hold a wax
+taper) broken into two pieces, in spite of the care that had been taken
+to preserve it. Of no great value in itself, old associations made the
+candlestick precious to Sydney. It had been broken at the stem and could
+be easily mended so as to keep the accident concealed. Consulting the
+waiter, Herbert discovered that the fracture could be repaired at the
+nearest town, and that the place would be within reach when he went out
+for a walk. In fear of another disaster, if he put it back in the bag,
+he opened a drawer in the table, and laid the two fragments carefully
+inside, at the further end. In doing this, his hand touched something
+that had been already placed in the drawer. He drew it out, and found
+that it was a book--the same book that Mrs. Presty (surely the evil
+genius of the family again!) had hidden from Randal’s notice, and had
+forgotten when she left the hotel.
+
+
+Herbert instantly recognized the gilding on the cover, imitated from a
+design invented by himself. He remembered the inscription, and yet he
+read it again:
+
+“To dear Catherine, from Herbert, on the anniversary of our marriage.”
+
+The book dropped from his hand on the table, as if it had been a new
+discovery, torturing him with a new pain.
+
+His wife (he persisted in thinking of her as his wife) must have
+occupied the room--might perhaps have been the person whom he had
+succeeded, as a guest at the hotel. Did she still value his present to
+her, in remembrance of old times? No! She valued it so little that she
+had evidently forgotten it. Perhaps her maid might have included it
+among the small articles of luggage when they left home, or dear little
+Kitty might have put it into one of her mother’s trunks. In any case,
+there it was now, abandoned in the drawer of a table at a hotel.
+
+“Oh,” he thought bitterly, “if I could only feel as coldly toward
+Catherine as she feels toward me!” His resolution had resisted much; but
+this final trial of his self-control was more than he could sustain.
+He dropped into a chair--his pride of manhood recoiled from the
+contemptible weakness of crying--he tried to remember that she had
+divorced him, and taken his child from him. In vain! in vain! He burst
+into tears.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXVII. Mrs. Norman.
+
+
+With a heart lightened by reconciliation (not the first reconciliation
+unhappily), with hopes revived, and sweet content restored, Sydney’s
+serenity of mind was not quite unruffled. Her thoughts were not dwelling
+on the evil life which she had honestly deplored, or on the wronged wife
+to whom she had been eager to make atonement. Where is the woman whose
+sorrows are not thrown into the shade by the bright renewal of love? The
+one anxiety that troubled Sydney was caused by remembrance of the letter
+which she had sent to the convent at Sandyseal.
+
+As her better mind now viewed it, she had doubly injured Herbert--first
+in distrusting him; then by appealing from him to the compassion of
+strangers.
+
+If the reply for which she had rashly asked was waiting for her at that
+moment--if the mercy of the Mother Superior was ready to comfort and
+guide her--what return could she make? how could she excuse herself from
+accepting what was offered in kindly reply to her own petition? She
+had placed herself, for all she knew to the contrary, between two
+alternatives of ingratitude equally unendurable, equally degrading.
+To feel this was to feel the suspense which, to persons of excitable
+temperament, is of all trials the hardest to bear. The chambermaid
+was still in her room--Sydney asked if the post-office was near to the
+hotel.
+
+The woman smiled. “Everything is near us, ma’am, in this little place.
+Can we send to the post-office for you?”
+
+Sydney wrote her initials. “Ask, if you please, for a letter
+addressed in that way.” She handed the memorandum to the chambermaid.
+“Corresponding with her lover under her husband’s nose!” That was how
+the chambermaid explained it below stairs, when the porter remarked that
+initials looked mysterious.
+
+The Mother Superior had replied. Sydney trembled as she opened the
+letter. It began kindly.
+
+“I believe you, my child, and I am anxious to help you. But I cannot
+correspond with an unknown person. If you decide to reveal yourself,
+it is only right to add that I have shown your letter to the Reverend
+Father who, in temporal as in spiritual things, is our counselor and
+guide. To him I must refer you, in the first instance. His wisdom will
+decide the serious question of receiving you into our Holy Church, and
+will discover, in due time, if you have a true vocation to a religious
+life. With the Father’s sanction, you may be sure of my affectionate
+desire to serve you.”
+
+Sydney put the letter back in the envelope, feeling gratefully toward
+the Mother Superior, but determined by the conditions imposed on her to
+make no further advance toward the Benedictine community.
+
+Even if her motive in writing to the convent had remained unchallenged,
+the allusions to the priest would still have decided her on taking this
+step. The bare idea of opening her inmost heart, and telling her saddest
+secrets, to a man, and that man a stranger, was too repellent to be
+entertained for a moment. In a few lines of reply, gratefully and
+respectfully written, she thanked the Mother Superior, and withdrew from
+the correspondence.
+
+The letter having been closed, and posted in the hotel box, she returned
+to the sitting-room free from the one doubt that had troubled her; eager
+to show Herbert how truly she believed in him, how hopefully she looked
+to the future.
+
+With a happy smile on her lips she opened the door. She was on the
+point of asking him playfully if he had felt surprised at her long
+absence--when the sight that met her eyes turned her cold with terror in
+an instant.
+
+His arms were stretched out on the table; his head was laid on them,
+despair confessed itself in his attitude; grief spoke in the deep
+sobbing breaths that shook him. Love and compassion restored Sydney’s
+courage; she advanced to raise him in her arms--and stopped once more.
+The book on the table caught her eye. He was still unconscious of her
+presence; she ventured to open it. She read the inscription--looked at
+him--looked back at the writing--and knew the truth at last.
+
+The rigor of the torture that she suffered paralyzed all outward
+expression of pain. Quietly she put the book back on the table. Quietly
+she touched him, and called him by his name.
+
+He started and looked up; he made an attempt to speak to her in his
+customary tone. “I didn’t hear you come in,” he said.
+
+She pointed to the book, without the slightest change in her face or her
+manner.
+
+“I have read the inscription to your wife,” she answered; “I have seen
+you while you thought you were alone; the mercy which has so long kept
+the truth from me is mercy wasted now. Your bonds are broken, Herbert.
+You are a free man.”
+
+He affected not to have understood her. She let him try to persuade her
+of it, and made no reply. He declared, honestly declared, that what she
+had said distressed him. She listened in submissive silence. He took
+her hand, and kissed it. She let him kiss it, and let him drop it at
+her side. She frightened him; he began to fear for her reason. There was
+silence--long, horrid, hopeless silence.
+
+She had left the door of the room open. One of the servants of the hotel
+appeared outside in the passage. He spoke to some person behind him.
+“Perhaps the book has been left in here,” he suggested. A gentle voice
+answered: “I hope the lady and gentleman will excuse me, if I ask leave
+to look for my book.” She stepped into the room to make her apologies.
+
+Herbert Linley and Sydney Westerfield looked at the woman whom they had
+outraged. The woman whom they had outraged paused, and looked back at
+them.
+
+The hotel servant was surprised at their not speaking to each other.
+He was a stupid man; he thought the gentlefolks were strangely unlike
+gentlefolks in general; they seemed not to know what to say. Herbert
+happened to be standing nearest to him; he felt that it would be civil
+to the gentleman to offer a word of explanation.
+
+“The lady had these rooms, sir. She has come back from the station to
+look for a book that has been left behind.”
+
+Herbert signed to him to go. As the man turned to obey, he drew back.
+Sydney had moved to the door before him, to leave the room. Herbert
+refused to permit it. “Stay here,” he said to her gently; “this room is
+yours.”
+
+Sydney hesitated. Herbert addressed her again. He pointed to his
+divorced wife. “You see how that lady is looking at you,” he said; “I
+beg that you will not submit to insult from anybody.”
+
+Sydney obeyed him: she returned to the room.
+
+Catherine’s voice was heard for the first time. She addressed herself
+to Sydney with a quiet dignity--far removed from anger, further removed
+still from contempt.
+
+“You were about to leave the room,” she said. “I notice--as an act of
+justice to _you_--that my presence arouses some sense of shame.”
+
+Herbert turned to Sydney; trying to recover herself, she stood near the
+table. “Give me the book,” he said; “the sooner this comes to an end
+the better for her, the better for us.” Sydney gave him the book. With a
+visible effort, he matched Catherine’s self-control; after all, she had
+remembered his gift! He offered the book to her.
+
+She still kept her eyes fixed on Sydney--still spoke to Sydney.
+
+“Tell him,” she said, “that I refuse to receive the book.”
+
+Sydney attempted to obey. At the first words she uttered, Herbert
+checked her once more.
+
+“I have begged you already not to submit to insult.” He turned to
+Catherine. “The book is yours, madam. Why do you refuse to take it?”
+
+She looked at him for the first time. A proud sense of wrong flashed at
+him its keenly felt indignation in her first glance. “Your hands and
+her hands have touched it,” she answered. “I leave it to _you_ and to
+_her_.”
+
+Those words stung him. “Contempt,” he said, “is bitter indeed on your
+lips.”
+
+“Do you presume to resent my contempt?”
+
+“I forbid you to insult Miss Westerfield.” With that reply, he turned to
+Sydney. “You shall not suffer while I can prevent it,” he said tenderly,
+and approached to put his arm round her. She looked at Catherine, and
+drew back from his embrace, gently repelling him by a gesture.
+
+Catherine felt and respected the true delicacy, the true penitence,
+expressed in that action. She advanced to Sydney. “Miss Westerfield,”
+ she said, “I will take the book--from you.”
+
+Sydney gave back the book without a word; in her position silence was
+the truest gratitude. Quietly and firmly Catherine removed the blank
+leaf on which Herbert had written, and laid it before him on the table.
+“I return your inscription. It means nothing now.” Those words were
+steadily pronounced; not the slightest appearance of temper accompanied
+them. She moved slowly to the door and looked back at Sydney. “Make some
+allowance for what I have suffered,” she said gently. “If I have wounded
+you, I regret it.” The faint sound of her dress on the carpet was heard
+in the perfect stillness, and lost again. They saw her no more.
+
+Herbert approached Sydney. It was a moment when he was bound to assure
+her of his sympathy. He felt for her. In his inmost heart he felt for
+her. As he drew nearer, he saw tears in her eyes; but they seemed to
+have risen without her knowledge. Hardly conscious of his presence, she
+stood before him--lost in thought.
+
+He endeavored to rouse her. “Did I protect you from insult?” he asked.
+
+She said absently: “Yes!”
+
+“Will you do as I do, dear? Will you try to forget?”
+
+She said: “I will try to atone,” and moved toward the door of her
+room. The reply surprised him; but it was no time then to ask for an
+explanation.
+
+“Would you like to lie down, Sydney, and rest?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+She took his arm. He led her to the door of her room. “Is there anything
+else I can do for you?” he asked.
+
+“Nothing, thank you.”
+
+She closed the door--and abruptly opened it again. “One thing more,” she
+said. “Kiss me.”
+
+He kissed her tenderly. Returning to the sitting-room, he looked back
+across the passage. Her door was shut.
+
+His head was heavy; his mind felt confused. He threw himself on the
+sofa--utterly exhausted by the ordeal through which he had passed. In
+grief, in fear, in pain, the time still comes when Nature claims her
+rights. The wretched worn-out man fell into a restless sleep. He was
+awakened by the waiter, laying the cloth for dinner. “It’s just ready,
+sir,” the servant announced; “shall I knock at the lady’s door?”
+
+Herbert got up and went to her room.
+
+He entered softly, fearing to disturb her if she too had slept. No sign
+of her was to be seen. She had evidently not rested on her bed. A morsel
+of paper lay on the smooth coverlet. There was only a line written on
+it: “You may yet be happy--and it may perhaps be my doing.”
+
+He stood, looking at that last line of her writing, in the empty room.
+His despair and his submission spoke in the only words that escaped him:
+
+“I have deserved it!”
+
+
+
+
+FIFTH BOOK.
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXVIII. Hear the Lawyer.
+
+
+“Mr. Herbert Linley, I ask permission to reply to your inquiries in
+writing, because it is quite likely that some of the opinions you will
+find here might offend you if I expressed them personally. I can relieve
+your anxiety on the subject of Miss Sydney Westerfield. But I must be
+allowed to do so in my own way--without any other restraints than those
+which I think it becoming to an honorable man to impose on himself.
+
+“You are quite right in supposing that Miss Westerfield had heard me
+spoken of at Mount Morven, as the agent and legal adviser of the lady
+who was formerly your wife. What purpose led her to apply to me, under
+these circumstances, you will presently discover. As to the means
+by which she found her way to my office, I may remind you that any
+directory would give her the necessary information.
+
+“Miss Westerfield’s object was to tell me, in the first place, that her
+guilty life with you was at an end. She has left your protection--not to
+return to it. I was sorry to see (though she tried to hide it from me)
+how keenly she felt the parting. You have been dearly loved by two sweet
+women, and they have thrown their hearts away on you--as women will.
+
+“Having explained the circumstances so far, Miss Westerfield next
+mentioned the motive which had brought her to my office. She asked if I
+would inform her of Mrs. Norman’s address.
+
+“This request, I confess, astonished me.
+
+“To my mind she was, of all persons, the last who ought to contemplate
+communicating in any way with Mrs. Norman. I say this to you; but I
+refrained from saying it to her. What I did venture to do was to ask for
+her reasons. She answered that they were reasons which would embarrass
+her if she communicated them to a stranger.
+
+“After this reply, I declined to give her the information she wanted.
+
+“Not unprepared, as it appeared to me, for my refusal, she asked next if
+I was willing to tell her where she might find your brother, Mr. Randal
+Linley. In this case I was glad to comply with her request. She could
+address herself to no person worthier to advise her than your brother.
+In giving her his address in London, I told her that he was absent on
+a visit to some friends, and that he was expected to return in a week’s
+time.
+
+“She thanked me, and rose to go.
+
+“I confess I was interested in her. Perhaps I thought of the time when
+she might have been as dear to her father as my own daughters are to
+me. I asked if her parents were living: they were dead. My next
+question was: ‘Have you any friends in London?’ She answered: ‘I have
+no friends.’ It was said with a resignation so very sad in so young
+a creature that I was really distressed. I ran the risk of offending
+her--and asked if she felt any embarrassment in respect of money. She
+said: ‘I have some small savings from my salary when I was a governess.’
+The change in her tone told me that she was alluding to the time of her
+residence at Mount Morven. It was impossible to look at this friendless
+girl, and not feel some anxiety about the lodging which she might have
+chosen in such a place as London. She had fortunately come to me from
+the railway, and had not thought yet of where she was to live. At last
+I was able to be of some use to her. My senior clerk took care of Miss
+Westerfield, and left her among respectable people, in whose house she
+could live cheaply and safely. Where that house is, I refuse (for her
+sake) to tell you. She shall not be disturbed.
+
+“After a week had passed I received a visit from my good friend, Randal
+Linley.
+
+“He had on that day seen Miss Westerfield. She had said to him what she
+had said to me, and had repeated the request which I thought it unwise
+to grant; owning to your brother, however, the motives which she had
+refused to confide to me. He was so strongly impressed by the sacrifice
+of herself which this penitent woman had made, that he was at first
+disposed to trust her with Mrs. Norman’s address.
+
+“Reflection, however, convinced him that her motives, pure and
+disinterested as they undoubtedly were, did not justify him in letting
+her expose herself to the consequences which might follow the proposed
+interview. All that he engaged to do was to repeat to Mrs. Norman what
+Miss Westerfield had said, and to inform the young lady of the result.
+
+“In the intervals of business, I had felt some uneasiness when I thought
+of Miss Westerfield’s prospects. Your good brother at once set all
+anxiety on this subject at rest.
+
+“He proposed to place Miss Westerfield under the care of an old and dear
+friend of her late father--Captain Bennydeck. Her voluntary separation
+from you offered to your brother, and to the Captain, the opportunity
+for which they had both been waiting. Captain Bennydeck was then
+cruising at sea in his yacht. Immediately on his return, Miss
+Westerfield’s inclination would be consulted, and she would no doubt
+eagerly embrace the opportunity of being introduced to her father’s
+friend.
+
+“I have now communicated all that I know, in reply to the questions
+which you have addressed to me. Let me earnestly advise you to make the
+one reparation to this poor girl which is in your power. Resign yourself
+to a separation which is not only for her good, but for yours.--SAMUEL
+SARRAZIN.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XXXIX. Listen to Reason.
+
+
+Not having heard from Captain Bennydeck for some little time, Randal
+thought it desirable in Sydney’s interests to make inquiries at his
+club. Nothing was known of the Captain’s movements there. On the chance
+of getting the information that he wanted, Randal wrote to the hotel at
+Sandyseal.
+
+The landlord’s reply a little surprised him.
+
+Some days since, the yacht had again appeared in the bay. Captain
+Bennydeck had landed, to all appearance in fairly good health; and had
+left by an early train for London. The sailing-master announced that
+he had orders to take the vessel back to her port--with no other
+explanation than that the cruise was over. This alternative in the
+Captain’s plans (terminating the voyage a month earlier than his
+arrangements had contemplated) puzzled Randal. He called at his friend’s
+private residence, only to hear from the servants that they had seen
+nothing of their master. Randal waited a while in London, on the chance
+that Bennydeck might pay him a visit.
+
+During this interval his patience was rewarded in an unexpected manner.
+He discovered the Captain’s address by means of a letter from Catherine,
+dated “Buck’s Hotel, Sydenham.” Having gently reproached him for not
+writing to her or calling on her, she invited him to dinner at the
+hotel. Her letter concluded in these words: “You will only meet one
+person besides ourselves--your friend, and (since we last met) our
+friend too. Captain Bennydeck has got tired of the sea. He is staying at
+this hotel, to try the air of Sydenham, and he finds that it agrees with
+him.”
+
+These lines set Randal thinking seriously.
+
+To represent Bennydeck as being “tired of the sea,” and as being willing
+to try, in place of the breezy Channel, the air of a suburb of London,
+was to make excuses too perfectly futile and absurd to deceive any one
+who knew the Captain. In spite of the appearance of innocence which
+pervaded Catherine’s letter, the true motive for breaking off his cruise
+might be found, as Randal concluded, in Catherine herself. Her residence
+at the sea-side, helped by the lapse of time, had restored to her
+personal attractions almost all they had lost under the deteriorating
+influences of care and grief; and her change of name must have protected
+her from a discovery of the Divorce which would have shocked a man so
+sincerely religious as Bennydeck. Had her beauty fascinated him? Was
+she aware of the interest that he felt in her? and was it secretly
+understood and returned? Randal wrote to accept the invitation;
+determining to present himself before the appointed hour, and to
+question Catherine privately, without giving her the advantage over him
+of preparing herself for the interview.
+
+In the short time that passed before the day of the dinner, distressing
+circumstances strengthened his resolution. After months of separation,
+he received a visit from Herbert.
+
+Was this man--haggard, pallid, shabby, looking at him piteously with
+bloodshot eyes--the handsome, pleasant, prosperous brother whom he
+remembered? Randal was so grieved, that he was for a moment unable to
+utter a word. He could only point to a seat. Herbert dropped into the
+chair as if he was reduced to the last extremity of fatigue. And yet he
+spoke roughly; he looked like an angry man brought to bay.
+
+“I seem to frighten you,” he said.
+
+“You distress me, Herbert, more than words can say.”
+
+“Give me a glass of wine. I’ve been walking--I don’t know where. A long
+distance; I’m dead beat.”
+
+He drank the wine greedily. Whatever reviving effect it might otherwise
+have produced on him, it made no change in the threatening gloom of
+his manner. In a man morally weak, calamity (suffered without resisting
+power) breaks its way through the surface which exhibits a gentleman,
+and shows the naked nature which claims kindred with our ancestor the
+savage.
+
+“Do you feel better, Herbert?”
+
+He put down the empty glass, taking no notice of his brother’s question.
+“Randal,” he said, “you know where Sydney is.”
+
+Randal admitted it.
+
+“Give me her address. My mind’s in such a state I can’t remember it;
+write it down.”
+
+“No, Herbert.”
+
+“You won’t write it? and you won’t give it?”
+
+“I will do neither the one nor the other. Go back to your chair; fierce
+looks and clinched fists don’t frighten me. Miss Westerfield is quite
+right in separating herself from you. And you are quite wrong in wishing
+to go back to her. There are my reasons. Try to understand them. And,
+once again, sit down.”
+
+He spoke sternly--with his heart aching for his brother all the time.
+He was right. The one way is the positive way, when a man who suffers
+trouble is degraded by it.
+
+The poor wretch sank under Randal’s firm voice and steady eye.
+
+“Don’t be hard on me,” he said. “I think a man in my situation is to be
+pitied--especially by his brother. I’m not like you; I’m not accustomed
+to live alone. I’ve been accustomed to having a kind woman to talk to
+me, and take care of me. You don’t know what it is to be used to
+seeing a pretty creature, always nicely dressed, always about the
+room--thinking so much of you, and so little of herself--and then to be
+left alone as I am left, out in the dark. I haven’t got my wife; she
+has thrown me over, and taken my child away from me. And, now, Sydney’s
+taken away from me next. I’m alone. Do you hear that? Alone! Take the
+poker there out of the fireplace. Give me back Sydney, or knock out
+my brains. I haven’t courage enough to do it for myself. Oh, why did I
+engage that governess! I was so happy, Randal, with Catherine and little
+Kitty.”
+
+He laid his head wearily on the back of his chair. Randal offered him
+more wine; he refused it.
+
+“I’m afraid,” he said. “Wine maddens me if I take too much of it.
+You have heard of men forgetting their sorrows in drink. I tried it
+yesterday; it set my brains on fire; I’m feeling that glass I took just
+now. No! I’m not faint. It eases my head when I rest like this. Shake
+hands, Randal; we have never had any unfriendly words; we mustn’t begin
+now. There’s something perverse about me. I didn’t know how fond I was
+of Sydney till I lost her; I didn’t know how fond I was of my wife till
+I left her.” He paused, and put his hand to his fevered head. Was his
+mind wandering into some other train of thought? He astonished his
+brother by a new entreaty--the last imaginable entreaty that Randal
+expected to hear. “Dear old fellow, I want you to do me a favor. Tell me
+where my wife is living now?”
+
+“Surely,” Randal answered, “you know that she is no longer your wife?”
+
+“Never mind that! I have something to say to her.”
+
+“You can’t do it.”
+
+“Can _you_ do it? Will you give her a message?”
+
+“Let me hear what it is first.”
+
+Herbert lifted his head, and laid his hand earnestly on his brother’s
+arm. When he said his next words he was almost like his old self again.
+
+“Say that I’m lonely, say that I’m dying for want of a little
+comfort--ask her to let me see Kitty.”
+
+His tone touched Randal to the quick. “I feel for you, Herbert,”
+ he said, warmly. “She shall have your message; all that I can do to
+persuade her shall be done.”
+
+“As soon as possible?”
+
+“Yes--as soon as possible.”
+
+“And you won’t forget? No, no; of course you won’t forget.” He tried
+to rise, and fell back again into his chair. “Let me rest a little,” he
+pleaded, “if I’m not in the way. I’m not fit company for you, I know;
+I’ll go when you tell me.”
+
+Randal refused to let him go at all. “You will stay here with me; and if
+I happen to be away, there will be somebody in the house, who is
+almost as fond of you as I am.” He mentioned the name of one of the old
+servants at Mount Morven, who had attached himself to Randal after the
+breakup of the family. “And now rest,” he said, “and let me put this
+cushion under your head.”
+
+Herbert answered: “It’s like being at home again”--and composed himself
+to rest.
+
+
+
+Chapter XL. Keep Your Temper.
+
+
+On the next day but one, Randal arranged his departure for Sydenham,
+so as to arrive at the hotel an hour before the time appointed for the
+dinner. His prospects of success, in pleading for a favorable reception
+of his brother’s message, were so uncertain that he refrained--in fear
+of raising hopes which he might not be able to justify--from taking
+Herbert into his confidence. No one knew on what errand he was bent,
+when he left the house. As he took his place in the carriage, the
+newspaper boy appeared at the window as usual. The new number of a
+popular weekly journal had that day been published. Randal bought it.
+
+After reading one or two of the political articles, he arrived at the
+columns specially devoted to “Fashionable Intelligence.” Caring nothing
+for that sort of news, he was turning over the pages in search of the
+literary and dramatic articles, when a name not unfamiliar to him caught
+his eye. He read the paragraph in which it appeared.
+
+
+“The charming widow, Mrs. Norman, is, we hear, among the distinguished
+guests staying at Buck’s Hotel. It is whispered that the lady is to be
+shortly united to a retired naval officer of Arctic fame; now better
+known, perhaps, as one of our leading philanthropists.”
+
+The allusion to Bennydeck was too plain to be mistaken. Randal looked
+again at the first words in the paragraph. “The charming widow!” Was
+it possible that this last word referred to Catherine? To suppose her
+capable of assuming to be a widow, and--if the child asked questions--of
+telling Kitty that her father was dead, was, in Randal’s estimation, to
+wrong her cruelly. With his own suspicions steadily contradicting him,
+he arrived at the hotel, obstinately believing that “the charming widow”
+ would prove to be a stranger.
+
+A first disappointment was in store for him when he entered the house.
+Mrs. Norman and her little daughter were out driving with a friend,
+and were expected to return in good time for dinner. Mrs. Presty was at
+home; she was reported to be in the garden of the hotel.
+
+Randal found her comfortably established in a summerhouse, with her
+knitting in her hands, and a newspaper on her lap. She advanced to meet
+him, all smiles and amiability. “How nice of you to come so soon!”
+ she began. Her keen penetration discovered something in his face which
+checked the gayety of her welcome. “You don’t mean to say that you are
+going to spoil our pleasant little dinner by bringing bad news!” she
+added, looking at him suspiciously.
+
+“It depends on you to decide that,” Randal replied.
+
+“How very complimentary to a poor useless old woman! Don’t be
+mysterious, my dear. I don’t belong to the generation which raises
+storms in tea-cups, and calls skirmishes with savages battles. Out with
+it!”
+
+Randal handed his paper to her, open at the right place. “There is my
+news,” he said.
+
+Mrs. Presty looked at the paragraph, and handed _her_ newspaper to
+Randal.
+
+“I am indeed sorry to spoil your dramatic effect,” she said. “But
+you ought to have known that we are only half an hour behind you,
+at Sydenham, in the matter of news. The report is premature, my good
+friend. But if these newspaper people waited to find out whether a
+report is true or false, how much gossip would society get in its
+favorite newspapers? Besides, if it isn’t true now, it will be true next
+week. The author only says, ‘It’s whispered.’ How delicate of him! What
+a perfect gentleman!”
+
+“Am I really to understand, Mrs. Presty, that Catherine--”
+
+“You are to understand that Catherine is a widow. I say it with pride, a
+widow of my making!”
+
+“If this is one of your jokes, ma’am--”
+
+“Nothing of the sort, sir.”
+
+“Are you aware, Mrs. Presty, that my brother--”
+
+“Oh, don’t talk of your brother! He’s an obstacle in our way, and we
+have been compelled to get rid of him.”
+
+Randal drew back a step. Mrs. Presty’s audacity was something more than
+he could understand. “Is this woman mad?” he said to himself.
+
+“Sit down,” said Mrs. Presty. “If you are determined to make a serious
+business of it--if you insist on my justifying myself--you are to be
+pitied for not possessing a sense of humor, but you shall have your own
+way. I am put on my defense. Very well. You shall hear how my divorced
+daughter and my poor little grandchild were treated at Sandyseal, after
+you left us.”
+
+Having related the circumstances, she suggested that Randal should
+put himself in Catherine’s place, before he ventured on expressing an
+opinion. “Would you have exposed yourself to be humiliated again in the
+same way?” she asked. “And would you have seen your child made to suffer
+as well as yourself?”
+
+“I should have kept in retirement for the future,” he answered, “and not
+have trusted my child and myself among strangers in hotels.”
+
+“Ah, indeed? And you would have condemned your poor little daughter
+to solitude? You would have seen her pining for the company of other
+children, and would have had no mercy on her? I wonder what you would
+have done when Captain Bennydeck paid us a visit at the seaside? He was
+introduced to Mrs. Norman, and to Mrs. Norman’s little girl, and we
+were all charmed with him. When he and I happened to be left together
+he naturally wondered, after having seen the beautiful wife, where the
+lucky husband might be. If he had asked you about Mr. Norman, how would
+you have answered him?”
+
+“I should have told the truth.”
+
+“You would have said there was no Mr. Norman?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Exactly what I did! And the Captain of course concluded (after having
+been introduced to Kitty) that Mrs. Norman was a widow. If I had set him
+right, what would have become of my daughter’s reputation? If I had told
+the truth at this hotel, when everybody wanted to know what Mrs. Norman,
+that handsome lady, was--what would the consequences have been to
+Catherine and her little girl? No! no! I have made the best of a
+miserable situation; I have consulted the tranquillity of a cruelly
+injured woman and an innocent child--with this inevitable result; I have
+been obliged to treat your brother like a character in a novel. I have
+ship-wrecked Herbert as the shortest way of answering inconvenient
+questions. Vessel found bottom upward in the middle of the Atlantic, and
+everybody on board drowned, of course. Worse stories have been printed;
+I do assure you, worse stories have been printed.”
+
+Randal decided on leaving her. “Have you done all this with Catherine’s
+consent?” he asked as he got up from his chair.
+
+“Catherine submits to circumstances, like a sensible woman.”
+
+“Does she submit to your telling Kitty that her father is dead?”
+
+For the first time Mrs. Presty became serious.
+
+“Wait a minute,” she answered. “Before I consented to answer the child’s
+inquiries, I came to an understanding with her mother. I said, ‘Will you
+let Kitty see her father again?’”
+
+The very question which Randal had promised to ask in his brother’s
+interests! “And how did Catherine answer you?” he inquired.
+
+“Honestly. She said: ‘I daren’t!’ After that, I had her mother’s
+authority for telling Kitty that she would never see her father again.
+She asked directly if her father was dead--”
+
+“That will do, Mrs. Presty. Your defense is thoroughly worthy of your
+conduct in all other respects.”
+
+“Say thoroughly worthy of the course forced upon me and my daughter by
+your brother’s infamous conduct--and you will be nearer the mark!”
+
+Randal passed this over without notice. “Be so good,” he said, “as to
+tell Catherine that I try to make every possible allowance for her, but
+that I cannot consent to sit at her dinner-table, and that I dare not
+face my poor little niece, after what I have heard.”
+
+Mrs. Presty recovered all her audacity. “A very wise decision,” she
+remarked. “Your sour face would spoil the best dinner that ever was put
+on the table. Have you any message for Captain Bennydeck?”
+
+Randal asked if his friend was then at the hotel.
+
+Mrs. Presty smiled significantly. “Not at the hotel, just now.”
+
+“Where is he?”
+
+“Where he is every day, about this time--out driving with Catherine and
+Kitty.”
+
+It was a relief to Randal--in the present state of Catherine’s relations
+toward Bennydeck--to return to London without having seen his friend.
+
+He took leave of Mrs. Presty with the formality due to a stranger--he
+merely bowed. That incorrigible old woman treated him with affectionate
+familiarity in return.
+
+“Good-by, dear Randal. One moment before you go! Will it be of any use
+if we invite you to the marriage?”
+
+Arrived at the station, Randal found that he must wait for the train.
+While he was walking up and down the platform with a mind doubly
+distressed by anxiety about his brother and anxiety about Sydney, the
+train from London came in. He stood, looking absently at the passengers
+leaving the carriage on the opposite side of the platform. Suddenly,
+a voice that he knew was audible, asking the way to Buck’s Hotel. He
+crossed the line in an instant, and found himself face to face with
+Herbert.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XLI. Make the Best of It.
+
+
+For a moment the two men looked at each other without speaking.
+Herbert’s wondering eyes accurately reflected his brother’s
+astonishment.
+
+“What are you doing here?” he asked. Suspicion overclouded his face as
+he put the question. “You have been to the hotel?” he burst out; “you
+have seen Catherine?”
+
+Randal could deny that he had seen Catherine, with perfect truth--and
+did deny it in the plainest terms. Herbert was satisfied. “In all my
+remembrance of you,” he said, “you have never told me a lie. We have
+both seen the same newspaper, of course--and you have been the first to
+clear the thing up. That’s it, isn’t it?”
+
+“I wonder who this other Mrs. Norman is; did you find out?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“She’s not Catherine, at any rate; I, for one, shall go home with
+a lighter heart.” He took his brother’s arm, to return to the other
+platform. “Do you know, Randal, I was almost afraid that Catherine was
+the woman. The devil take the thing, and the people who write in it!”
+
+He snatched a newspaper out of his pocket as he spoke--tore it in
+half--and threw it away. “Malcolm meant well, poor fellow,” he said,
+referring to the old servant, “but he made a miserable man of me for all
+that.”
+
+Not satisfied with gossip in private, the greedy public appetite devours
+gossip in print, and wants more of it than any one editor can supply.
+Randal picked up the torn newspaper. It was not the newspaper which he
+had bought at the station. Herbert had been reading a rival journal,
+devoted to the interests of Society--in which the report of Mrs.
+Norman’s marriage was repeated, with this difference, that it boldly
+alluded to Captain Bennydeck by name. “Did Malcolm give you this?”
+ Randal asked.
+
+“Yes; he and the servant next door subscribe to take it in; and Malcolm
+thought it might amuse me. It drove me out of the house and into
+the railway. If it had driven me out of mind, I shouldn’t have been
+surprised.”
+
+“Gently, Herbert! Supposing the report had been true--?”
+
+“After what you have told me, why should I suppose anything of the
+sort?”
+
+“Don’t be angry; and do pray remember that the Divorce allows you and
+Catherine to marry again, if you like.”
+
+Herbert became more unreasonable than ever. “If Catherine does think of
+marrying again,” he said, “the man will have to reckon first with me.
+But that is not the point. You seem to have forgotten that the woman at
+Buck’s Hotel is described as a Widow. The bare doubt that my divorced
+wife might be the woman was bad enough--but what I wanted to find out
+was how she had passed off her false pretense on our child. _That_ was
+what maddened me! No more of it now. Have you seen Catherine lately?”
+
+“Not lately.”
+
+“I suppose she is as handsome as ever. When will you ask her to let me
+see Kitty?”
+
+“Leave that to me,” was the one reply which Randal could venture to make
+at the moment.
+
+The serious embarrassments that surrounded him were thickening fast. His
+natural frank nature urged him to undeceive Herbert. If he followed his
+inclinations, in the near neighborhood of the hotel, who could say what
+disasters might not ensue, in his brother’s present frame of mind? If
+he made the disclosure on their return to the house, he would be only
+running the same risk of consequences, after an interval of delay; and,
+if he remained silent, the march of events might, at any moment, lead to
+the discovery of what he had concealed. Add to this, that his confidence
+in Catherine had been rudely shaken. Having allowed herself to be
+entrapped into the deception proposed by her mother, and having thus far
+persevered in that deception, were the chances in favor of her
+revealing her true position--especially if she was disposed to encourage
+Bennydeck’s suit? Randal’s loyalty to Catherine hesitated to decide
+that serious question against the woman whom he had known, trusted, and
+admired for so many years. In any event, her second marriage would lead
+to one disastrous result. It would sooner or later come to Herbert’s
+ears. In the meantime, after what Mrs. Presty had confessed, the cruel
+falsehood which had checked poor Kitty’s natural inquiries raised an
+insuperable obstacle to a meeting between father and child.
+
+If Randal shrank from the prospect which thus presented itself to him,
+in his relations with his brother, and if his thoughts reverted to
+Sydney Westerfield, other reasons for apprehension found their way into
+his mind.
+
+He had promised to do his best toward persuading Catherine to grant
+Sydney an interview. To perform that promise appeared to be now simply
+impossible. Under the exasperating influence of a disappointment for
+which she was not prepared, it was hard to say what act of imprudence
+Sydney might not commit. Even the chance of successfully confiding her
+to Bennydeck’s protection had lost something of its fair promise, since
+Randal’s visit to Sydenham. That the Captain would welcome his friend’s
+daughter as affectionately as if she had been his own child, was not to
+be doubted for a moment. But that she would receive the same unremitting
+attention, while he was courting Catherine, which would have been
+offered to her under other circumstances, was not to be hoped. Be the
+results, however, what they might, Randal could see but one plain
+course before him now. He decided on hastening Sydney’s introduction to
+Bennydeck, and on writing at once to prepare the Captain for that event.
+
+Even this apparently simple proceeding required examination in its
+different bearings, before he could begin his letter.
+
+Would he be justified in alluding to the report which associated
+Bennydeck with Catherine? Considerations of delicacy seemed to forbid
+taking this liberty, even with an intimate friend. It was for the
+Captain to confirm what Mrs. Presty had said of him, if he thought it
+desirable to touch on the subject in his reply. Besides, looking to
+Catherine’s interest--and not forgetting how she had suffered--had
+Randal any right to regard with other than friendly feelings a second
+marriage, which united her to a man morally and intellectually
+the superior of her first husband? What happier future could await
+her--especially if she justified Randal’s past experience of all that
+was candid and truthful in her character--than to become his friend’s
+wife?
+
+Written under the modifying influence of these conclusions, his letter
+contained the few words that follow:
+
+“I have news for you which I am sure you will be glad to hear. Your old
+friend’s daughter has abandoned her sinful way of life, and has made
+sacrifices which prove the sincerity of her repentance. Without entering
+into particulars which may be mercifully dismissed from notice, let me
+only assure you that I answer for Sydney Westerfield as being worthy of
+the fatherly interest which you feel in her. Shall I say that she may
+expect an early visit from you, when I see her to-morrow? I don’t doubt
+that I am free already to do this; but it will encourage the poor girl,
+if I can speak with your authority.”
+
+He added Sydney’s address in a postscript, and dispatched his letter
+that evening.
+
+
+
+On the afternoon of the next day two letters were delivered to Randal,
+bearing the Sydenham postmark.
+
+The first which he happened to take up was addressed to him in Mrs.
+Presty’s handwriting. His opinion of this correspondent was expressed
+in prompt action--he threw the letter, unopened, into the waste-paper
+basket.
+
+The next letter was from Bennydeck, written in the kindest terms, but
+containing no allusion to any contemplated change in his life. He
+would not be able (he wrote) to leave Sydenham for a day or two. No
+explanation of the cause of this delay followed. But it might, perhaps,
+be excusable to infer that the marriage had not yet been decided on, and
+that the Captain’s proposals were still waiting for Catherine’s reply.
+
+Randal put the letter in his pocket and went at once to Sydney’s
+lodgings.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XLII. Try to Excuse Her.
+
+
+The weather had been unusually warm. Of all oppressive summers a hot
+summer in London is the hardest to endure. The little exercise that
+Sydney could take was, as Randal knew, deferred until the evening. On
+asking for her, he was surprised to hear that she had gone out.
+
+“Is she walking?” he asked, “on a day such as this?”
+
+No: she was too much overcome by the heat to be able to walk. The
+landlady’s boy had been sent to fetch a cab, and he had heard Miss
+Westerfield tell the driver to go to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
+
+The address at once reminded Randal of Mr. Sarrazin. On the chance of
+making a discovery, he went to the lawyer’s office. It had struck him as
+being just possible that Sydney might have called there for the second
+time; and, on making inquiry, he found that his surmise was correct.
+Miss Westerfield had called, and had gone away again more than an hour
+since.
+
+Having mentioned this circumstance, good Mr. Sarrazin rather abruptly
+changed the subject.
+
+He began to talk of the weather, and, like everybody else, he complained
+of the heat. Receiving no encouragement so far, he selected politics as
+his next topic. Randal was unapproachably indifferent to the state of
+parties, and the urgent necessity for reform. Still bent, as it
+seemed, on preventing his visitor from taking a leading part in the
+conversation, Mr. Sarrazin tried the exercise of hospitality next.
+He opened his cigar-case, and entered eagerly into the merits of his
+cigars; he proposed a cool drink, and described the right method of
+making it as distinguished from the wrong. Randal was not thirsty, and
+was not inclined to smoke. Would the pertinacious lawyer give way
+at last? In appearance, at least, he submitted to defeat. “You want
+something of me, my friend,” he said, with a patient smile. “What is
+it?”
+
+“I want to know why Miss Westerfield called on you?”
+
+Randal flattered himself that he had made a prevaricating reply simply
+impossible. Nothing of the sort! Mr. Sarrazin slipped through his
+fingers once more. The unwritten laws of gallantry afforded him a refuge
+now.
+
+“The most inviolate respect,” he solemnly declared, “is due to a lady’s
+confidence--and, what is more, to a young lady’s confidence--and, what
+is more yet, to a pretty young lady’s confidence. The sex, my dear
+fellow! Must I recall your attention to what is due to the sex?”
+
+This little outbreak of the foreign side of his friend’s character was
+no novelty to Randal. He remained as indifferent to the inviolate claims
+of the sex as if he had been an old man of ninety.
+
+“Did Miss Westerfield say anything about me?” was his next question.
+
+Slippery Mr. Sarrazin slid into another refuge: he entered a protest.
+
+“Here is a change of persons and places!” he exclaimed. “Am I a witness
+of the court of justice--and are you the lawyer who examines me? My
+memory is defective, my learned friend. _Non mi ricordo._ I know nothing
+about it.”
+
+Randal changed his tone. “We have amused ourselves long enough,” he
+said. “I have serious reasons, Sarrazin, for wishing to know what passed
+between Miss Westerfield and you--and I trust my old friend to relieve
+my anxiety.”
+
+The lawyer was accustomed to say of himself that he never did things by
+halves. His answer to Randal offered a proof of his accurate estimate of
+his own character.
+
+“Your old friend will deserve your confidence in him,” he answered. “You
+want to know why Miss Westerfield called here. Her object in view was
+to twist me round her finger--and I beg to inform you that she has
+completely succeeded. My dear Randal, this pretty creature’s cunning is
+remarkable even for a woman. I am an old lawyer, skilled in the ways
+of the world--and a young girl has completely overreached me. She
+asked--oh, heavens, how innocently!--if Mrs. Norman was likely to make a
+long stay at her present place of residence.”
+
+Randal interrupted him. “You don’t mean to tell me you have given her
+Catherine’s address?”
+
+“Buck’s Hotel, Sydenham,” Mr. Sarrazin answered. “She has got the
+address down in her nice little pocketbook.”
+
+“What amazing weakness!” Randal exclaimed.
+
+Mr. Sarrazin cordially agreed with him. “Amazing weakness, as you say.
+Pretty Miss Sydney has extracted more things, besides the address. She
+knows that Mrs. Norman is here on business relating to new investments
+of her money. She knows besides that one of the trustees is keeping us
+waiting. She also made sensible remarks. She mentioned having heard Mrs.
+Norman say that the air of London never agreed with her; and she hoped
+that a comparatively healthy neighborhood had been chosen for Mrs.
+Norman’s place of residence. This, you see, was leading up to the
+discovery of the address. The spirit of mischief possessed me; I allowed
+Miss Westerfield to take a little peep at the truth. ‘Mrs. Norman is not
+actually in London,’ I said; ‘she is only in the neighborhood.’ For what
+followed on this, my experience of ladies ought to have prepared me. I
+am ashamed to say _this_ lady took me completely by surprise.”
+
+“What did she do?”
+
+“Fell on her knees, poor dear--and said: ‘Oh, Mr. Sarrazin, be kinder
+to me than you have ever been yet; tell me where Mrs. Norman is!’--I put
+her back in her chair, and I took her handkerchief out of her pocket and
+I wiped her eyes.”
+
+“And then you told her the address?”
+
+“I was near it, but I didn’t do it yet. I asked what you had done in the
+matter. Alas, your kind heart has led you to promise more than you could
+perform. She had waited to hear from you if Mrs. Norman consented to see
+her, and had waited in vain. Hard on her, wasn’t it? I was sorry, but I
+was still obdurate. I only felt the symptoms which warned me that I was
+going to make a fool of myself, when she let me into her secret for the
+first time, and said plainly what she wanted with Mrs. Norman. Her
+tears and her entreaties I had resisted. The confession of her motives
+overpowered me. It is right,” cried Mr. Sarrazin, suddenly warming into
+enthusiasm, “that these two women should meet. Remember how that poor
+girl has proved that her repentance is no sham. I say, she has a right
+to tell, and the lady whom she has injured has a right to hear, what she
+has done to atone for the past, what confession she is willing to make
+to the one woman in the world (though she _is_ a divorced woman) who is
+most interested in hearing what Miss Westerfield’s life has been with
+that wretched brother of yours. Ah, yes, I know what the English cant
+might say. Away with the English cant! it is the worst obstacle to the
+progress of the English nation!”
+
+Randal listened absently: he was thinking.
+
+There could be little doubt to what destination Sydney Westerfield had
+betaken herself, when she left the lawyer’s office. At that moment,
+perhaps, she and Catherine were together--and together alone.
+
+Mr. Sarrazin had noticed his friend’s silence. “Is it possible you don’t
+agree with me?” he asked.
+
+“I don’t feel as hopefully as you do, if these two ladies meet.”
+
+“Ah, my friend, you are not a sanguine man by nature. If Mrs. Norman
+treats our poor Sydney just as a commonplace ill-tempered woman would
+treat her, I shall be surprised indeed. Say, if you like, that she will
+be insulted--of this I am sure, she will not return it; there is no
+expiation that is too bitter to be endured by that resolute little
+creature. Her fine nature has been tempered by adversity. A hard life
+has been Sydney’s, depend upon it, in the years before you and I met
+with her. Good heavens! What would my wife say if she heard me?
+The women are nice, but they have their drawbacks. Let us wait till
+tomorrow, my dear boy; and let us believe in Sydney without allowing our
+wives--I beg your pardon, I mean _my_ wife--to suspect in what forbidden
+directions our sympathies are leading us. Oh, for shame!”
+
+Who could persist in feeling depressed in the company of such a man as
+this? Randal went home with the influence of Mr. Sarrazin’s sanguine
+nature in undisturbed possession of him, until his old servant’s gloomy
+face confronted him at the door.
+
+“Anything gone wrong, Malcolm?”
+
+“I’m sorry to say, sir, Mr. Herbert has left us.”
+
+“Left us! Why?”
+
+“I don’t know, sir.”
+
+“Where has he gone?”
+
+“He didn’t tell me.”
+
+“Is there no letter? No message?”
+
+“There’s a message, sir. Mr. Herbert came back--”
+
+“Stop! Where had he been when he came back?”
+
+“He said he felt a little lonely after you went out, and he thought it
+might cheer him up if he went to the club. I was to tell you where he
+had gone if you asked what had become of him. He said it kindly and
+pleasantly--quite like himself, sir. But, when he came back--if you’ll
+excuse my saying so--I never saw a man in a worse temper. ‘Tell my
+brother I am obliged to him for his hospitality, and I won’t take
+advantage of it any longer.’ That was Mr. Herbert’s message. I tried to
+say a word. He banged the door, and away he went.”
+
+Even Randal’s patient and gentle nature rose in revolt against his
+brother’s treatment of him. He entered his sitting-room in silence.
+Malcolm followed, and pointed to a letter on the table. “I think you
+must have thrown it away by mistake, sir,” the old man explained; “I
+found it in the waste-paper basket.” He bowed with the unfailing respect
+of the old school, and withdrew.
+
+Randal’s first resolve was to dismiss his brother from further
+consideration. “Kindness is thrown away on Herbert,” he thought; “I
+shall treat him for the future as he has treated me.”
+
+But his brother was still in his mind. He opened Mrs. Presty’s
+letter--on the chance that it might turn the current of his thoughts in
+a new direction.
+
+In spite of Mrs. Presty, in spite of himself, his heart softened toward
+the man who had behaved so badly to him. Instead of reading the letter,
+he was now trying to discover a connection between his brother’s visit
+to the club and his brother’s angry message. Had Herbert heard something
+said, among gossiping members in the smoking-room, which might account
+for his conduct? If Randal had belonged to the club he would have
+gone there to make inquiries. How could he get the information that he
+wanted, in some other way?
+
+After considering it for a while, he remembered the dinner that he had
+given to his friend Sarrazin on his return from the United States, and
+the departure of the lawyer to his club, with a purpose in view which
+interested them both. It was the same club to which Herbert belonged.
+Randal wrote at once to Mr. Sarrazin, mentioning what had happened, and
+acknowledging the anxiety that weighed on his mind.
+
+Having instructed Malcolm to take the letter to the lawyer’s house,
+and, if he was not at home, to inquire where he might be found, Randal
+adopted the readiest means of composing himself, in the servant’s
+absence, by lighting his pipe.
+
+He was enveloped in clouds of tobacco-smoke--the only clouds which we
+can trust never to prove unworthy of our confidence in them--when Mrs.
+Presty’s letter caught his attention. If the month had been January
+instead of July, he would have thrown it into the fire. Under present
+circumstances, he took it up and read it:
+
+
+
+“I bear no malice, dear Randal, and I write to you as affectionately as
+if you had kept your temper on the occasion when we last met.
+
+“You will be pleased to hear that Catherine was as thoroughly distressed
+as you could wish her to be, when it became my disagreeable duty to
+mention what had passed between us, by way of accounting for your
+absence. She was quite unable to rally her spirits, even with dear
+Captain Bennydeck present to encourage her.
+
+“‘I am not receiving you as I ought,’ she said to him, when we began
+dinner, ‘but there is perhaps some excuse for me. I have lost the regard
+and esteem of an old friend, who has cruelly wronged me.’ From motives
+of delicacy (which I don’t expect you to understand) she refrained from
+mentioning your name. The prettiest answer that I ever heard was the
+answer that the Captain returned. ‘Let the true friend,’ he said, ‘take
+the place in your heart which the false friend has lost.’
+
+“He kissed her hand. If you had seen how he did it, and how she looked
+at him, you would have felt that you had done more toward persuading my
+daughter to marry the Captain than any other person about her, myself
+included. You had deserted her; you had thrown her back on the one true
+friend left. Thank you, Randal. In our best interests, thank you.
+
+“It is needless to add that I got out of the way, and took Kitty with
+me, at the earliest opportunity--and left them by themselves.
+
+“At bed-time I went into Catherine’s room. Our interview began and ended
+in less than a minute. It was useless to ask if the Captain had proposed
+marriage; her agitation sufficiently informed me of what had happened.
+My one question was: ‘Dearest Catherine, have you said Yes?’ She turned
+shockingly pale, and answered: ‘I have not said No.’ Could anything be
+more encouraging? God bless you; we shall meet at the wedding.”
+
+
+
+Randal laid down the letter and filled his pipe again. He was not in
+the least exasperated; he was only anxious to hear from Mr. Sarrazin. If
+Mrs. Presty had seen him at that moment, she would have said to herself:
+“I forgot the wretch was a smoker.”
+
+In half an hour more the door was opened by Malcolm, and Mr. Sarrazin in
+person answered his friend.
+
+“There are no such incorrigible gossips,” he said, “as men in the
+smoking-room of a club. Those popular newspapers began the mischief, and
+the editor of one of them completed it. How he got his information I am
+not able to say. The small-talk turned on that report about the charming
+widow; and the editor congratulated himself on the delicacy of his
+conduct. ‘When the paragraph reached me,’ he said, ‘the writer mentioned
+that Mrs. Norman was that well-known lady, the divorced Mrs. Herbert
+Linley. I thought this rather too bad, and I cut it out.’ Your brother
+appears to have been present--but he seldom goes to the club, and none
+of the members knew him even by sight. Shall I give you a light? Your
+pipe’s out.”
+
+Randal’s feelings, at that moment, were not within reach of the
+comforting influence of tobacco.
+
+“Do you think your brother has gone to Sydenham?” Mr. Sarrazin asked.
+
+Randal answered: “I haven’t a doubt of it now.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XLIII. Know Your Own Mind.
+
+
+The garden of the hotel at Sydenham had originally belonged to a
+private house. Of great extent, it had been laid out in excellent taste.
+Flower-beds and lawns, a handsome fountain, seats shaded by groups of
+fine trees at their full growth, completed the pastoral charm of the
+place. A winding path led across the garden from the back of the house.
+It had been continued by the speculator who purchased the property,
+until it reached a road at the extremity of the grounds which
+communicated with the Crystal Palace. Visitors to the hotel had such
+pleasant associations with the garden that many of them returned at
+future opportunities instead of trying the attraction of some other
+place. Various tastes and different ages found their wishes equally
+consulted here. Children rejoiced in the finest playground they had
+ever seen. Remote walks, secluded among shrubberies, invited persons of
+reserved disposition who came as strangers, and as strangers desired to
+remain. The fountain and the lawn collected sociable visitors, who were
+always ready to make acquaintance with each other. Even the amateur
+artist could take liberties with Nature, and find the accommodating
+limits of the garden sufficient for his purpose. Trees in the foreground
+sat to him for likenesses that were never recognized; and hills
+submitted to unprovoked familiarities, on behalf of brushes which were
+not daunted by distance.
+
+On the day after the dinner which had so deplorably failed, in respect
+of one of the guests invited, to fulfill Catherine’s anticipations,
+there was a festival at the Palace. It had proved so generally
+attractive to the guests at the hotel that the grounds were almost
+deserted.
+
+As the sun declined, on a lovely summer evening, the few invalids feebly
+wandering about the flower-beds, or resting under the trees, began to
+return to the house in dread of the dew. Catherine and her child, with
+the nursemaid in attendance, were left alone in the garden. Kitty found
+her mother, as she openly declared, “not such good company as usual.”
+ Since the day when her grandmother had said the fatal words which
+checked all further allusion to her father, the child had shown
+a disposition to complain, if she was not constantly amused. She
+complained of Mrs. Presty now.
+
+“I think grandmamma might have taken me to the Crystal Palace,” she
+said.
+
+“My dear, your grandmamma has friends with her--ladies and gentlemen who
+don’t care to be troubled with a child.”
+
+Kitty received this information in a very unamiable spirit. “I hate
+ladies and gentlemen!” she said.
+
+“Even Captain Bennydeck?” her mother asked.
+
+“No; I like my nice Captain. And I like the waiters. They would take me
+to the Crystal Palace--only they’re always busy. I wish it was bedtime;
+I don’t know what to do with myself.”
+
+“Take a little walk with Susan.”
+
+“Where shall I go?”
+
+Catherine looked toward the gate which opened on the road, and proposed
+a visit to the old man who kept the lodge.
+
+Kitty shook her head. There was an objection to the old man. “He asks
+questions; he wants to know how I get on with my sums. He’s proud of
+his summing; and he finds me out when I’m wrong. I don’t like the
+lodge-keeper.”
+
+Catherine looked the other way, toward the house. The pleasant fall of
+water in the basin of the distant fountain was just audible. “Go and
+feed the gold-fishes,” she suggested.
+
+This was a prospect of amusement which at once raised Kitty’s spirits.
+“That’s the thing!” she cried, and ran off to the fountain, with the
+nursemaid after her.
+
+Catherine seated herself under the trees, and watched in solitude the
+decline of the sun in a cloudless sky. The memory of the happy years
+of her marriage had never been so sadly and persistently present to her
+mind as at this time, when the choice of another married life waited her
+decision to become an accomplished fact. Remembrances of the past, which
+she had such bitter reason to regret, and forebodings of the future, in
+which she was more than half inclined to believe, oppressed her at one
+and the same moment. She thought of the different circumstances, so
+widely separated by time, under which Herbert (years ago) and Bennydeck
+(twenty-four hours since) had each owned his love, and pleaded for an
+indulgent hearing. Her mind contrasted the dissimilar results.
+
+Pressed by the faithless man who had so cruelly wronged her in
+after-years, she only wondered why he had waited so long before he
+asked her to marry him. Addressed with equal ardor by that other man,
+whose age, whose character, whose modest devotion offered her every
+assurance of happiness that a woman could desire, she had struggled
+against herself, and had begged him to give her a day to consider.
+That day was now drawing to an end. As she watched the setting sun, the
+phantom of her guilty husband darkened the heavenly light; imbittered
+the distrust of herself which made her afraid to say Yes; and left her
+helpless before the hesitation which prevented her from saying No.
+
+The figure of a man appeared on the lonely path that led to the lodge
+gate.
+
+Impulsively she rose from her seat as he advanced. She sat down again.
+After that first act of indecision, the flutter of her spirits abated;
+she was able to think.
+
+To avoid him, after he had spared her at her own request, would have
+been an act of ingratitude: to receive him was to place herself once
+more in the false position of a woman too undecided to know her own
+mind. Forced to choose between these alternatives, her true regard for
+Bennydeck forbade her to think of herself, and encouraged her to wait
+for him. As he came nearer, she saw anxiety in his face and observed an
+open letter in his hand. He smiled as he approached her, and asked leave
+to take a chair at her side. At the same time, when he perceived that
+she had noticed his letter, he put it away hurriedly in his pocket.
+
+“I hope nothing has happened to annoy you,” she said.
+
+He smiled again; and asked if she was thinking of his letter. “It is
+only a report,” he added, “from my second in command, whom I have left
+in charge of my Home. He is an excellent man; but I am afraid his temper
+is not proof against the ingratitude which we sometimes meet with. He
+doesn’t yet make allowances for what even the best natures suffer, under
+the deteriorating influence of self-distrust and despair. No, I am
+not anxious about the results of this case. I forget all my anxieties
+(except one) when I am with you.”
+
+His eyes told her that he was about to return to the one subject that
+she dreaded. She tried--as women will try, in the little emergencies of
+their lives--to gain time.
+
+“I am interested about your Home,” she said: “I want to know what sort
+of place it is. Is the discipline very severe?”
+
+“There is no discipline,” he answered warmly. “My one object is to be
+a friend to my friendless fellow-creatures; and my one way of governing
+them is to follow the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount. Whatever
+else I may remind them of, when they come to me, I am determined not
+to remind them of a prison. For this reason--though I pity the hardened
+wanderers of the streets, I don’t open my doors to them. Many a refuge,
+in which discipline is inevitable, is open to these poor sinners
+already. My welcome is offered to penitents and sufferers of another
+kind--who have fallen from positions in life, in which the sense of
+honor has been cultivated; whose despair is associated with remembrances
+which I may so encourage, with the New Testament to help me, as to
+lead them back to the religious influences under which their purer
+and happier lives may have been passed. Here and there I meet with
+disappointments. But I persist in my system of trusting them as freely
+as if they were my own children; and, for the most part, they justify my
+confidence in them. On the day--if it ever comes--when I find discipline
+necessary, I shall suffer my disappointment and close my doors.”
+
+“Is your house open,” Catherine asked, “to men and women alike?”
+
+He was eager to speak with her on a subject more interesting to him
+even than his Home. Answering her question, in this frame of mind, his
+thoughts wandered; he drew lines absently with his walking-stick on the
+soft earth under the trees.
+
+“The means at my disposal,” he said, “are limited. I have been obliged
+to choose between the men and the women.”
+
+“And you have chosen women?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because a lost woman is a more friendless creature than a lost man.”
+
+“Do they come to you? or do you look for them?”
+
+“They mostly come to me. There is one young woman, however, now waiting
+to see me, whom I have been looking for. I am deeply interested in her.”
+
+“Is it her beauty that interests you?”
+
+“I have not seen her since she was a child. She is the daughter of an
+old friend of mine, who died many years ago.”
+
+“And with that claim on you, you keep her waiting?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+He let his stick drop on the ground and looked at Catherine; but
+he offered no explanation of his strange conduct. She was a little
+disappointed. “You have been some time away from your Home,” she said;
+still searching for his reasons. “When do you go back?”
+
+“I go back,” he answered, “when I know whether I may thank God for being
+the happiest man living.”
+
+They were both silent.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XLIV. Think of Consequences.
+
+
+Catherine listened to the fall of water in the basin of the fountain.
+She was conscious of a faint hope--a hope unworthy of her--that Kitty
+might get weary of the gold-fishes, and might interrupt them. No such
+thing happened; no stranger appeared on the path which wound through the
+garden. She was alone with him. The influences of the still and fragrant
+summer evening were influences which breathed of love.
+
+“Have you thought of me since yesterday?” he asked gently.
+
+She owned that she had thought of him.
+
+“Is there no hope that your heart will ever incline toward me?”
+
+“I daren’t consult my heart. If I had only to consider my own
+feelings--” She stopped.
+
+“What else have you to consider?”
+
+“My past life--how I have suffered, and what I have to repent of.”
+
+“Has your married life not been a happy one?” he asked.
+
+“Not a happy one--in the end,” she answered.
+
+“Through no fault of yours, I am sure?”
+
+“Through no fault of mine, certainly.”
+
+“And yet you said just now that you had something to repent of?”
+
+“I was not thinking of my husband, Captain Bennydeck, when I said that.
+If I have injured any person, the person is myself.”
+
+She was thinking of that fatal concession to the advice of her mother,
+and to the interests of her child, which placed her in a false position
+toward the honest man who loved her and trusted her. If he had been less
+innocent in the ways of the world, and not so devotedly fond of her,
+he might, little by little, have persuaded Catherine to run the risk of
+shocking him by a confession of the truth. As it was, his confidence
+in her raised him high above the reach of suspicions which might have
+occurred to other men. He saw her turn pale; he saw distress in her
+face, which he interpreted as a silent reproach to him for the questions
+he had asked.
+
+“I hope you will forgive me?” he said simply.
+
+She was astonished. “What have I to forgive?”
+
+“My want of delicacy.”
+
+“Oh, Captain Bennydeck, you speak of one of your great merits as if
+it were a fault! Over and over again I have noticed your delicacy, and
+admired it.”
+
+He was too deeply in earnest to abandon his doubts of himself.
+
+“I have ignorantly led you to think of your sorrows,” he said; “sorrows
+that I cannot console. I don’t deserve to be forgiven. May I make the
+one excuse in my power? May I speak of myself?”
+
+She told him by a gesture that he had made a needless request.
+
+“The life I have led,” he resumed, “accounts, perhaps, in some degree,
+for what is deficient in me. At school, I was not a popular boy; I only
+made one friend, and he has long since been numbered with the dead. Of
+my life at college, and afterward in London, I dare not speak to you;
+I look back at it with horror. My school-friend decided my choice of a
+profession; he went into the navy. After a while, not knowing what else
+to do, I followed his example. I liked the life--I may say the sea saved
+me. For years, I was never on shore for more than a few weeks at a time.
+I saw nothing of society; I was hardly ever in the company of ladies.
+The next change in my life associated me with an Arctic expedition.
+God forbid I should tell you of what men go through who are lost in the
+regions of eternal ice! Let me only say I was preserved--miraculously
+preserved--to profit by that dreadful experience. It made a new man of
+me; it altered me ( I hope for the better) into what I am now. Oh, I
+feel that I ought to have kept my secret yesterday--I mean my daring to
+love you. I should have waited till you knew more of me; till my conduct
+pleased you perhaps, and spoke for me. You won’t laugh, I am sure, if I
+confess (at my age!) that I am inexperienced. Never till I met you have
+I known what true love is--and this at forty years old. How some people
+would laugh! I own it seems melancholy to me.”
+
+“No; not melancholy.”
+
+Her voice trembled. Agitation, which it was not a pain but a luxury to
+feel, was gently taking possession of her. Where another man might have
+seen that her tenderness was getting the better of her discretion, and
+might have presumed on the discovery, this man, innocently blind to his
+own interests, never even attempted to take advantage of her. No more
+certain way could have been devised, by the most artful lover, of
+touching the heart of a generous woman, and making it his own.
+The influence exerted over Catherine by the virtues of Bennydeck’s
+character--his unaffected kindness, his manly sympathy, his religious
+convictions so deeply felt, so modestly restrained from claiming
+notice--had been steadily increasing in the intimacy of daily
+intercourse. Catherine had never felt his ascendancy over her as
+strongly as she felt it now. By fine degrees, the warning remembrances
+which had hitherto made her hesitate lost their hold on her memory.
+Hardly conscious herself of what she was doing, she began to search his
+feelings in his own presence. Such love as his had been unknown in her
+experience; the luxury of looking into it, and sounding it to its inmost
+depths, was more than the woman’s nature could resist.
+
+“I think you hardly do yourself justice,” she said. “Surely you don’t
+regret having felt for me so truly, when I told you yesterday that my
+old friend had deserted me?”
+
+“No, indeed!”
+
+“Do you like to remember that you showed no jealous curiosity to know
+who my friend was?”
+
+“I should have been ashamed of myself if I had asked the question.”
+
+“And did you believe that I had a good motive--a motive which you might
+yourself have appreciated--for not telling you the name of that friend?”
+
+“Is he some one whom I know?”
+
+“Ought you to ask me that, after what I have just said?”
+
+“Pray forgive me! I spoke without thinking.”
+
+“I can hardly believe it, when I remember how you spoke to me yesterday.
+I could never have supposed, before we became acquainted with each
+other, that it was in the nature of a man to understand me so perfectly,
+to be so gentle and so considerate in feeling for my distress. You
+confused me a little, I must own, by what you said afterward. But I am
+not sure that ought to be severe in blaming you. Sympathy--I mean
+such sympathy as yours--sometimes says more than discretion can always
+approve. Have you not found it so yourself?”
+
+“I have found it so with you.”
+
+“And perhaps I have shown a little too plainly how dependent I am on
+you--how dreadful it would be to me if I lost you too as a friend?”
+
+She blushed as she said it. When the words had escaped her, she felt
+that they might bear another meaning than the simple meaning which
+she had attached to them. He took her hand; his doubts of himself, his
+needless fear of offending her, restrained him no longer.
+
+“You can never lose me,” he said, “if you will only let me be the
+nearest friend that a woman can have. Bear with me, dearest! I ask for
+so much; I have so little to offer in return. I dream of a life with you
+which is perhaps too perfectly happy to be enjoyed on earth. And yet, I
+cannot resign my delusion. Must my poor heart always long for happiness
+which is beyond my reach? If an overruling Providence guides our course
+through this world, may we not sometimes hope for happier ends than our
+mortal eyes can see?”
+
+He waited a moment--and sighed--and dropped her hand. She hid her face;
+she knew what it would tell him: she was ashamed to let him see it.
+
+“I didn’t mean to distress you,” he said sadly.
+
+She let him see her face. For a moment only, she looked at him--and then
+let silence tell him the rest.
+
+His arms closed round her. Slowly, the glory of the sun faded from the
+heavens, and the soft summer twilight fell over the earth. “I can’t
+speak,” he whispered; “my happiness is too much for me.”
+
+“Are you sure of your happiness?” she asked.
+
+“Could I think as I am thinking now, if I were not sure of it?”
+
+“Are you thinking of _me?_”
+
+“Of you--and of all that you will be to me in the future. Oh, my angel,
+if God grants us many years to come, what a perfect life I see!”
+
+“Tell me--what do you see?”
+
+“I see a husband and wife who are all in all to each other. If friends
+come to us, we are glad to bid them welcome; but we are always happiest
+by ourselves.”
+
+“Do we live in retirement?”
+
+“We live where you like best to live. Shall it be in the country?”
+
+“Yes! yes! You have spoken of the sea as you might have spoken of your
+best friend--we will be near the sea. But I must not keep you selfishly
+all to myself. I must remember how good you have been to poor creatures
+who don’t feel our happiness, and who need your kindness. Perhaps I
+might help you? Do you doubt it?”
+
+“I only doubt whether I ought to let you see what I have seen; I am only
+afraid of the risk of making you unhappy. You tempt me to run the risk.
+The help of a woman--and of such a woman as you are--is the one thing I
+have wanted. Your influence would succeed where my influence has often
+failed. How good, how thoughtful you would be!”
+
+“I only want to be worthy of you,” she said, humbly. “When may I see
+your Home?”
+
+He drew her closer to him: tenderly and timidly he kissed her for the
+first time. “It rests with you,” he answered. “When will you be my
+wife?”
+
+She hesitated; he felt her trembling. “Is there any obstacle?” he asked.
+
+Before she could reply, Kitty’s voice was heard calling to her
+mother--Kitty ran up to them.
+
+Catherine turned cold as the child caught her by the hand, eagerly
+claiming her attention. All that she should have remembered, all that
+she had forgotten in a few bright moments of illusion, rose in judgment
+against her, and struck her mind prostrate in an instant, when she felt
+Kitty’s touch.
+
+Bennydeck saw the change. Was it possible that the child’s sudden
+appearance had startled her? Kitty had something to say, and said it
+before he could speak.
+
+“Mamma, I want to go where the other children are going. Susan’s gone to
+her supper. You take me.”
+
+Her mother was not even listening. Kitty turned impatiently to
+Bennydeck. “Why won’t mamma speak to me?” she asked. He quieted her by a
+word. “You shall go with me.” His anxiety about Catherine was more than
+he could endure. “Pray let me take you back to the house,” he said. “I
+am afraid you are not well.”
+
+“I shall be better directly. Do me a kindness--take the child!”
+
+She spoke faintly and vacantly. Bennydeck hesitated. She lifted her
+trembling hands in entreaty. “I beg you will leave me!” Her voice, her
+manner, made it impossible to disobey. He turned resignedly to Kitty and
+asked which way she wanted to go. The child pointed down the path to
+one of the towers of the Crystal Palace, visible in the distance. “The
+governess has taken the others to see the company go away,” she said; “I
+want to go too.”
+
+Bennydeck looked back before he lost sight of Catherine.
+
+She remained seated, in the attitude in which he had left her. At the
+further end of the path which led to the hotel, he thought he saw a
+figure in the twilight, approaching from the house. There would be help
+near, if Catherine wanted it.
+
+His uneasy mind was in some degree relieved, as he and Kitty left the
+garden together.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XLV. Love Your Enemies.
+
+
+She tried to think of Bennydeck.
+
+Her eyes followed him as long as he was in sight, but her thoughts
+wandered. To look at him now was to look at the little companion walking
+by his side. Still, the child reminded her of the living father; still,
+the child innocently tortured her with the consciousness of deceit. The
+faithless man from whom the law had released her, possessed himself of
+her thoughts, in spite of the law. He, and he only, was the visionary
+companion of her solitude when she was left by herself.
+
+Did he remind her of the sin that he had committed?--of the insult that
+he had inflicted on the woman whom he had vowed to love and cherish? No!
+he recalled to her the years of love that she had passed by his side; he
+upbraided her with the happiness which she had owed to him, in the prime
+and glory of her life. Woman! set _that_ against the wrong which I have
+done to you. You have the right to condemn me, and Society has the right
+to condemn me--but I am your child’s father still. Forget me if you can!
+
+All thought will bear the test of solitude, excepting only the thought
+that finds its origin in hopeless self-reproach. The soft mystery
+of twilight, the solemn silence of the slowly-coming night, daunted
+Catherine in that lonely place. She rose to return to light and human
+beings. As she set her face toward the house, a discovery confronted
+her. She was not alone.
+
+A woman was standing on the path, apparently looking at her.
+
+In the dim light, and at the distance between them, recognition of the
+woman was impossible. She neither moved nor spoke. Strained to their
+utmost point of tension, Catherine’s nerves quivered at the sight of
+that shadowy solitary figure. She dropped back on the seat. In tones
+that trembled she said: “Who are you? What do you want?”
+
+The voice that answered was, like her own voice, faint with fear. It
+said: “I want a word with you.”
+
+Moving slowly forward--stopping--moving onward again--hesitating
+again--the woman at last approached. There was light enough left to
+reveal her face, now that she was near. It was the face of Sydney
+Westerfield.
+
+The survival of childhood, in the mature human being, betrays itself
+most readily in the sex that bears children. The chances and changes of
+life show the child’s mobility of emotion constantly associating
+itself with the passions of the woman. At the moment of recognition the
+troubled mind of Catherine was instantly steadied, under the influence
+of that coarsest sense which levels us with the animals--the sense of
+anger.
+
+“I am amazed at your audacity,” she said.
+
+There was no resentment--there was only patient submission in Sydney’s
+reply.
+
+“Twice I have approached the house in which you are living; and twice
+my courage has failed me. I have gone away again--I have walked, I don’t
+know where, I don’t know how far. Shame and fear seemed to be insensible
+to fatigue. This is my third attempt. If I was a little nearer to you, I
+think you would see what the effort has cost me. I have not much to say.
+May I ask you to hear me?”
+
+“You have taken me by surprise, Miss Westerfield. You have no right to
+do that; I refuse to hear you.”
+
+“Try, madam, to bear in mind that no unhappy creature, in my place,
+would expose herself to your anger and contempt without a serious
+reason. Will you think again?”
+
+“No!”
+
+Sydney turned to go away--and suddenly stopped.
+
+Another person was advancing from the hotel; an interruption, a trivial
+domestic interruption, presented itself. The nursemaid had missed the
+child, and had come into the garden to see if she was with her mother.
+
+“Where is Miss Kitty, ma’am?” the girl asked.
+
+Her mistress told her what had happened, and sent her to the Palace to
+relieve Captain Bennydeck of the charge that he had undertaken. Susan
+listened, looking at Sydney and recognizing the familiar face. As the
+girl moved away, Sydney spoke to her.
+
+“I hope little Kitty is well and happy?”
+
+The mother does not live who could have resisted the tone in which that
+question was put. The broken heart, the love for the child that still
+lived in it, spoke in accents that even touched the servant. She came
+back; remembering the happy days when the governess had won their hearts
+at Mount Morven, and, for a moment at least, remembering nothing else.
+
+“Quite well and happy, miss, thank you,” Susan said.
+
+As she hurried away on her errand, she saw her mistress beckon to Sydney
+to return, and place a chair for her. The nursemaid was not near enough
+to hear what followed.
+
+“Miss Westerfield, will you forget what I said just now?” With those
+words, Catherine pointed to the chair. “I am ready to hear you,” she
+resumed--“but I have something to ask first. Does what you wish to say
+to me relate only to yourself?”
+
+“It relates to another person, as well as to myself.”
+
+That reply, and the inference to which it led, tried Catherine’s
+resolution to preserve her self-control, as nothing had tried it yet.
+
+“If that other person,” she began, “means Mr. Herbert Linley--”
+
+Sydney interrupted her, in words which she was entirely unprepared to
+hear.
+
+“I shall never see Mr. Herbert Linley again.”
+
+“Has he deserted you?”
+
+“No. It is _I_ who have left _him._”
+
+“You!”
+
+The emphasis laid on that one word forced Sydney to assert herself for
+the first time.
+
+“If I had not left him of my own free will,” she said, “what else would
+excuse me for venturing to come here?”
+
+Catherine’s sense of justice felt the force of that reply. At the same
+time her sense of injury set its own construction on Sydney’s motive.
+“Has his cruelty driven you away from him?” she asked.
+
+“If he has been cruel to me,” Sydney answered, “do you think I should
+have come here to complain of it to You? Do me the justice to believe
+that I am not capable of such self-degradation as that. I have nothing
+to complain of.”
+
+“And yet you have left him?”
+
+“He has been all that is kind and considerate: he has done everything
+that a man in his unhappy position could do to set my mind at ease. And
+yet I have left him. Oh, I claim no merit for my repentance, bitterly
+as I feel it! I might not have had the courage to leave him--if he had
+loved me as he once loved you.”
+
+“Miss Westerfield, you are the last person living who ought to allude to
+my married life.”
+
+“You may perhaps pardon the allusion, madam, when you have heard what
+I have still to say. I owe it to Mr. Herbert Linley, if not to you, to
+confess that his life with me has _not_ been a life of happiness. He has
+tried, compassionately tried, to keep his secret sorrow from discovery,
+and he has failed. I had long suspected the truth; but I only saw it in
+his face when he found the book you left behind you at the hotel. Your
+image has, from first to last, been the one living image in his guilty
+heart. I am the miserable victim of a man’s passing fancy. You have
+been, you are still, the one object of a husband’s love. Ask your own
+heart if the woman lives who can say to you what I have said--unless she
+knew it to be true.”
+
+Catherine’s head sank on her bosom; her helpless hands lay trembling
+on her lap. Overpowered by the confession which she had just heard--a
+confession which had followed closely on the thoughts inspired by the
+appearance of the child--her agitation was beyond control; her mind was
+unequal to the effort of decision. The woman who had been wronged--who
+had the right to judge for herself, and to speak for herself--was the
+silent woman of the two!
+
+It was not quite dark yet. Sydney could see as well as hear.
+
+For the first time since the beginning of the interview, she allowed the
+impulse of the moment to lead her astray. In her eagerness to complete
+the act of atonement, she failed to appreciate the severity of the
+struggle that was passing in Catherine’s mind. She alluded again to
+Herbert Linley, and she spoke too soon.
+
+“Will you let him ask your pardon?” she said. “He expects no more.”
+
+Catherine’s spirit was roused in an instant. “He expects too much!” she
+answered, sternly. “Is he here by your connivance? Is he, too, waiting
+to take me by surprise?”
+
+“I am incapable, madam, of taking such a liberty with you as that; I may
+perhaps have hoped to be able to tell him, by writing, of a different
+reception--” She checked herself. “I beg your pardon, if I have ventured
+to hope. I dare not ask you to alter your opinion--”
+
+“Do you dare to look the truth in the face?” Catherine interposed. “Do
+you remember what sacred ties that man has broken? what memories he has
+profaned? what years of faithful love he has cast from him? Must I tell
+you how he poisoned his wife’s mind with doubts of his truth and despair
+of his honor, when he basely deserted her? You talk of your repentance.
+Does your repentance forget that he would still have been my blameless
+husband but for you?”
+
+Sydney silently submitted to reproach, silently endured the shame that
+finds no excuse for itself.
+
+Catherine looked at her and relented. The noble nature which could stoop
+to anger, but never sink to the lower depths of malice and persecution,
+restrained itself and made amends. “I say it in no unkindness to you,”
+ she resumed. “But when you ask me to forgive, consider what you ask me
+to forget. It will only distress us both if we remain longer together,”
+ she continued, rising as she spoke. “Perhaps you will believe that I
+mean well, when I ask if there is anything I can do for you?”
+
+“Nothing!”
+
+All the desolation of the lost woman told its terrible tale in that one
+word. Invited to rest herself in the hotel, she asked leave to remain
+where she was; the mere effort of rising was too much for her now.
+Catherine said the parting words kindly. “I believe in your good
+intentions; I believe in your repentance.”
+
+“Believe in my punishment!” After that reply, no more was said.
+
+Behind the trees that closed the view at the further extremity of the
+lawn the moon was rising. As the two women lost sight of each other, the
+new light, pure and beautiful, began to dawn over the garden.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XLVI. Nil Desperandum.
+
+
+No horror of her solitude, no melancholy recollections, no dread of the
+future disturbed Sydney’s mind. The one sense left in her was the sense
+of fatigue. Vacantly, mechanically, the girl rested as a tired animal
+might have rested. She saw nothing, heard nothing; the one feeling
+of which she was conscious was a dull aching in every limb. The moon
+climbed the heavens, brightened the topmost leaves of the trees, found
+the gloom in which Sydney was hidden, and cheered it tenderly with
+radiant light. She was too weary to sleep, too weary even to shade her
+face when the moonbeams touched it. While the light still strengthened,
+while the slow minutes still followed each other unheeded, the one
+influence that could rouse Sydney found her at last--set her faint heart
+throbbing--called her prostrate spirit to life again. She heard a glad
+cry of recognition in a child’s voice:
+
+“Oh, Sydney, dear, is it you?”
+
+In another instant her little pupil and playfellow of former days was in
+her arms.
+
+“My darling, how did you come here?”
+
+Susan answered the question. “We are on our way back from the Palace,
+miss. I am afraid,” she said, timidly, “that we ought to go in.”
+
+Silently resigned, Sydney tried to release the child. Kitty clung to
+her and kissed her; Kitty set the nurse at defiance. “Do you think I am
+going to leave Syd now I have found her? Susan, I am astonished at you!”
+
+Susan gave way. Where the nature is gentle, kindness and delicacy go
+hand-in-hand together, undisturbed by the social irregularities which
+beset the roadway of life. The nursemaid drew back out of hearing.
+Kitty’s first questions followed each other in breathless succession.
+Some of them proved to be hard, indeed, to answer truly, and without
+reserve. She inquired if Sydney had seen her mother, and then she was
+eager to know why Sydney had been left in the garden alone.
+
+“Why haven’t you gone back to the house with mamma?” she asked.
+
+“Don’t ask me, dear,” was all that Sydney could say. Kitty drew the
+inevitable conclusion: “Have you and mamma quarreled?”
+
+“Oh, no!”
+
+“Then come indoors with me.”
+
+“Wait a little, Kitty, and tell me something about yourself. How do you
+get on with your lessons?”
+
+“You dear foolish governess, do you expect me to learn my lessons, when
+I haven’t got you to teach me? Where have you been all this long while?
+_I_ wouldn’t have gone away and left _you!_” She paused; her eager eyes
+studied Sydney’s face with the unrestrained curiosity of a child. “Is it
+the moonlight that makes you look pale and wretched?” she said. “Or are
+you really unhappy? Tell me, Syd, do you ever sing any of those songs
+that I taught you, when you first came to us?”
+
+“Never, dear!”
+
+“Have you anybody to go out walking with you and running races with you,
+as I did?”
+
+“No, my sweet! Those days have gone by forever.”
+
+Kitty laid her head sadly on Sydney’s bosom. “It’s not the moonlight,”
+ she said; “shall I tell you a secret? Sometimes I am not happy either.
+Poor papa is dead. He always liked you--I’m sure you are sorry for him.”
+
+Astonishment held Sydney speechless. Before she could ask who had
+so cruelly deceived the child, and for what purpose, the nursemaid,
+standing behind the chair, warned her to be silent by a touch.
+
+“I think we are all unhappy now,” Kitty went on, still following her own
+little train of thought. “Mamma isn’t like what she used to be. And even
+my nice Captain hasn’t a word to say to me. He wouldn’t come back with
+us; he said he would go back by himself.”
+
+Another allusion which took Sydney by surprise! She asked who the
+Captain was. Kitty started as if the question shocked her. “Oh dear,
+dear, this is what comes of your going away and leaving us! You don’t
+know Captain Bennydeck.”
+
+The name of her father’s correspondent! The name which she vaguely
+remembered to have heard in her childhood! “Where did you first meet
+with him?” she inquired.
+
+“At the seaside, dear!”
+
+“Do you mean at Sandyseal?”
+
+“Yes. Mamma liked him--and grandmamma liked him (which is
+wonderful)--and I gave him a kiss. Promise me not to tell! My nice
+Captain is going to be my new papa.”
+
+Was there any possible connection between what Kitty had just said, and
+what the poor child had been deluded into believing when she spoke of
+her father? Even Susan seemed to be in the secret of this strange second
+marriage! She interfered with a sharp reproof. “You mustn’t talk in that
+way, Miss Kitty. Please put her off your lap, Miss Westerfield; we have
+been here too long already.”
+
+Kitty proposed a compromise; “I’ll go,” she said, “if Syd will come with
+me.”
+
+“I’m sorry, my darling, to disappoint you.”
+
+Kitty refused to believe it. “You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried,”
+ she said boldly.
+
+“Indeed, indeed, I must go away. Oh, Kitty, try to bear it as I do!”
+
+Entreaties were useless; the child refused to hear of another parting.
+“I want to make you and mamma friends again. Don’t break my heart,
+Sydney! Come home with me, and teach me, and play with me, and love me!”
+
+She pulled desperately at Sydney’s dress; she called to Susan to help
+her. With tears in her eyes, the girl did her best to help them both.
+“Miss Westerfield will wait here,” she said to Kitty, “while you speak
+to your mamma.--Say Yes!” she whispered to Sydney; “it’s our only
+chance.”
+
+The child instantly exacted a promise. In the earnestness of her love
+she even dictated the words. “Say it after me, as I used to say my
+lessons,” she insisted. “Say, ‘Kitty, I promise to wait for you.’”
+
+Who that loved her could have refused to say it! In one form or another,
+the horrid necessity for deceit had followed, and was still following,
+that first, worst act of falsehood--the elopement from Mount Morven.
+
+Kitty was now as eager to go as she had been hitherto resolute to
+remain. She called for Susan to follow her, and ran to the hotel.
+
+“My mistress won’t let her come back--you can leave the garden that
+way.” The maid pointed along the path to the left and hurried after the
+child.
+
+They were gone--and Sydney was alone again.
+
+At the parting with Kitty, the measure of her endurance was full. Not
+even the farewell at Mount Morven had tried her by an ordeal so cruel as
+this. No kind woman was willing to receive her and employ her, now. The
+one creature left who loved her was the faithful little friend whom
+she must never see again. “I am still innocent to that child,” she
+thought--“and I am parted from her forever!”
+
+She rose to leave the garden.
+
+A farewell look at the last place in which she had seen Kitty tempted
+her to indulge in a moment of delay. Her eyes rested on the turn in the
+path at which she had lost sight of the active little figure hastening
+away to plead her cause. Even in absence, the child was Sydney’s good
+angel still. As she turned away to follow the path that had been shown
+to her, the relief of tears came at last. It cooled her burning head;
+it comforted her aching heart. She tried to walk on. The tears blinded
+her--she strayed from the path--she would have fallen but for a hand
+that caught her, and held her up. A man’s voice, firm and deep and kind,
+quieted her first wild feeling of terror. “My child, you are not fit to
+be by yourself. Let me take care of you--let me comfort you, if I can.”
+
+He carried her back to the seat that she had left, and waited by her in
+merciful silence.
+
+“You are very young to feel such bitter sorrow,” he said, when she was
+composed again. “I don’t ask what your sorrow is; I only want to know
+how I can help you.”
+
+“Nobody can help me.”
+
+“Can I take you back to your friends?”
+
+“I have no friends.”
+
+“Pardon me, you have one friend at least--you have me.”
+
+“You? A stranger?”
+
+“No human creature who needs my sympathy is a stranger.”
+
+She turned toward him for the first time. In her new position, she was
+clearly visible in the light. He looked at her attentively. “I have seen
+you somewhere,” he said, “before now.”
+
+She had not noticed him when they had passed each other at Sandyseal.
+“I think you must be mistaken,” she answered. “May I thank you for your
+kindness? and may I hope to be excused if I say good-night?”
+
+He detained her. “Are you sure that you are well enough to go away by
+yourself?” he asked anxiously.
+
+“I am quite sure!”
+
+He still detained her. His memory of that first meeting at the seaside
+hotel reminded him that he had seen her in the company of a man. At
+their second meeting, she was alone, and in tears. Sad experience led
+him to form his own conclusions. “If you won’t let me take care of you,”
+ he said, “will you consider if I can be of any use to you, and will you
+call at that address?” He gave her his card. She took it without looking
+at it; she was confused; she hardly knew what to say. “Do you doubt me?”
+ he asked--sadly, not angrily.
+
+“Oh, how can I do that! I doubt myself; I am not worthy of the interest
+you feel in me.”
+
+“That is a sad thing to say,” he answered. “Let me try to give you
+confidence in yourself. Do you go to London when you leave this place?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“To-morrow,” he resumed, “I am going to see another poor girl who is
+alone in the world like you. If I tell you where she lives, will you ask
+her if I am a person to be trusted?”
+
+He had taken a letter from his pocket, while he was speaking; and he
+now tore off a part of the second leaf, and gave it to her. “I have only
+lately,” he said, “received the address from a friend.”
+
+As he offered that explanation, the shrill sound of a child’s voice,
+raised in anger and entreaty, reached their ears from the neighborhood
+of the hotel. Faithful little Kitty had made her escape, determined to
+return to Sydney had been overtaken by the maid--and had been carried
+back in Susan’s arms to the house. Sydney imagined that she was not
+perhaps alone in recognizing the voice. The stranger who had been so
+kind to her did certainly start and look round.
+
+The stillness of the night was disturbed no more. The man turned again
+to the person who had so strongly interested him. The person was gone.
+
+In fear of being followed, Sydney hurried to the railway station. By the
+light in the carriage she looked for the first time at the fragment of
+the letter and the card.
+
+The stranger had presented her with her own address! And, when she
+looked at the card, the name was Bennydeck!
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XLVII. Better Do It Than Wish It Done.
+
+
+More than once, on one and the same day, the Captain had been guilty
+of a weakness which would have taken his oldest friends by surprise, if
+they had seen him at the moment. He hesitated.
+
+A man who has commanded ships and has risked his life in the regions of
+the frozen deep, is a man formed by nature and taught by habit to meet
+emergency face to face, to see his course straight before him, and to
+take it, lead him where it may. But nature and habit, formidable forces
+as they are, find their master when they encounter the passion of Love.
+
+At once perplexed and distressed by that startling change in Catherine
+which he had observed when her child approached her, Bennydeck’s
+customary firmness failed him, when the course of conduct toward his
+betrothed wife which it might be most becoming to follow presented
+itself to him as a problem to be solved. When Kitty asked him to
+accompany her nursemaid and herself on their return to the hotel, he
+had refused because he felt reluctant to intrude himself on Catherine’s
+notice, until she was ready to admit him to her confidence of her own
+free will. Left alone, he began to doubt whether delicacy did really
+require him to make the sacrifice which he had contemplated not five
+minutes since. It was surely possible that Catherine might be waiting
+to see him, and might then offer the explanation which would prove to be
+equally a relief on both sides. He was on his way to the hotel when he
+met with Sydney Westerfield.
+
+To see a woman in the sorest need of all that kindness and consideration
+could offer, and to leave her as helpless as he had found her, would
+have been an act of brutal indifference revolting to any man possessed
+of even ordinary sensibility. The Captain had only followed his natural
+impulses, and had only said and done what, in nearly similar cases, he
+had said and done on other occasions.
+
+Left by himself, he advanced a few steps mechanically on the way by
+which Sydney had escaped him--and then stopped. Was there any sufficient
+reason for his following her, and intruding himself on her notice?
+She had recovered, she was in possession of his address, she had been
+referred to a person who could answer for his good intentions; all that
+it was his duty to do, had been done already. He turned back again, in
+the direction of the hotel.
+
+Hesitating once more, he paused half-way along the corridor which led
+to Catherine’s sitting-room. Voices reached him from persons who had
+entered the house by the front door. He recognized Mrs. Presty’s loud
+confident tones. She was taking leave of friends, and was standing with
+her back toward him. Bennydeck waited, unobserved, until he saw her
+enter the sitting-room. No such explanation as he was in search of could
+possibly take place in the presence of Catherine’s mother. He returned
+to the garden.
+
+Mrs. Presty was in high spirits. She had enjoyed the Festival; she had
+taken the lead among the friends who accompanied her to the Palace; she
+had ordered everything, and paid for nothing, at that worst of all bad
+public dinners in England, the dinner which pretends to be French. In a
+buoyant frame of mind, ready for more enjoyment if she could only
+find it, what did she see on opening the sitting-room door? To use the
+expressive language of the stage, Catherine was “discovered alone”--with
+her elbows on the table, and her face hidden in her hands--the picture
+of despair.
+
+Mrs. Presty surveyed the spectacle before her with righteous indignation
+visible in every line of her face. The arrangement which bound her
+daughter to give Bennydeck his final reply on that day had been well
+known to her when she left the hotel in the morning. The conclusion
+at which she arrived, on returning at night, was expressed with Roman
+brevity and Roman eloquence in four words:
+
+“Oh, the poor Captain!”
+
+Catherine suddenly looked up.
+
+“I knew it,” Mrs. Presty continued, with her sternest emphasis; “I see
+what you have done, in your face. You have refused Bennydeck.”
+
+“God forgive me, I have been wicked enough to accept him!”
+
+Hearing this, some mothers might have made apologies; and other mothers
+might have asked what that penitential reply could possibly mean. Mrs.
+Presty was no matron of the ordinary type. She welcomed the good news,
+without taking the smallest notice of the expression of self-reproach
+which had accompanied it.
+
+“My dear child, accept the congratulations of your fond old mother. I
+have never been one of the kissing sort (I mean of course where women
+are concerned); but this is an occasion which justifies something quite
+out of the common way. Come and kiss me.”
+
+Catherine took no notice of that outburst of maternal love.
+
+“I have forgotten everything that I ought to have remembered,” she said.
+“In my vanity, in my weakness, in my selfish enjoyment of the passing
+moment, I have been too supremely happy even to think of the trials of
+my past life, and of the false position in which they have placed me
+toward a man, whom I ought to be ashamed to deceive. I have only been
+recalled to a sense of duty, I might almost say to a sense of decency,
+by my poor little child. If Kitty had not reminded me of her father--”
+
+Mrs. Presty dropped into a chair: she was really frightened. Her fat
+cheeks trembled like a jelly on a dish that is suddenly moved.
+
+“Has that man been here?” she asked.
+
+“What man?”
+
+“The man who may break off your marriage if he meets with the Captain.
+Has Herbert Linley been here?”
+
+“Certainly not. The one person associated with my troubles whom I have
+seen to-day is Sydney Westerfield.”
+
+Mrs. Presty bounced out of her chair. “You--have seen--Sydney
+Westerfield?” she repeated with emphatic pauses which expressed
+amazement tempered by unbelief.
+
+“Yes; I have seen her.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“In the garden.”
+
+“And spoken to her?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+Mrs. Presty raised her eyes to the ceiling. Whether she expected our old
+friend “the recording angel” to take down the questions and answers that
+had just passed, or whether she was only waiting to see the hotel that
+held her daughter collapse under a sense of moral responsibility, it is
+not possible to decide. After an awful pause, the old lady remembered
+that she had something more to say--and said it.
+
+“I make no remark, Catherine; I don’t even want to know what you and
+Miss Westerfield said to each other. At the same time, as a matter of
+convenience to myself, I wish to ascertain whether I must leave this
+hotel or not. The same house doesn’t hold that woman and ME. Has she
+gone?”
+
+“She has gone.”
+
+Mrs. Presty looked round the room. “And taken Kitty with her?” she
+asked.
+
+“Don’t speak of Kitty!” Catherine cried in the greatest distress. “I
+have had to keep the poor innocent affectionate child apart from Miss
+Westerfield by force. My heart aches when I think of it.”
+
+“I’m not surprised, Catherine. My granddaughter has been brought up on
+the modern system. Children are all little angels--no punishments--only
+gentle remonstrance--‘Don’t be naughty, dear, because you will make poor
+mamma unhappy.’ And then, mamma grieves over it and wonders over it,
+when she finds her little angel disobedient. What a fatal system of
+education! All my success in life; every quality that endeared me to
+your father and Mr. Presty; every social charm that has made me the idol
+of society, I attribute entirely to judicious correction in early life,
+applied freely with the open hand. We will change the subject. Where is
+dear Bennydeck? I want to congratulate him on his approaching marriage.”
+ She looked hard at her daughter, and mentally added: “He’ll live to
+regret it!”
+
+Catherine knew nothing of the Captain’s movements. “Like you,” she told
+her mother, “I have something to say to him, and I don’t know where he
+is.”
+
+Mrs. Presty still kept her eyes fixed on her daughter. Nobody, observing
+Catherine’s face, and judging also by the tone of her voice, would have
+supposed that she was alluding to the man whose irresistible attractions
+had won her. She looked ill at ease, and she spoke sadly.
+
+“You don’t seem to be in good spirits, my dear,” Mrs. Presty gently
+suggested. “No lovers’ quarrel already, I hope?”
+
+“Nothing of the kind.”
+
+“Can I be of any use to you?”
+
+“You might be of the greatest use. But I know only too well, you would
+refuse.”
+
+Thus far, Mrs. Presty had been animated by curiosity. She began now
+to feel vaguely alarmed. “After all that I have done for you,” she
+answered, “I don’t think you ought to say that. Why should I refuse?”
+
+Catherine hesitated.
+
+Her mother persisted in pressing her. “Has it anything to do with
+Captain Bennydeck?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+Catherine roused her courage.
+
+“You know what it is as well as I do,” she said. “Captain Bennydeck
+believes that I am free to marry him because I am a widow. You might
+help me to tell him the truth.”
+
+“What!!!”
+
+That exclamation of horror and astonishment was loud enough to have been
+heard in the garden. If Mrs. Presty’s hair had been all her own, it must
+have been hair that stood on end.
+
+Catherine quietly rose. “We won’t discuss it,” she said, with
+resignation. “I knew you would refuse me.” She approached the door. Her
+mother got up and resolutely stood in the way. “Before you commit an act
+of downright madness,” Mrs. Presty said, “I mean to try if I can stop
+you. Go back to your chair.”
+
+Catherine refused.
+
+“I know how it will end,” she answered; “and the sooner it ends the
+better. You will find that I am quite as determined as you are. A man
+who loves me as _he_ loves me, is a man whom I refuse to deceive.”
+
+“Let’s have it out plainly,” Mrs. Presty insisted. “He believes your
+first marriage has been dissolved by death. Do you mean to tell him that
+it has been dissolved by Divorce?”
+
+“I do.”
+
+“What right has he to know it?”
+
+“A right that is not to be denied. A wife must have no secrets from her
+husband.”
+
+Mrs. Presty hit back smartly.
+
+“You’re not his wife yet. Wait till you are married.”
+
+“Never! Who but a wretch would marry an honest man under false
+pretenses?”
+
+“I deny the false pretenses! You talk as if you were an impostor. Are
+you, or are you not, the accomplished lady who has charmed him? Are you,
+or are you not, the beautiful woman whom he loves? There isn’t a stain
+on your reputation. In every respect you are the wife he wants and the
+wife who is worthy of him. And you are cruel enough to disturb the poor
+man about a matter that doesn’t concern him! you are fool enough to
+raise doubts of you in his mind, and give him a reproach to cast in your
+teeth the first time you do anything that happens to offend him! Any
+woman--I don’t care who she may be--might envy the home that’s waiting
+for you and your child, if you’re wise enough to hold your tongue. Upon
+my word, Catherine, I am ashamed of you. Have you no principles?”
+
+She really meant it! The purely selfish considerations which she
+urged on her daughter were so many undeniable virtues in Mrs. Presty’s
+estimation. She took the highest moral ground, and stood up and crowed
+on it, with a pride in her own principles which the Primate of all
+England might have envied.
+
+But Catherine’s rare resolution held as firm as ever. She got a little
+nearer to the door. “Good-night, mamma,” was the only reply she made.
+
+“Is that all you have to say to me?”
+
+“I am tired, and I must rest. Please let me go.”
+
+Mrs. Presty threw open the door with a bang.
+
+“You refuse to take my advice?” she said. “Oh, very well, have your
+own way! You are sure to prosper in the end. These are the days of
+exhibitions and gold medals. If there is ever an exhibition of idiots at
+large, I know who might win the prize.”
+
+Catherine was accustomed to preserve her respect for her mother under
+difficulties; but this was far more than her sense of filial duty could
+successfully endure.
+
+“I only wish I had never taken your advice,” she answered. “Many a
+miserable moment would have been spared me, if I had always done what
+I am doing now. You have been the evil genius of my life since Miss
+Westerfield first came into our house.”
+
+She passed through the open doorway--stopped--and came back again. “I
+didn’t mean to offend you, mamma--but you do say such irritating things.
+Good-night.”
+
+Not a word of reply acknowledged that kindly-meant apology. Mrs.
+Presty--vivacious Mrs. Presty of the indomitable spirit and the ready
+tongue--was petrified. She, the guardian angel of the family, whose
+experience, devotion, and sound sense had steered Catherine through
+difficulties and dangers which must have otherwise ended in utter
+domestic shipwreck--she, the model mother--had been stigmatized as
+the evil genius of her daughter’s life by no less a person than that
+daughter herself! What was to be said? What was to be done? What
+terrible and unexampled course of action should be taken after such an
+insult as this? Mrs. Presty stood helpless in the middle of the room,
+and asked herself these questions, and waited and wondered and found no
+answer.
+
+An interval passed. There was a knock at the door. A waiter appeared. He
+said: “A gentleman to see Mrs. Norman.”
+
+The gentleman entered the room and revealed himself.
+
+Herbert Linley!
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XLVIII. Be Careful!
+
+
+The divorced husband looked at his mother-in-law without making the
+slightest sacrifice to the claims of politeness. He neither offered his
+hand nor made his bow. His frowning eyebrows, his flushed face, betrayed
+the anger that was consuming him.
+
+“I want to see Catherine,” he said.
+
+This deliberate rudeness proved to be the very stimulant that was
+required to restore Mrs. Presty to herself. The smile that always meant
+mischief made its threatening appearance on the old lady’s face.
+
+“What sort of company have you been keeping since I last saw you?” she
+began.
+
+“What have you got to do with the company I keep?”
+
+“Nothing whatever, I am happy to say. I was merely wondering whether you
+have been traveling lately in the south part of Africa, and have lived
+exclusively in the society of Hottentots. The only other explanation of
+your behavior is that I have been so unfortunate as to offend you. But
+it seems improbable--I am not your wife.”
+
+“Thank God for that!”
+
+“Thank God, as you say. But I should really be glad (as a mere matter
+of curiosity) to know what your extraordinary conduct means. You present
+yourself in this room uninvited, you find a lady here, and you behave
+as if you had come into a shop and wanted to ask the price of something.
+Let me give you a lesson in good manners. Observe: I receive you with a
+bow, and I say: How do you do, Mr. Linley? Do you understand me?”
+
+“I don’t want to understand you--I want to see Catherine.”
+
+“Who is Catherine?”
+
+“You know as well as I do--your daughter.”
+
+“My daughter, sir, is a stranger to you. We will speak of her, if you
+please, by the name--the illustrious name--which she inherited at her
+birth. You wish to see Mrs. Norman?”
+
+“Call her what you like. I have a word to say to her, and I mean to say
+it.”
+
+“No, Mr. Linley, you won’t say it.”
+
+“We’ll see about that! Where is she?”
+
+“My daughter is not well.”
+
+“Well or ill, I shan’t keep her long.”
+
+“My daughter has retired to her room.”
+
+“Where is her room?”
+
+Mrs. Presty moved to the fireplace, and laid her hand on the bell.
+
+“Are you aware that this house is a hotel?” she asked.
+
+“It doesn’t matter to me what it is.”
+
+“Oh yes, it does. A hotel keeps waiters. A hotel, when it is as large as
+this, has a policeman in attendance. Must I ring?”
+
+The choice between giving way to Mrs. Presty, or being disgracefully
+dismissed, was placed plainly before him. Herbert’s life had been the
+life of a gentleman; he knew that he had forgotten himself; it was
+impossible that he could hesitate.
+
+“I won’t trouble you to ring,” he said; “and I will beg your pardon for
+having allowed my temper to get the better of me. At the same time
+it ought to be remembered, I think, in my favor, that I have had some
+provocation.”
+
+“I don’t agree with you,” Mrs. Presty answered. She was deaf to any
+appeal for mercy from Herbert Linley. “As to provocation,” she added,
+returning to her chair without asking him to be seated, “when you apply
+that word to yourself, you insult my daughter and me. _You_ provoked?
+Oh, heavens!”
+
+“You wouldn’t say that,” he urged, speaking with marked restraint of
+tone and manner, “if you knew what I have had to endure--”
+
+Mrs. Presty suddenly looked toward the door. “Wait a minute,” she said;
+“I think I hear somebody coming in.”
+
+In the silence that followed, footsteps were audible outside--not
+approaching the door, however, but retiring from it. Mrs. Presty had
+apparently been mistaken. “Yes?” she said resignedly, permitting Herbert
+to proceed.
+
+He really had something to say for himself, and he said it with
+sufficient moderation. That he had been guilty of serious offenses he
+made no attempt to deny; but he pleaded that he had not escaped without
+justly suffering for what he had done. He had been entirely in the wrong
+when he threatened to take the child away from her mother by force of
+law; but had he not been punished when his wife obtained her Divorce,
+and separated him from his little daughter as well as from herself? (No:
+Mrs. Presty failed to see it; if anybody had suffered by the Divorce,
+the victim was her injured daughter.) Still patient, Herbert did not
+deny the injury; he only submitted once more that he had suffered his
+punishment. Whether his life with Sydney Westerfield had or had not been
+a happy one, he must decline to say; he would only declare that it had
+come to an end. She had left him. Yes! she had left him forever. He had
+no wish to persuade her to return to their guilty life; they were both
+penitent, they were both ashamed of it. But she had gone away without
+the provision which he was bound in honor to offer to her.
+
+“She is friendless; she may be in a state of poverty that I tremble to
+think of,” Herbert declared. “Is there nothing to plead for me in such
+anxiety as I am suffering now?” Mrs. Presty stopped him there; she had
+heard enough of Sydney already.
+
+“I see nothing to be gained,” she said, “by dwelling on the past; and I
+should be glad to know why you have come to this place to-night.”
+
+“I have come to see Kitty.”
+
+“Quite out of the question.”
+
+“Don’t tell me that, Mrs. Presty! I’m one of the wretchedest men living,
+and I ask for the consolation of seeing my child. Kitty hasn’t forgotten
+me yet, I know. Her mother can’t be so cruel as to refuse. She shall fix
+her own time, and send me away when she likes; I’ll submit to anything.
+Will you ask Catherine to let me see Kitty?”
+
+“I can’t do it.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“For private reasons.”
+
+“What reasons?”
+
+“For reasons into which you have no right to inquire.”
+
+He got up from his chair. His face presented the same expression which
+Mrs. Presty had seen on it when he first entered the room.
+
+“When I came in here,” he said, “I wished to be certain of one thing.
+Your prevarication has told me what I wanted to know. The newspapers
+had Catherine’s own authority for it, Mrs. Presty, when they called
+her widow. I know now why my brother, who never deceived me before, has
+deceived me about this. I understand the part that your daughter has
+been playing--and I am as certain as if I had heard it, of the devilish
+lie that one of you--perhaps both of you--must have told my poor child.
+No, no; I had better not see Catherine. Many a man has killed his wife,
+and has not had such good reason for doing it as I have. You are quite
+right to keep me away from her.”
+
+He stopped--and looked suddenly toward the door. “I hear her,” he cried,
+“She’s coming in!”
+
+The footsteps outside were audible once more. This time, they were
+approaching; they were close to the door. Herbert drew back from it.
+Looking round to see that he was out of the way, Mrs. Presty rushed
+forward--tore open the door in terror of what might happen--and admitted
+Captain Bennydeck.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter XLIX. Keep the Secret.
+
+
+The Captain’s attention was first attracted by the visitor whom he found
+in the room. He bowed to the stranger; but the first impression produced
+on him did not appear to have been of the favorable kind, when he turned
+next to Mrs. Presty.
+
+Observing that she was agitated, he made the customary apologies,
+expressing his regret if he had been so unfortunate as to commit
+an intrusion. Trusting in the good sense and good breeding which
+distinguished him on other occasions, Mrs. Presty anticipated that he
+would see the propriety of leaving her alone again with the person whom
+he had found in her company. To her dismay he remained in the room; and,
+worse still, he noticed her daughter’s absence, and asked if there was
+any serious cause for it.
+
+For the moment, Mrs. Presty was unable to reply. Her presence of
+mind--or, to put it more correctly, her ready audacity--deserted her,
+when she saw Catherine’s husband that had been, and Catherine’s husband
+that was to be, meeting as strangers, and but too likely to discover
+each other.
+
+In all her experience she had never been placed in such a position of
+embarrassment as the position in which she found herself now. The sense
+of honor which had prompted Catherine’s resolution to make Bennydeck
+acquainted with the catastrophe of married life, might plead her excuse
+in the estimation of a man devotedly attached to her. But if the Captain
+was first informed that he had been deceived by a person who was a
+perfect stranger to him, what hope could be entertained of his still
+holding himself bound by his marriage engagement? It was even possible
+that distrust had been already excited in his mind. He must certainly
+have heard a man’s voice raised in anger when he approached the
+door--and he was now observing that man with an air of curiosity which
+was already assuming the appearance of distrust. That Herbert, on his
+side, resented the Captain’s critical examination of him was plainly
+visible in his face. After a glance at Bennydeck, he asked Mrs. Presty
+“who that gentleman was.”
+
+“I may be mistaken,” he added; “but I thought your friend looked at me
+just now as if he knew me.”
+
+“I have met you, sir, before this.” The Captain made the reply with a
+courteous composure of tone and manner which apparently reminded Herbert
+of the claims of politeness.
+
+“May I ask where I had the honor of seeing you?” he inquired.
+
+“We passed each other in the hall of the hotel at Sandyseal. You had a
+young woman with you.”
+
+“Your memory is a better one than mine, sir. I fail to remember the
+circumstance to which you refer.”
+
+Bennydeck let the matter rest there. Struck by the remarkable appearance
+of embarrassment in Mrs. Presty’s manner--and feeling (in spite of
+Herbert’s politeness of language) increased distrust of the man whom he
+had found visiting her--he thought it might not be amiss to hint
+that she could rely on him in case of necessity. “I am afraid I have
+interrupted a confidential interview,” he began; “and I ought perhaps to
+explain--”
+
+Mrs. Presty listened absently; preoccupied by the fear that Herbert
+would provoke a dangerous disclosure, and by the difficulty of
+discovering a means of preventing it. She interrupted the Captain.
+
+“Excuse me for one moment; I have a word to say to this gentleman.”
+ Bennydeck immediately drew back, and Mrs. Presty lowered her voice. “If
+you wish to see Kitty,” she resumed, attacking Herbert on his weak side,
+“it depends entirely on your discretion.”
+
+“What do you mean by discretion?”
+
+“Be careful not to speak of our family troubles--and I promise you shall
+see Kitty. That is what I mean.”
+
+Herbert declined to say whether he would be careful or not. He was
+determined to find out, first, with what purpose Bennydeck had entered
+the room. “The gentleman was about to explain himself to you,” he said
+to Mrs. Presty. “Why don’t you give him the opportunity?”
+
+She had no choice but to submit--in appearance at least. Never had she
+hated Herbert as she hated him at that moment. The Captain went on with
+his explanation. He had his reasons (he said) for hesitating, in
+the first instance, to present himself uninvited, and he accordingly
+retired. On second thoughts, however, he had returned, in the hope--
+
+“In the hope,” Herbert interposed, “of seeing Mrs. Presty’s daughter?”
+
+“That was one of my motives,” Bennydeck answered.
+
+“Is it indiscreet to inquire what the other motive was?”
+
+“Not at all. I heard a stranger’s voice, speaking in a tone which, to
+say the least of it, is not customary in a lady’s room and I thought--”
+
+Herbert interrupted him again. “And you thought your interference might
+be welcome to the lady! Am I right?”
+
+“Quite right.”
+
+“Am I making another lucky guess if I suppose myself to be speaking to
+Captain Bennydeck?”
+
+“I shall be glad to hear, sir, how you have arrived at the knowledge of
+my name.”
+
+“Shall we say, Captain, that I have arrived at it by instinct?”
+
+His face, as he made that reply, alarmed Mrs. Presty. She cast a look
+at him, partly of entreaty, partly of warning. No effect was produced by
+the look. He continued, in a tone of ironical compliment: “You must pay
+the penalty of being a public character. Your marriage is announced in
+the newspapers.”
+
+“I seldom read the newspapers.”
+
+“Ah, indeed? Perhaps the report is not true? As you don’t read the
+newspapers, allow me to repeat it. You are engaged to marry the
+‘beautiful widow, Mrs. Norman.’ I think I quote those last words
+correctly?”
+
+Mrs. Presty suddenly got up. With an inscrutable face that told no
+tales, she advanced to the door. Herbert’s insane jealousy of the man
+who was about to become Catherine’s husband had led him into a serious
+error; he had driven Catherine’s mother to desperation. In that state of
+mind she recovered her lost audacity, as a matter of course. Opening the
+door, she turned round to the two men, with a magnificent impudence of
+manner which in her happiest moments she had never surpassed.
+
+“I am sorry to interrupt this interesting conversation,” she said; “but
+I have stupidly forgotten one of my domestic duties. You will allow me
+to return, and listen with renewed pleasure, when my household business
+is off my mind. I shall hope to find you both more polite to each other
+than ever when I come back.” She was in such a frenzy of suppressed rage
+that she actually kissed her hand to them as she left the room!
+
+Bennydeck looked after her, convinced that some sinister purpose was
+concealed under Mrs. Presty’s false excuses, and wholly unable to
+imagine what that purpose might be. Herbert still persisted in trying to
+force a quarrel on the Captain.
+
+“As I remarked just now,” he proceeded, “newspaper reports are not
+always to be trusted. Do you seriously mean, my dear sir, to marry Mrs.
+Norman?”
+
+“I look forward to that honor and that happiness. But I am at a loss to
+know how it interests you.”
+
+“In that case allow me to enlighten you. My name is Herbert Linley.”
+
+He had held his name in reserve, feeling certain of the effect which he
+would produce when he pronounced it. The result took him completely by
+surprise. Not the slightest appearance of agitation showed itself in
+Bennydeck’s manner. On the contrary, he looked as if there was something
+that interested him in the discovery of the name.
+
+“You are probably related to a friend of mine?” he said, quietly.
+
+“Who is your friend?”
+
+“Mr. Randal Linley.”
+
+Herbert was entirely unprepared for this discovery. Once more, the
+Captain had got the best of it.
+
+“Are you and Randal Linley intimate friends?” he inquired, as soon as he
+had recovered himself.
+
+“Most intimate.”
+
+“It’s strange that he should never have mentioned me, on any occasion
+when you and he were together.”
+
+“It does indeed seem strange.”
+
+Herbert paused. His brother’s keen sense of the disgrace that he had
+inflicted on the family recurred to his memory. He began to understand
+Randal’s otherwise unaccountable silence.
+
+“Are you nearly related to Mr. Randal Linley?” the Captain asked.
+
+“I am his elder brother.”
+
+Ignorant on his part of the family disgrace, Bennydeck heard that reply
+with amazement. From his point of view, it was impossible to account for
+Randal’s silence.
+
+“Will you think me very inquisitive,” Herbert resumed, “if I ask whether
+my brother approves of your marriage?”
+
+There was a change in his tone, as he put that question which warned
+Bennydeck to be on his guard. “I have not yet consulted my friend’s
+opinion,” he answered, shortly.
+
+Herbert threw off the mask. “In the meantime, you shall have my
+opinion,” he said. “Your marriage is a crime--and I mean to prevent it.”
+
+The Captain left his chair, and sternly faced the man who had spoken
+those insolent words.
+
+“Are you mad?” he asked.
+
+Herbert was on the point of declaring himself to have been Catherine’s
+husband, until the law dissolved their marriage--when a waiter came in
+and approached him with a message. “You are wanted immediately, sir.”
+
+“Who wants me?”
+
+“A person outside, sir. It’s a serious matter--there is not a moment to
+lose.”
+
+Herbert turned to the Captain. “I must have your promise to wait for
+me,” he said, “or I don’t leave the room.”
+
+“Make your mind easy. I shall not stir from this place till you have
+explained yourself,” was the firm reply.
+
+The servant led the way out. He crossed the passage, and opened the door
+of a waiting-room. Herbert passed in--and found himself face to face
+with his divorced wife.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter L. Forgiveness to the Injured Doth Belong.
+
+
+Without one word of explanation, Catherine stepped up to him, and spoke
+first.
+
+“Answer me this,” she said--“have you told Captain Bennydeck who I am?”
+
+“Not yet.”
+
+The shortest possible reply was the only reply that he could make, in
+the moment when he first looked at her.
+
+She was not the same woman whom he had last seen at Sandyseal, returning
+for her lost book. The agitation produced by that unexpected meeting had
+turned her pale; the overpowering sense of injury had hardened and aged
+her face. This time, she was prepared to see him; this time, she was
+conscious of a resolution that raised her in her own estimation. Her
+clear blue eyes glittered as she looked at him, the bright color glowed
+in her cheeks; he was literally dazzled by her beauty.
+
+“In the past time, which we both remember,” she resumed, “you once
+said that I was the most truthful woman you had ever known. Have I done
+anything to disturb that part of your old faith in me?”
+
+“Nothing.”
+
+She went on: “Before you entered this house, I had determined to tell
+Captain Bennydeck what you have not told him yet. When I say that, do
+you believe me?”
+
+If he had been able to look away from her, he might have foreseen what
+was coming; and he would have remembered that his triumph over the
+Captain was still incomplete. But his eyes were riveted on her face;
+his tenderest memories of her were pleading with him. He answered as a
+docile child might have answered.
+
+“I do believe you.”
+
+She took a letter from her bosom; and, showing it, begged him to remark
+that it was not closed.
+
+“I was in my bedroom writing,” she said, “When my mother came to me and
+told me that you and Captain Bennydeck had met in my sitting-room. She
+dreaded a quarrel and an exposure, and she urged me to go downstairs
+and insist on sending you away--or permit her to do so, if I could not
+prevail on myself to follow her advice. I refused to allow the shameful
+dismissal of a man who had once had his claim on my respect. The only
+alternative that I could see was to speak with you here, in private, as
+we are speaking now. My mother undertook to manage this for me; she
+saw the servant, and gave him the message which you received. Where is
+Captain Bennydeck now?”
+
+“He is waiting in the sitting-room.”
+
+“Waiting for you?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+She considered a little before she said her next words.
+
+“I have brought with me what I was writing in my own room,” she resumed,
+“wishing to show it to you. Will you read it?”
+
+She offered the letter to him. He hesitated. “Is it addressed to me?” he
+asked.
+
+“It is addressed to Captain Bennydeck,” she answered.
+
+The jealousy that still rankled in his mind--jealousy that he had
+no more lawful or reasonable claim to feel than if he had been a
+stranger--urged him to assume an indifference which he was far from
+feeling. He begged that Catherine would accept his excuses.
+
+She refused to excuse him.
+
+“Before you decide,” she said, “you ought at least to know why I have
+written to Captain Bennydeck, instead of speaking to him as I had
+proposed. My heart failed me when I thought of the distress that he
+might feel--and, perhaps of the contempt of myself which, good and
+gentle as he is, he might not be able to disguise. My letter tells him
+the truth, without concealment. I am obliged to speak of the manner in
+which you have treated me, and of the circumstances which forced me
+into acts of deception that I now bitterly regret. I have tried not to
+misrepresent you; I have been anxious to do you no wrong. It is for
+you, not for me, to say if I have succeeded. Once more, will you read my
+letter?”
+
+The sad self-possession, the quiet dignity with which she spoke,
+appealed to his memory of the pardon that she had so generously granted,
+while he and Sydney Westerfield were still guiltless of the injury
+inflicted on her at a later time. Silently he took the letter from her,
+and read it.
+
+She kept her face turned away from him and from the light. The effort to
+be still calm and reasonable--to suffer the heart-ache, and not to let
+the suffering be seen--made cruel demands on the self-betraying nature
+of a woman possessed by strong emotion. There was a moment when she
+heard him sigh while he was reading. She looked round at him, and
+instantly looked away again.
+
+He rose and approached her; he held out the letter in one hand, and
+pointed to it with the other. Twice he attempted to speak. Twice the
+influence of the letter unmanned him.
+
+It was a hard struggle, but it was for her sake: he mastered his
+weakness, and forced his trembling voice to submit to his will.
+
+“Is the man whom you are going to marry worthy of _this?_” he asked,
+still pointing to the letter.
+
+She answered, firmly: “More than worthy of it.”
+
+“Marry him, Catherine--and forget Me.”
+
+The great heart that he had so sorely wounded pitied him, forgave him,
+answered him with a burst of tears. She held out one imploring hand.
+
+His lips touched it--he was gone.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter LI. Dum Spiro, Spero.
+
+
+Brisk and smiling, Mrs. Presty presented herself in the waiting-room.
+“We have got rid of our enemy!” she announced, “I looked out of the
+window and saw him leaving the hotel.” She paused, struck with the
+deep dejection expressed in her daughter’s attitude. “Catherine!”
+ she exclaimed, “I tell you Herbert has gone, and you look as if you
+regretted it! Is there anything wrong? Did my message fail to bring him
+here?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“He was bent on mischief when I saw him last. Has he told Bennydeck of
+the Divorce?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Thank Heaven for that! There is no one to be afraid of now. Where is
+the Captain?”
+
+“He is still in the sitting-room.”
+
+“Why don’t you go to him?”
+
+“I daren’t!”
+
+“Shall I go?”
+
+“Yes--and give him this.”
+
+Mrs. Presty took the letter. “You mean, tear it up,” she said, “and
+quite right, too.”
+
+“No; I mean what I say.”
+
+“My dear child, if you have any regard for yourself, if you have any
+regard for me, don’t ask me to give Bennydeck this mad letter! You won’t
+hear reason? You still insist on it?”
+
+“I do.”
+
+“If Kitty ever behaves to you, Catherine, as you have behaved to me--you
+will have richly deserved it. Oh, if you were only a child again, I’d
+beat it out of you--I would!”
+
+With that outburst of temper, she took the letter to Bennydeck. In less
+than a minute she returned, a tamed woman. “He frightens me,” she said.
+
+“Is he angry?”
+
+“No--and that is the worst of it. When men are angry, I am never afraid
+of them. He’s quiet, too quiet. He said: ‘I’m waiting for Mr. Herbert
+Linley; where is he?’ I said. ‘He has left the hotel.’ He said:
+‘What does that mean?’ I handed the letter to him. ‘Perhaps this will
+explain,’ I said. He looked at the address, and at once recognized your
+handwriting. ‘Why does she write to me when we are both in the same
+house? Why doesn’t she speak to me?’ I pointed to the letter. He
+wouldn’t look at it; he looked straight at me. ‘There’s some mystery
+here,’ he said; ‘I’m a plain man, I don’t like mysteries. Mr. Linley had
+something to say to me, when the message interrupted him. Who sent the
+message? Do you know?’ If there is a woman living, Catherine, who would
+have told the truth, in such a position as mine was at that moment, I
+should like to have her photograph. I said I didn’t know--and I saw
+he suspected me of deceiving him. Those kind eyes of his--you wouldn’t
+believe it of them!--looked me through and through. ‘I won’t detain you
+any longer,’ he said. I’m not easily daunted, as you know--the relief it
+was to me to get away from him is not to be told in words. What do you
+think I heard when I got into the passage? I heard him turn the key of
+the door. He’s locked in, my dear; he’s locked in! We are too near him
+here. Come upstairs.”
+
+Catherine refused. “I ought to be near him,” she said, hopefully; “he
+may wish to see me.”
+
+Her mother reminded her that the waiting-room was a public room, and
+might be wanted.
+
+“Let’s go into the garden,” Mrs. Presty proposed. “We can tell the
+servant who waits on us where we may be found.”
+
+Catherine yielded. Mrs. Presty’s excitement found its overflow in
+talking perpetually. Her daughter had nothing to say, and cared nothing
+where they went; all outward manifestation of life in her seemed to be
+suspended at that terrible time of expectation. They wandered here and
+there, in the quietest part of the grounds. Half an hour passed--and no
+message was received. The hotel clock struck the hour--and still nothing
+happened.
+
+“I can walk no longer,” Catherine said. She dropped on one of the
+garden-chairs, holding by her mother’s hand. “Go to him, for God’s
+sake!” she entreated. “I can endure it no longer.”
+
+Mrs. Presty--even bold Mrs. Presty--was afraid to face him again. “He’s
+fond of the child,” she suggested; “let’s send Kitty.”
+
+Some little girls were at play close by who knew where Kitty was to
+be found. In a few minutes more they brought her back with them. Mrs.
+Presty gave the child her instructions, and sent her away proud of
+her errand, and delighted at the prospect of visiting the Captain by
+herself, as if she “was a grown-up lady.”
+
+This time the period of suspense was soon at an end. Kitty came running
+back. “It’s lucky you sent me,” she declared. “He wouldn’t have opened
+the door to anybody else--he said so himself.”
+
+“Did you knock softly, as I told you?” Mrs. Presty asked.
+
+“No, grandmamma, I forgot that. I tried to open the door. He called
+out not to disturb him. I said, ‘It’s only me,’ and he opened the door
+directly. What makes him look so pale, mamma? Is he ill?”
+
+“Perhaps he feels the heat,” Mrs. Presty suggested, judiciously.
+
+“He said, ‘Dear little Kitty,’ and he caught me up in his arms and
+kissed me. When he sat down again he took me on his knee, and he asked
+if I was fond of him, and I said, ‘Yes, I am,’ and he kissed me again,
+and he asked if I had come to stay with him and keep him company. I
+forgot what you wanted me to say,” Kitty acknowledged, addressing Mrs.
+Presty; “so I made it up out of my own head.”
+
+“What did you tell him?”
+
+“I told him, mamma was as fond of him as I was, and I said, ‘We will
+both keep you company.’ He put me down on the floor, and he got up and
+went to the window and looked out. I told him that wasn’t the way to
+find her, and I said, ‘I know where she is; I’ll go and fetch her.’
+He’s an obstinate man, our nice Captain. He wouldn’t come away from the
+window. I said, ‘You wish to see mamma, don’t you?’ And he said ‘Yes.’
+‘You mustn’t lock the door again,’ I told him, ‘she won’t like that’;
+and what do you think he said? He said ‘Good-by, Kitty!’ Wasn’t it
+funny? He didn’t seem to know what he was talking about. If you ask my
+opinion, mamma, I think the sooner you go to him the better.” Catherine
+hesitated. Mrs. Presty on one side, and Kitty on the other, led her
+between them into the house.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter LII. L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose.
+
+
+Captain Bennydeck met Catherine and her child at the open door of the
+room. Mrs. Presty, stopping a few paces behind them, waited in the
+passage; eager to see what the Captain’s face might tell her. It told
+her nothing.
+
+But Catherine saw a change in him. There was something in his manner
+unnaturally passive and subdued. It suggested the idea of a man whose
+mind had been forced into an effort of self-control which had exhausted
+its power, and had allowed the signs of depression and fatigue to find
+their way to the surface. The Captain was quiet, the Captain was kind;
+neither by word nor look did he warn Catherine that the continuity of
+their intimacy was in danger of being broken--and yet, her spirits sank,
+when they met at the open door.
+
+He led her to a chair, and said she had come to him at a time when he
+especially wished to speak with her. Kitty asked if she might remain
+with them. He put his hand caressingly on her head; “No, my dear, not
+now.”
+
+The child eyed him for a moment, conscious of something which she had
+never noticed in him before, and puzzled by the discovery. She walked
+back, cowed and silent, to the door. He followed her and spoke to Mrs.
+Presty.
+
+“Take your grandchild into the garden; we will join you there in a
+little while. Good-by for the present, Kitty.”
+
+Kitty said good-by mechanically--like a dull child repeating a lesson.
+Her grandmother led her away in silence.
+
+Bennydeck closed the door and seated himself by Catherine.
+
+“I thank you for your letter,” he said. “If such a thing is possible, it
+has given me a higher opinion of you than any opinion that I have held
+yet.”
+
+She looked at him with a feeling of surprise, so sudden and so
+overwhelming that she was at a loss how to reply. The last words which
+she expected to hear from him, when he alluded to her confession, were
+the words that had just passed his lips.
+
+“You have owned to faults that you have committed, and deceptions that
+you have sanctioned,” he went on--“with nothing to gain, and everything
+to lose, by telling the truth. Who but a good woman would have done
+that?”
+
+There was a deeper feeling in him than he had ventured to express. It
+betrayed itself by a momentary trembling in his voice. Catherine drew a
+little closer to him.
+
+“You don’t know how you surprise me, how you relieve me,” she said,
+warmly--and pressed his hand. In the eagerness of her gratitude, in the
+gladness that had revived her sinking heart, she failed to feel that the
+pressure was not returned.
+
+“What have I said to surprise you?” he asked. “What anxiety have I
+relieved, without knowing it?”
+
+“I was afraid you would despise me.”
+
+“Why should I despise you?”
+
+“Have I not gained your good opinion under false pretenses? Have I not
+allowed you to admire me and to love me without telling you that there
+was anything in my past life which I have reason to regret? Even now,
+I can hardly realize that you excuse and forgive me; you, who have
+read the confession of my worst faults; you, who know the shocking
+inconsistencies of my character--”
+
+“Say at once,” he answered, “that I know you to be a mortal creature. Is
+there any human character, even the noblest, that is always consistently
+good?”
+
+“One reads of them sometimes,” she suggested, “in books.”
+
+“Yes,” he said. “In the worst books you could possibly read--the only
+really immoral books written in our time.”
+
+“Why are they immoral?”
+
+“For this plain reason, that they deliberately pervert the truth.
+Clap-trap, you innocent creature, to catch foolish readers! When do
+these consistently good people appear in the life around us, the life
+that we all see? Never! Are the best mortals that ever lived above the
+reach of temptation to do ill, and are they always too good to yield to
+it? How does the Lord’s Prayer instruct humanity? It commands us all,
+without exception, to pray that we may not be led into temptation. You
+have been led into temptation. In other words, you are a human being.
+All that a human being could do you have done--you have repented and
+confessed. Don’t I know how you have suffered and how you have been
+tried! Why, what a mean Pharisee I should be if I presumed to despise
+you!”
+
+She looked at him proudly and gratefully; she lifted her arm as if to
+thank him by an embrace, and suddenly let it drop again at her side.
+
+“Am I tormenting myself without cause?” she said. “Or is there something
+that looks like sorrow, showing itself to me in your face?”
+
+“You see the bitterest sorrow that I have felt in all my sad life.”
+
+“Is it sorrow for me?”
+
+“No. Sorrow for myself.”
+
+“Has it come to you through me? Is it my fault?”
+
+“It is more your misfortune than your fault.”
+
+“Then you can feel for me?”
+
+“I can and do.”
+
+He had not yet set her at ease.
+
+“I am afraid your sympathy stops somewhere,” she said. “Where does it
+stop?”
+
+For the first time, he shrank from directly answering her. “I begin to
+wish I had followed your example,” he owned. “It might have been better
+for both of us if I had answered your letter in writing.”
+
+“Tell me plainly,” she cried, “is there something you can’t forgive?”
+
+“There is something I can’t forget.”
+
+“What is it? Oh, what is it! When my mother told poor little Kitty that
+her father was dead, are you even more sorry than I am that I allowed
+it? Are you even more ashamed of me than I am of myself?”
+
+“No. I regret that you allowed it; but I understand how you were led
+into that error. Your husband’s infidelity had shaken his hold on your
+respect for him and your sympathy with him, and had so left you without
+your natural safeguard against Mrs. Presty’s sophistical reasoning
+and bad example. But for _that_ wrong-doing, there is a remedy left.
+Enlighten your child as you have enlightened me; and then--I have no
+personal motive for pleading Mr. Herbert Linley’s cause, after what
+I have seen of him--and then, acknowledge the father’s claim on the
+child.”
+
+“Do you mean his claim to see her?”
+
+“What else can I mean? Yes! let him see her. Do (God help me, now when
+it’s too late!)--do what you ought to have done, on that accursed day
+which will be the blackest day in my calendar, to the end of my life.”
+
+“What day do you mean?”
+
+“The day when you remembered the law of man, and forgot the law of God;
+the day when you broke the marriage tie, the sacred tie, by a Divorce!”
+
+She listened--not conscious now of suspense or fear; she listened, with
+her whole heart in revolt against him.
+
+“You are too cruel!” she declared. “You can feel for me, you can
+understand me, you can pardon me in everything else that I have done.
+But you judge without mercy of the one blameless act of my life, since
+my husband left me--the act that protected a mother in the exercise of
+her rights. Oh, can it be you? Can it be you?”
+
+“It can be,” he said, sighing bitterly; “and it is.”
+
+“What horrible delusion possesses you? Why do you curse the happy day,
+the blessed day, which saw me safe in the possession of my child?”
+
+“For the worst and meanest of reasons,” he answered--“a selfish reason.
+Don’t suppose that I have spoken of Divorce as one who has had occasion
+to think of it. I have had no occasion to think of it; I don’t think of
+it even now. I abhor it because it stands between you and me. I loathe
+it, I curse it because it separates us for life.”
+
+“Separates us for life? How?”
+
+“Can you ask me?”
+
+“Yes, I do ask you!”
+
+He looked round him. A society of religious persons had visited the
+hotel, and had obtained permission to place a copy of the Bible in every
+room. One of those copies lay on the chimney-piece in Catherine’s room.
+Bennydeck brought it to her, and placed it on the table near which she
+was sitting. He turned to the New Testament, and opened it at the Gospel
+of Saint Matthew. With his hand on the page, he said:
+
+“I have done my best rightly to understand the duties of a Christian.
+One of those duties, as I interpret them, is to let what I believe show
+itself in what I do. You have seen enough of me, I hope, to know (though
+I have not been forward in speaking of it) that I am, to the best of my
+poor ability, a faithful follower of the teachings of Christ. I dare not
+set my own interests and my own happiness above His laws. If I suffer in
+obeying them as I suffer now, I must still submit. They are the laws of
+my life.”
+
+“Is it through me that you suffer?”
+
+“It is through you.”
+
+“Will you tell me how?”
+
+He had already found the chapter. His tears dropped on it as he pointed
+to the verse.
+
+“Read,” he answered, “what the most compassionate of all Teachers has
+said, in the Sermon on the Mount.”
+
+She read: “Whosoever shall marry her that is divorced committeth
+adultery.”
+
+Another innocent woman, in her place, might have pointed to that first
+part of the verse, which pre-supposes the infidelity of the divorced
+wife, and might have asked if those words applied to _her_. This woman,
+knowing that she had lost him, knew also what she owed to herself. She
+rose in silence, and held out her hand at parting.
+
+He paused before he took her hand. “Can you forgive me?” he asked.
+
+She said: “I can pity you.”
+
+“Can you look back to the day of your marriage? Can you remember the
+words which declared the union between you and your husband to be
+separable only by death? Has he treated you with brutal cruelty?”
+
+“Never!”
+
+“Has he repented of his sin?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Ask your own conscience if there is not a worthier life for you and
+your child than the life that you are leading now.” He waited, after
+that appeal to her. The silence remained unbroken. “Do not mistake me,”
+ he resumed gently. “I am not thinking of the calamity that has fallen on
+me in a spirit of selfish despair--I am looking to _your_ future, and I
+am trying to show you the way which leads to hope. Catherine! have you
+no word more to say to me?”
+
+In faint trembling tones she answered him at last:
+
+“You have left me but one word to say. Farewell!”
+
+He drew her to him gently, and kissed her on the forehead. The agony
+in his face was more than she could support; she recoiled from it in
+horror. His last act was devoted to the tranquillity of the one woman
+whom he had loved. He signed to her to leave him.
+
+
+
+Chapter LIII. The Largest Nature, the Longest Love.
+
+
+Mrs. Presty waited in the garden to be joined by her daughter and
+Captain Bennydeck, and waited in vain. It was past her grandchild’s
+bedtime; she decided on returning to the house.
+
+“Suppose we look for them in the sitting-room?” Kitty proposed.
+
+“Suppose we wait a moment, before we go in?” her wise grandmother
+advised. “If I hear them talking I shall take you upstairs to bed.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+Mrs. Presty favored Kitty with a hint relating to the management of
+inquisitive children which might prove useful to her in after-life.
+“When you grow up to be a woman, my dear, beware of making the mistake
+that I have just committed. Never be foolish enough to mention your
+reasons when a child asks, Why?”
+
+“Was that how they treated _you_, grandmamma, when you were a child
+yourself?”
+
+“Of course it was!”
+
+“Why?”
+
+They had reached the sitting-room door by this time. Kitty opened it
+without ceremony and looked in. The room was empty.
+
+Having confided her granddaughter to the nursemaid’s care, Mrs. Presty
+knocked at Catherine’s bedroom door. “May I come in?”
+
+“Come in directly! Where is Kitty?”
+
+“Susan is putting her to bed.”
+
+“Stop it! Kitty mustn’t go to bed. No questions. I’ll explain myself
+when you come back.” There was a wildness in her eyes, and a tone of
+stern command in her voice, which warned her mother to set dignity
+aside, and submit.
+
+“I don’t ask what has happened,” Mrs. Presty resumed on her return.
+“That letter, that fatal letter to the Captain, has justified my worst
+fears. What in Heaven’s name are we to do now?”
+
+“We are to leave this hotel,” was the instant reply.
+
+“When?”
+
+“To-night.”
+
+“Catherine! do you know what time it is?”
+
+“Time enough to catch the last train to London. Don’t raise objections!
+If I stay at this place, with associations in every part of it which
+remind me of that unhappy man, I shall go mad! The shock I have
+suffered, the misery, the humiliation--I tell you it’s more than I can
+bear. Stay here by yourself if you like; I mean to go.”
+
+She paced with frantic rapidity up and down the room. Mrs. Presty took
+the only way by which it was possible to calm her. “Compose yourself,
+Catherine, and all that you wish shall be done. I’ll settle everything
+with the landlord, and give the maid her orders. Sit down by the open
+window; let the wind blow over you.”
+
+The railway service from Sydenham to London is a late service. At a few
+minutes before midnight they were in time for the last train. When they
+left the station, Catherine was calm enough to communicate her plans
+for the future. The nearest hotel to the terminus would offer them
+accommodation for that night. On the next day they could find some
+quiet place in the country--no matter where, so long as they were
+not disturbed. “Give me rest and peace, and my mind will be easier,”
+ Catherine said. “Let nobody know where to find me.”
+
+These conditions were strictly observed--with an exception in favor of
+Mr. Sarrazin. While his client’s pecuniary affairs were still unsettled,
+the lawyer had his claim to be taken into her confidence.
+
+             * * * * *
+
+The next morning found Captain Bennydeck still keeping his rooms at
+Sydenham. The state of his mind presented a complete contrast to the
+state of Catherine’s mind. So far from sharing her aversion to the
+personal associations which were connected with the hotel, he found his
+one consolation in visiting the scenes which reminded him of the beloved
+woman whom he had lost. The reason for this was not far to seek. His was
+the largest nature, and his had been the most devoted love.
+
+As usual, his letters were forwarded to him from his place of residence
+in London. Those addressed in handwritings that he knew were the first
+that he read. The others he took out with him to that sequestered part
+of the garden in which he had passed the happiest hours of his life by
+Catherine’s side.
+
+He had been thinking of her all the morning; he was thinking of her now.
+
+His better judgment protested; his accusing conscience warned him that
+he was committing, not only an act of folly but (with his religious
+convictions) an act of sin--and still she held her place in his
+thoughts. The manager had told him of her sudden departure from the
+hotel, and had declared with perfect truth that the place of her
+destination had not been communicated to him. Asked if she had left
+no directions relating to her correspondence, he had replied that his
+instructions were to forward all letters to her lawyer. On the point of
+inquiring next for the name and address, Bennydeck’s sense of duty and
+sense of shame (roused at last) filled him with a timely contempt for
+himself. In feeling tempted to write to Catherine--in encouraging fond
+thoughts of her among scenes which kept her in his memory--he had been
+false to the very principles to which he had appealed at their farewell
+interview. She had set him the right example, the example which he was
+determined to follow, in leaving the place. Before he could falter in
+his resolution, he gave notice of his departure. The one hope for him
+now was to find a refuge from himself in acts of mercy. Consolation was
+perhaps waiting for him in his Home.
+
+His unopened correspondence offered a harmless occupation to his
+thoughts, in the meanwhile. One after another he read the letters, with
+an attention constantly wandering and constantly recalled, until he
+opened the last of them that remained. In a moment more his interest was
+absorbed. The first sentences in the letter told him that the deserted
+creature whom he had met in the garden--the stranger to whom he had
+offered help and consolation in the present and in the future--was no
+other than the lost girl of whom he had been so long in search; the
+daughter of Roderick Westerfield, once his dearest and oldest friend.
+
+In the pages that followed, the writer confided to him her sad story;
+leaving it to her father’s friend to decide whether she was worthy of
+the sympathy which he had offered to her, when he thought she was a
+stranger.
+
+This part of her letter was necessarily a repetition of what Bennydeck
+had read, in the confession which Catherine had addressed to him. That
+generous woman had been guilty of one, and but one, concealment of the
+truth. In relating the circumstances under which the elopement from
+Mount Morven had taken place, she had abstained, in justice to the
+sincerity of Sydney’s repentance, from mentioning Sydney’s name.
+“Another instance,” the Captain thought bitterly, as he closed the
+letter, “of the virtues which might have made the happiness of my life!”
+
+But he was bound to remember--and he did remember--that there was now a
+new interest, tenderly associating itself with his life to come. The
+one best way of telling Sydney how dear she was to him already, for
+her father’s sake, would be to answer her in person. He hurried away to
+London by the first train, and drove at once to Randal’s place of abode
+to ask for Sydney’s address.
+
+Wondering what had become of the postscript to his letter, which had
+given Bennydeck the information of which he was now in search, Randal
+complied with his friend’s request, and then ventured to allude to the
+report of the Captain’s marriage engagement.
+
+“Am I to congratulate you?” he asked.
+
+“Congratulate me on having discovered Roderick Westerfield’s daughter.”
+
+That reply, and the tone in which it was given, led Randal to ask if the
+engagement had been prematurely announced.
+
+“There is no engagement at all,” Bennydeck answered, with a look which
+suggested that it might be wise not to dwell on the subject.
+
+But the discovery was welcome to Randal, for his brother’s sake. He
+ran the risk of consequences, and inquired if Catherine was still to be
+found at the hotel.
+
+The Captain answered by a sign in the negative.
+
+Randal persisted. “Do you know where she has gone?”
+
+“Nobody knows but her lawyer.”
+
+“In that case,” Randal concluded, “I shall get the information that
+I want.” Noticing that Bennydeck looked surprised, he mentioned his
+motive. “Herbert is pining to see Kitty,” he continued; “and I mean to
+help him. He has done all that a man could do to atone for the past. As
+things are, I believe I shall not offend Catherine, if I arrange for a
+meeting between father and child. What do you say?”
+
+Bennydeck answered, earnestly and eagerly: “Do it at once!”
+
+They left the house together--one to go to Sydney’s lodgings, the other
+on his way to Mr. Sarrazin’s office.
+
+
+
+
+Chapter LIV. Let Bygones Be Bygones.
+
+
+When the servant at the lodgings announced a visitor, and mentioned his
+name, Sydney’s memory (instead of dwelling on the recollection of
+the Captain’s kindness) perversely recalled the letter that she had
+addressed to him, and reminded her that she stood in need of indulgence,
+which even so good a man might hesitate to grant. Bennydeck’s first
+words told the friendless girl that her fears had wronged him.
+
+“My dear, how like your father you are! You have his eyes and his smile;
+I can’t tell you how pleasantly you remind me of my dear old friend.” He
+took her hand, and kissed her as he might have kissed a daughter of his
+own. “Do you remember me at home, Sydney, when you were a child? No: you
+must have been too young for that.”
+
+She was deeply touched. In faint trembling tones she said; “I remember
+your name; my poor father often spoke of you.”
+
+A man who feels true sympathy is never in danger of mistaking his way
+to a woman’s heart, when that woman has suffered. Bennydeck consoled,
+interested, charmed Sydney, by still speaking of the bygone days at
+home.
+
+“I well remember how fond your father was of you, and what a bright
+little girl you were,” the Captain went on. “You have forgotten, I dare
+say, the old-fashioned sea-songs that he used to be so fond of teaching
+you. It was the strangest and prettiest contrast, to hear your small
+piping child’s voice singing of storms and shipwrecks, and thunder and
+lightning, and reefing sails in cold and darkness, without the least
+idea of what it all meant. Your mother was strict in those days; you
+never amused her as you used to amuse your father and me. When she
+caught you searching my pockets for sweetmeats, she accused me of
+destroying your digestion before you were five years old. I went on
+spoiling it, for all that. The last time I saw you, my child, your
+father was singing ‘The Mariners of England,’ and you were on his knee
+trying to sing with him. You must have often wondered why you never saw
+anything more of me. Did you think I had forgotten you?”
+
+“I am quite sure I never thought that!”
+
+“You see I was in the Navy at the time,” the Captain resumed; “and we
+were ordered away to a foreign station. When I got back to England,
+miserable news was waiting for me. I heard of your father’s death and of
+that shameful Trial. Poor fellow! He was as innocent, Sydney, as you are
+of the offense which he was accused of committing. The first thing I did
+was to set inquiries on foot after your mother and her children. It was
+some consolation to me to feel that I was rich enough to make your lives
+easy and agreeable to you. I thought money could do anything. A serious
+mistake, my dear--money couldn’t find the widow and her children. We
+supposed you were somewhere in London; and there, to my great grief, it
+ended. From time to time--long afterward, when we thought we had got the
+clew in our hands--I continued my inquiries, still without success. A
+poor woman and her little family are so easily engulfed in the big city!
+Years passed (more of them than I like to reckon up) before I heard of
+you at last by name. The person from whom I got my information told me
+how you were employed, and where.”
+
+“Oh, Captain Bennydeck, who could the person have been?”
+
+“A poor old broken-down actor, Sydney. You were his favorite pupil. Do
+you remember him?”
+
+“I should be ungrateful indeed if I could forget him. He was the only
+person in the school who was kind to me. Is the good old man still
+living?”
+
+“No; he rests at last. I am glad to say I was able to make his last days
+on earth the happiest days of his life.”
+
+“I wonder,” Sydney confessed, “how you met with him.”
+
+“There was nothing at all romantic in my first discovery of him. I was
+reading the police reports in a newspaper. The poor wretch was brought
+before a magistrate, charged with breaking a window. His one last chance
+of escaping starvation in the streets was to get sent to prison. The
+magistrate questioned him, and brought to light a really heart-breaking
+account of misfortune, imbittered by neglect on the part of people in
+authority who were bound to help him. He was remanded, so that inquiries
+might be made. I attended the court on the day when he appeared there
+again, and heard his statement confirmed. I paid his fine, and contrived
+to put him in a way of earning a little money. He was very grateful, and
+came now and then to thank me. In that way I heard how his troubles had
+begun. He had asked for a small advance on the wretched wages that he
+received. Can you guess how the schoolmistress answered him?”
+
+“I know but too well how she answered him,” Sydney said; “I was turned
+out of the house, too.”
+
+“And I heard of it,” the Captain replied, “from the woman herself.
+Everything that could distress me she was ready to mention. She told me
+of your mother’s second marriage, of her miserable death, of the poor
+boy, your brother, missing, and never heard of since. But when I asked
+where you had gone she had nothing more to say. She knew nothing, and
+cared nothing, about you. If I had not become acquainted with Mr. Randal
+Linley, I might never have heard of you again. We will say no more of
+that, and no more of anything that has happened in the past time. From
+to-day, my dear, we begin a new life, and (please God) a happier life.
+Have you any plans of your own for the future?”
+
+“Perhaps, if I could find help,” Sydney said resignedly, “I might
+emigrate. Pride wouldn’t stand in my way; no honest employment would be
+beneath my notice. Besides, if I went to America, I might meet with my
+brother.”
+
+“My dear child, after the time that has passed, there is no imaginable
+chance of your meeting with your brother--and you wouldn’t know each
+other again if you did meet. Give up that vain hope and stay here with
+me. Be useful and be happy in your own country.”
+
+“Useful?” Sydney repeated sadly. “Your own kind heart, Captain
+Bennydeck, is deceiving you. To be useful means, I suppose, to help
+others. Who will accept help from me?”
+
+“I will, for one,” the Captain answered.
+
+“You!”
+
+“Yes. You can be of the greatest use to me--you shall hear how.”
+
+He told her of the founding of his Home and of the good it had done.
+“You are the very person,” he resumed, “to be the good sister-friend
+that I want for my poor girls: _you_ can say for them what they cannot
+always say to me for themselves.”
+
+The tears rose in Sydney’s eyes. “It is hard to see such a prospect as
+that,” she said, “and to give it up as soon as it is seen.”
+
+“Why give it up?”
+
+“Because I am not fit for it. You are as good as a father to those lost
+daughters of yours. If you give them a sister-friend she ought to have
+set them a good example. Have I done that? Will they listen to a girl
+who is no better than themselves?”
+
+“Gladly! _Your_ sympathy will find its way to their hearts, because it
+is animated by something that they can all feel in common--something
+nearer and dearer to them than a sense of duty. You won’t consent,
+Sydney, for their sakes? Will you do what I ask of you, for my sake?”
+
+She looked at him, hardly able to understand--or, as it might have been,
+perhaps afraid to understand him. He spoke to her more plainly.
+
+“I have kept it concealed from you,” he continued--“for why should I lay
+my load of suffering on a friend so young as you are, so cruelly tried
+already? Let me only say that I am in great distress. If you were with
+me, my child, I might be better able to bear it.”
+
+He held out his hand. Even a happy woman could hardly have found it in
+her heart to resist him. In silent sympathy and respect, Sydney kissed
+the hand that he had offered to her. It was the one way in which she
+could trust herself to answer him.
+
+Still encouraging her to see new hopes and new interests in the
+future, the good Captain spoke of the share which she might take in the
+management of the Home, if she would like to be his secretary. With this
+view he showed her some written reports, relating to the institution,
+which had been sent to him during the time of his residence at Sydenham.
+She read them with an interest and attention which amply justified his
+confidence in her capacity.
+
+“These reports,” he explained to her, “are kept for reference; but as
+a means of saving time, the substance of them is entered in the daily
+journal of our proceedings. Come, Sydney! venture on a first experiment
+in your new character. I see pen, ink, and paper on the table; try if
+you can shorten one of the reports, without leaving out anything which
+it is important to know. For instance, the writer gives reasons for
+making his statement. Very well expressed, no doubt, but we don’t want
+reasons. Then, again, he offers his own opinion on the right course to
+take. Very creditable to him, but I don’t want his opinion--I want his
+facts. Take the pen, my secretary, and set down his facts. Never mind
+his reflections.”
+
+Proud and pleased, Sydney obeyed him. She had made her little abstract,
+and was reading it to him at his request, while he compared it with the
+report, when they were interrupted by a visitor. Randal Linley came in,
+and noticed the papers on the table with surprise. “Is it possible that
+I am interrupting business?” he asked.
+
+Bennydeck answered with the assumed air of importance which was in
+itself a compliment to Sydney: “You find me engaged on the business of
+the Home with my new secretary.”
+
+Randal at once understood what had happened. He took his friend’s arm,
+and led him to the other end of the room.
+
+“You good fellow!” he said. “Add to your kindness by excusing me if I
+ask for a word with you in private.”
+
+Sydney rose to retire. After having encouraged her by a word of praise,
+the Captain proposed that she should get ready to go out, and should
+accompany him on a visit to the Home. He opened the door for her as
+respectfully as if the poor girl had been one of the highest ladies in
+the land.
+
+“I have seen my friend Sarrazin,” Randal began, “and I have persuaded
+him to trust me with Catherine’s present address. I can send Herbert
+there immediately, if you will only help me.”
+
+“How can I help you?”
+
+“Will you allow me to tell my brother that your engagement is broken
+off?”
+
+Bennydeck shrank from the painful allusion, and showed it.
+
+Randal explained. “I am grieved,” he said, “to distress you by referring
+to this subject again. But if my brother is left under the false
+impression that your engagement will be followed by your marriage, he
+will refuse to intrude himself on the lady who was once his wife.”
+
+The Captain understood. “Say what you please about me,” he replied.
+“Unite the father and child--and you may reconcile the husband and
+wife.”
+
+“Have you forgotten,” Randal asked, “that the marriage has been
+dissolved?”
+
+Bennydeck’s answer ignored the law. “I remember,” he said, “that the
+marriage has been profaned.”
+
+
+
+
+Chapter LV. Leave It to the Child.
+
+
+The front windows of Brightwater Cottage look out on a quiet green lane
+in Middlesex, which joins the highroad within a few miles of the market
+town of Uxbridge. Through the pretty garden at the back runs a little
+brook, winding its merry way to a distant river. The few rooms in this
+pleasant place of residence are well (too well) furnished, having regard
+to the limits of a building which is a cottage in the strictest sense
+of the word. Water-color drawings by the old English masters of the
+art ornament the dining-room. The parlor has been transformed into a
+library. From floor to ceiling all four of its walls are covered with
+books. Their old and well-chosen bindings, seen in the mass, present
+nothing less than a feast of color to the eye. The library and the works
+of art are described as heirlooms, which have passed into the possession
+of the present proprietor--one more among the hundreds of Englishmen who
+are ruined every year by betting on the Turf.
+
+So sorely in need of a little ready money was this victim of
+gambling--tacitly permitted or conveniently ignored by the audacious
+hypocrisy of a country which rejoiced in the extinction of Baden, and
+which still shudders at the name of Monaco--that he was ready to let his
+pretty cottage for no longer a term than one month certain; and he even
+allowed the elderly lady, who drove the hardest of hard bargains with
+him, to lessen by one guinea the house-rent paid for each week. He
+took his revenge by means of an ironical compliment, addressed to Mrs.
+Presty. “What a saving it would be to the country, ma’am, if you were
+Chancellor of the Exchequer!” With perfect gravity Mrs. Presty accepted
+that well-earned tribute of praise. “You are quite right, sir; I should
+be the first official person known to the history of England who took
+proper care of the public money.”
+
+Within two days of the time when they had left the hotel at Sydenham,
+Catherine and her little family circle had taken possession of the
+cottage.
+
+The two ladies were sitting in the library each occupied with a book
+chosen from the well-stocked shelves. Catherine’s reading appeared to
+be more than once interrupted by Catherine’s thoughts. Noticing this
+circumstance, Mrs. Presty asked if some remarkable event had happened,
+and if it was weighing heavily on her daughter’s mind.
+
+Catherine answered that she was thinking of Kitty, and that anxiety
+connected with the child did weigh heavily on her mind.
+
+Some days had passed (she reminded Mrs. Presty) since the interview at
+which Herbert Linley had bidden her farewell. On that occasion he had
+referred to her proposed marriage (never to be a marriage now!) in terms
+of forbearance and generosity which claimed her sincerest admiration.
+It might be possible for her to show a grateful appreciation of his
+conduct. Devotedly fond of his little daughter, he must have felt
+acutely his long separation from her; and it was quite likely that he
+might ask to see Kitty. But there was an obstacle in the way of her
+willing compliance with that request, which it was impossible to think
+of without remorse, and which it was imperatively necessary to remove.
+Mrs. Presty would understand that she alluded to the shameful falsehood
+which had led the child to suppose that her father was dead.
+
+Strongly disapproving of the language in which her daughter had done
+justice to the conduct of the divorced husband, Mrs. Presty merely
+replied: “You are Kitty’s mother; I leave it to you”--and returned to
+her reading.
+
+Catherine could not feel that she had deserved such an answer as this.
+“Did I plan the deception?” she asked. “Did I tell the lie?”
+
+Mrs. Presty was not in the least offended. “You are comparatively
+innocent, my dear,” she admitted, with an air of satirical indulgence.
+“You only consented to the deception, and profited by the lie. Suppose
+we own the truth? You are afraid.”
+
+Catherine owned the truth in the plainest terms:
+
+“Yes, I _am_ afraid.”
+
+“And you leave it to me?”
+
+“I leave it to you.”
+
+Mrs. Presty complacently closed her book. “I was quite prepared to hear
+it,” she said; “all the unpleasant complications since your Divorce--and
+Heaven only knows how many of them have presented themselves--have
+been left for me to unravel. It so happens--though I was too modest to
+mention it prematurely--that I have unraveled _this_ complication. If
+one only has eyes to see it, there is a way out of every difficulty
+that can possibly happen.” She pushed the book that she had been reading
+across the table to Catherine. “Turn to page two hundred and forty,” she
+said. “There is the way out.”
+
+The title of the book was “Disasters at Sea”; and the page contained
+the narrative of a shipwreck. On evidence apparently irresistible,
+the drowning of every soul on board the lost vessel had been taken for
+granted--when a remnant of the passengers and crew had been discovered
+on a desert island, and had been safely restored to their friends.
+Having read this record of suffering and suspense, Catherine looked at
+her mother, and waited for an explanation.
+
+“Don’t you see it?” Mrs. Presty asked.
+
+“I can’t say that I do.”
+
+The old lady’s excellent temper was not in the least ruffled, even by
+this.
+
+“Quite inexcusable on my part,” she acknowledged; “I ought to have
+remembered that you don’t inherit your mother’s vivid imagination. Age
+has left me in full possession of those powers of invention which used
+to amaze your poor father. He wondered how it was that I never wrote a
+novel. Mr. Presty’s appreciation of my intellect was equally sincere;
+but he took a different view. ‘Beware, my dear,’ he said, ‘of trifling
+with the distinction which you now enjoy: you are one of the most
+remarkable women in England--you have never written a novel.’ Pardon
+me; I am wandering into the region of literary anecdote, when I ought to
+explain myself. Now pray attend to this:--I propose to tell Kitty that I
+have found a book which is sure to interest her; and I shall direct her
+attention to the lamentable story which you have just read. She is quite
+sharp enough (there are sparks of my intellectual fire in Kitty) to
+ask if the friends of the poor shipwrecked people were not very much
+surprised to see them again. To this I shall answer: ‘Very much, indeed,
+for their friends thought they were dead.’ Ah, you dear dull child, you
+see it now!”
+
+Catherine saw it so plainly that she was eager to put the first part of
+the experiment to an immediate trial.
+
+Kitty was sent for, and made her appearance with a fishing-rod over her
+shoulder. “I’m going to the brook,” she announced; “expect some fish for
+dinner to-day.”
+
+A wary old hand stopped Catherine, in the act of presenting “Disasters
+at Sea,” to Kitty’s notice; and a voice, distinguished by insinuating
+kindness, said to the child: “When you have done fishing, my dear, come
+to me; I have got a nice book for you to read.--How very absurd of
+you, Catherine,” Mrs. Presty continued, when they were alone again, “to
+expect the child to read, and draw her own conclusions, while her head
+is full of fishing! If there are any fish in the brook, _she_ won’t
+catch them. When she comes back disappointed and says: ‘What am I to do
+now?’ the ‘Disasters at Sea’ will have a chance. I make it a rule never
+to boast; but if there is a thing that I understand, it’s the management
+of children. Why didn’t I have a large family?”
+
+Attended by the faithful Susan, Kitty baited her hook, and began to fish
+where the waters of the brook were overshadowed by trees.
+
+A little arbor covered by a thatched roof, and having walls of wooden
+lattice-work, hidden by creepers climbing over them inside and out,
+offered an attractive place of rest on this sheltered side of the
+garden. Having brought her work with her, the nursemaid retired to the
+summer-house and diligently plied her needle, looking at Kitty from
+time to time through the open door. The air was delightfully cool, the
+pleasant rippling of the brook fell soothingly on the ear, the seat in
+the summer-house received a sitter with the softly-yielding submission
+of elastic wires. Susan had just finished her early dinner: in mind and
+body alike, this good girl was entirely and deservedly at her ease.
+By finely succeeding degrees, her eyelids began to show a tendency
+downward; her truant needle-work escaped from her fingers, and lay
+lazily on her lap. She snatched it up with a start, and sewed with
+severe resolution until her thread was exhausted. The reel was ready at
+her side; she took it up for a fresh supply, and innocently rested her
+head against the leafy and flowery wall of the arbor. Was it thought
+that gradually closed her eyes again? or was it sleep? In either case,
+Susan was lost to all sense of passing events; and Susan’s breathing
+became musically regular, emulous of the musical regularity of the
+brook.
+
+As a lesson in patience, the art of angling pursued in a shallow brook
+has its moral uses. Kitty fished, and waited, and renewed the bait and
+tried again, with a command of temper which would have been a novelty in
+Susan’s experience, if Susan had been awake. But the end which comes to
+all things came also to Kitty’s patience. Leaving her rod on the bank,
+she let the line and hook take care of themselves, and wandered away in
+search of some new amusement.
+
+Lingering here and there to gather flowers from the beds as she passed
+them, Kitty was stopped by a shrubbery, with a rustic seat placed near
+it, which marked the limits of the garden on that side. The path that
+she had been following led her further and further away from the brook,
+but still left it well in view. She could see, on her right hand, the
+clumsy old wooden bridge which crossed the stream, and served as a means
+of communication for the servants and the tradespeople, between the
+cottage and the village on the lower ground a mile away.
+
+The child felt hot and tired. She rested herself on the bench, and,
+spreading the flowers by her side, began to arrange them in the form of
+a nosegay. Still true to her love for Sydney, she had planned to present
+the nosegay to her mother, offering the gift as an excuse for returning
+to the forbidden subject of her governess, and for asking when they
+might hope to see each other again.
+
+Choosing flowers and then rejecting them, trying other colors and
+wondering whether she had accomplished a change for the better, Kitty
+was startled by the sound of a voice calling to her from the direction
+of the brook.
+
+She looked round, and saw a gentleman crossing the bridge. He asked the
+way to Brightwater Cottage.
+
+There was something in his voice that attracted her--how or why, at her
+age, she never thought of inquiring. Eager and excited, she ran across
+the lawn which lay between her and the brook, before she answered the
+gentleman’s question.
+
+As they approached each other, his eyes sparkled, his face flushed;
+he cried out joyfully, “Here she is!”--and then changed again in an
+instant. A horrid pallor overspread his face as the child stood looking
+at him with innocent curiosity. He startled Kitty, not because he seemed
+to be shocked and distressed, she hardly noticed that; but because he
+was so like--although he was thinner and paler and older--oh, so like
+her lost father!
+
+“This is the cottage, sir,” she said faintly.
+
+His sorrowful eyes rested kindly on her. And yet, it seemed as if she
+had in some way disappointed him. The child ventured to say: “Do you
+know me, sir?”
+
+He answered in the saddest voice that Kitty had ever heard: “My little
+girl, what makes you think I know you?”
+
+She was at a loss how to reply, fearing to distress him. She could only
+say: “You are so like my poor papa.”
+
+He shook and shuddered, as if she had said something to frighten him.
+He took her hand. On that hot day, his fingers felt as cold as if it had
+been winter time. He led her back to the seat that she had left. “I’m
+tired, my dear,” he said. “Shall we sit down?” It was surely true that
+he was tired. He seemed hardly able to lift one foot after the other;
+Kitty pitied him. “I think you must be ill;” she said, as they took
+their places, side by side, on the bench.
+
+“No; not ill. Only weary, and perhaps a little afraid of frightening
+you.” He kept her hand in his hand, and patted it from time to time. “My
+dear, why did you say ‘_poor_ papa,’ when you spoke of your father just
+now?”
+
+“My father is dead, sir.”
+
+He turned his face away from her, and pressed both hands on his breast,
+as if he had felt some dreadful pain there, and was trying to hide
+it. But he mastered the pain; and he said a strange thing to her--very
+gently, but still it was strange. He wished to know who had told her
+that her father was dead.
+
+“Grandmamma told me.”
+
+“Do you remember what grandmamma said?”
+
+“Yes--she told me papa was drowned at sea.”
+
+He said something to himself, and said it twice over. “Not her mother!
+Thank God, not her mother!” What did he mean?
+
+Kitty looked and looked at him, and wondered and wondered. He put his
+arm round her. “Come near to me,” he said. “Don’t be afraid of me, my
+dear.” She moved nearer and showed him that she was not afraid. The poor
+man seemed hardly to understand her. His eyes grew dim; he sighed like a
+person in distress; he said: “Your father would have kissed you, little
+one, if he had been alive. You say I am like your father. May I kiss
+you?”
+
+She put her hands on his shoulder and lifted her face to him. In the
+instant when he kissed her, the child knew him. Her heart beat suddenly
+with an overpowering delight; she started back from his embrace. “That’s
+how papa used to kiss me!” she cried. “Oh! you _are_ papa! Not drowned!
+not drowned!” She flung her arms round his neck, and held him as if she
+would never let him go again. “Dear papa! Poor lost papa!” His tears
+fell on her face; he sobbed over her. “My sweet darling! my own little
+Kitty!”
+
+The hysterical passion that had overcome her father filled her with
+piteous surprise. How strange, how dreadful that he should cry--that
+he should be so sorry when she was so glad! She took her little
+handkerchief out of the pocket of her pinafore, and dried his eyes. “Are
+you thinking of the cruel sea, papa? No! the good sea, the kind, bright,
+beautiful sea that has given you back to me, and to mamma--!”
+
+They had forgotten her mother!--and Kitty only discovered it now. She
+caught at one of her father’s hands hanging helpless at his side, and
+pulled at it as if her little strength could force him to his feet.
+“Come,” she cried, “and make mamma as happy as I am!”
+
+He hesitated. She sprang on his knee; she pressed her cheek against his
+cheek with the caressing tenderness, familiar to him in the first happy
+days when she was an infant. “Oh, papa, are you going to be unkind to me
+for the first time in your life?”
+
+His momentary resistance was at an end. He was as weak in her hands now
+as if he had been the child and she had been the man.
+
+Laughing and singing and dancing round him, Kitty led the way to the
+window of the room that opened on the garden. Some one had closed it on
+the inner side. She tapped impatiently at the glass. Her mother heard
+the tapping; her mother came to the window; her mother ran out to meet
+them. Since the miserable time when they left Mount Morven, since the
+long unnatural separation of the parents and the child, those three were
+together once more!
+
+
+
+AFTER THE STORY
+
+
+
+1.--The Lawyer’s Apology.
+
+
+That a woman of my wife’s mature years should be jealous of one of the
+most exemplary husbands that the records of matrimony can produce is,
+to say the least of it, a discouraging circumstance. A man forgets
+that virtue is its own reward, and asks, What is the use of conjugal
+fidelity?
+
+However, the motto of married life is (or ought to be): Peace at any
+price. I have been this day relieved from the condition of secrecy that
+has been imposed on me. You insisted on an explanation some time since.
+Here it is at last.
+
+For the ten-thousandth time, my dear, in our joint lives, you are again
+right. That letter, marked private, which I received at the domestic
+tea-table, was what you positively declared it to be, a letter from a
+lady--a charming lady, plunged in the deepest perplexity. We had been
+well known to each other for many years, as lawyer and client. She
+wanted advice on this occasion also--and wanted it in the strictest
+confidence. Was it consistent with my professional duty to show her
+letter to my wife? Mrs. Sarrazin says Yes; Mrs. Sarrazin’s husband says
+No.
+
+Let me add that the lady was a person of unblemished reputation, and
+that she was placed in a false position through no fault of her own.
+In plain English, she was divorced. Ah, my dear (to speak in the vivid
+language of the people), do you smell a rat?
+
+Yes: my client was Mrs. Norman; and to her pretty cottage in the country
+I betook myself the next day. There I found my excellent friend Randal
+Linley, present by special invitation.
+
+Stop a minute. Why do I write all this, instead of explaining myself
+by word of mouth? My love, you are a member of an old and illustrious
+family; you honored me when you married me; and you have (as your father
+told me on our wedding day) the high and haughty temper of your race.
+I foresee an explosion of this temper, and I would rather have my
+writing-paper blown up than be blown up myself.
+
+Is this a cowardly confession on my part? All courage, Mrs. Sarrazin, is
+relative; the bravest man living has a cowardly side to his character,
+though it may not always be found out. Some years ago, at a public
+dinner, I sat next to an officer in the British army. At one time in
+his life he had led a forlorn hope. At another time, he had picked up a
+wounded soldier, and had carried him to the care of the surgeons through
+a hail-storm of the enemy’s bullets. Hot courage and cool courage, this
+true hero possessed both. _I_ saw the cowardly side of his character. He
+lost his color; perspiration broke out on his forehead; he trembled; he
+talked nonsense; he was frightened out of his wits. And all for what?
+Because he had to get on his legs and make a speech!
+
+Well: Mrs. Norman, and Randal Linley, and I, sat down to our
+consultation at the cottage.
+
+What did my fair client want?
+
+She contemplated marrying for the second time, and she wanted my advice
+as a lawyer, and my encouragement as an old friend. I was quite ready; I
+only waited for particulars. Mrs. Norman became dreadfully embarrassed,
+and said: “I refer you to my brother-in-law.”
+
+I looked at Randal. “Once her brother-in-law, no doubt,” I said; “but
+after the Divorce--” My friend stopped me there. “After the Divorce,” he
+remarked, “I may be her brother-in-law again.”
+
+If this meant anything, it meant that she was actually going to marry
+Herbert Linley again. This was too ridiculous. “If it’s a joke,” I said,
+“I have heard better fun in my time. If it’s only an assertion, I don’t
+believe it.”
+
+“Why not?” Randal asked.
+
+“Saying I do want you, in one breath--and I don’t want you, in
+another--seems to be a little hard on Divorce,” I ventured to suggest.
+
+“Don’t expect _me_ to sympathize with Divorce,” Randal said.
+
+I answered that smartly. “No; I’ll wait till you are married.”
+
+He took it seriously. “Don’t misunderstand me,” he replied. “Where there
+is absolute cruelty, or where there is deliberate desertion, on the
+husband’s part, I see the use and the reason for Divorce. If the unhappy
+wife can find an honorable man who will protect her, or an honorable man
+who will offer her a home, Society and Law, which are responsible for
+the institution of marriage, are bound to allow a woman outraged
+under the shelter of their institution to marry again. But, where the
+husband’s fault is sexual frailty, I say the English law which refuses
+Divorce on that ground alone is right, and the Scotch law which grants
+it is wrong. Religion, which rightly condemns the sin, pardons it on the
+condition of true penitence. Why is a wife not to pardon it for the
+same reason? Why are the lives of a father, a mother, and a child to be
+wrecked, when those lives may be saved by the exercise of the first of
+Christian virtues--forgiveness of injuries? In such a case as this I
+regret that Divorce exists; and I rejoice when husband and wife and
+child are one flesh again, re-united by the law of Nature, which is the
+law of God.”
+
+I might have disputed with him; but I thought he was right. I also
+wanted to make sure of the facts. “Am I really to understand,” I asked,
+“that Mr. Herbert Linley is to be this lady’s husband for the second
+time?”
+
+“If there is no lawful objection to it,” Randal said--“decidedly Yes.”
+
+My good wife, in all your experience you never saw your husband stare
+as he stared at that moment. Here was a lady divorced by her own lawful
+desire and at her own personal expense, thinking better of it after no
+very long interval, and proposing to marry the man again. Was there ever
+anything so grossly improbable? Where is the novelist who would be bold
+enough to invent such an incident as this?
+
+Never mind the novelist. How did it end?
+
+Of course it could only end in one way, so far as I was concerned. The
+case being without precedent in my experience, I dropped my professional
+character at the outset. Speaking next as a friend, I had only to say
+to Mrs. Norman: “The Law has declared you and Mr. Herbert Linley to be
+single people. Do what other single people do. Buy a license, and give
+notice at a church--and by all means send wedding cards to the judge who
+divorced you.”
+
+Said; and, in another fortnight, done. Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Linley were
+married again this morning; and Randal and I were the only witnesses
+present at the ceremony, which was strictly private.
+
+
+
+2.--The Lawyer’s Defense.
+
+
+
+I wonder whether the foregoing pages of my writing-paper have been torn
+to pieces and thrown into the waste-paper basket? You wouldn’t litter
+the carpet. No. I may be torn in pieces, but I do you justice for all
+that.
+
+What are the objections to the divorced husband and wife becoming
+husband and wife again? Mrs. Presty has stated them in the following
+order. Am I wrong in assuming that, on this occasion at least, you will
+agree with Mrs. Presty?
+
+First Objection: Nobody has ever done such a thing before.
+
+Second Objection: Penitent or not penitent, Mr. Herbert Linley doesn’t
+deserve it.
+
+Third Objection: No respectable person will visit them.
+
+First Reply: The question is not whether the thing has been done before,
+but whether the doing of the thing is right in itself There is no clause
+in the marriage service forbidding a wife to forgive her husband; but
+there is a direct prohibition to any separation between them. It is,
+therefore, not wrong to forgive Mr. Herbert Linley, and it is absolutely
+right to marry him again.
+
+Second Reply: When their child brings him home, and takes it for granted
+that her father and mother should live together, _because_ they are her
+father and mother, innocent Kitty has appealed from the Law of Divorce
+to the Law of Nature. Whether Herbert Linley has deserved it or whether
+he has not, there he is in the only fit place for him--and there is an
+end of the second objection.
+
+Third Reply: A flat contradiction to the assertion that no respectable
+person will visit her. Mrs. Sarrazin will visit her. Yes, you will, my
+dear! Not because I insist upon it--Do I ever insist on anything?
+No; you will act on your own responsibility, out of compassion for a
+misguided old woman. Judge for yourself when you read what follows, if
+Mrs. Presty is not sadly in need of the good example of an ornament to
+her sex.
+
+The Evil Genius of the family joined us in the cottage parlor when our
+consultations had come to an end. I had the honor of communicating the
+decision at which we had arrived. Mrs. Presty marched to the door; and,
+from that commanding position, addressed a few farewell remarks to her
+daughter.
+
+“I have done with you, Catherine. You have reached the limits of my
+maternal endurance at last. I shall set up my own establishment, and
+live again--in memory--with Mr. Norman and Mr. Presty. May you be happy.
+I don’t anticipate it.”
+
+She left the room--and came back again for a last word, addressed this
+time to Randal Linley.
+
+“When you next see your friend, Captain Bennydeck, give him my
+compliments, Mr. Randal, and say I congratulate him on having been
+jilted by my daughter. It would have been a sad thing, indeed, if such a
+sensible man had married an idiot. Good-morning.”
+
+She left the room again, and came back again for another last word,
+addressed on this occasion to me. Her better nature made an effort to
+express itself, not altogether without success.
+
+“I think it is quite likely, Mr. Sarrazin, that some dreadful misfortune
+will fall on my daughter, as the punishment of her undutiful disregard
+of her mother’s objections. In that case, I shall feel it my duty to
+return and administer maternal consolation. When you write, address me
+at my banker’s. I make allowances for a lawyer, sir; I don’t blame You.”
+
+She opened the door for the third time--stepped out, and stepped back
+again into the room--suddenly gave her daughter a fierce
+kiss--returned to the door--shook her fist at Mrs. Linley with a
+theatrically-threatening gesture--said, “Unnatural child!”--and, after
+this exhibition of her better nature, and her worse, left us at last.
+When you visit the remarried pair on their return from their second
+honeymoon, take Mrs. Presty with you.
+
+
+
+3.--The Lawyer’s Last Word.
+
+
+“When you force this ridiculous and regrettable affair on my attention”
+ (I think I hear Mrs. Sarrazin say), “the least you can do is to make
+your narrative complete. But perhaps you propose to tell me personally
+what has become of Kitty, and what well-deserved retribution has
+overtaken Miss Westerfield.”
+
+No: I propose in this case also to communicate my information in
+writing--at the safe distance from home of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
+
+Kitty accompanies her father and mother to the Continent, of course. But
+she insisted on first saying good-by to the dear friend, once the dear
+governess, whom she loves. Randal and I volunteered to take her (with
+her mother’s ready permission) to see Miss Westerfield. Try not to be
+angry. Try not to tear me up.
+
+We found Captain Bennydeck and his pretty secretary enjoying a little
+rest and refreshment, after a long morning’s work for the good of the
+Home. The Captain was carving the chicken; and Sydney, by his side, was
+making the salad. The house-cat occupied a third chair, with her eyes
+immovably fixed on the movements of the knife and fork. Perhaps I was
+thinking of sad past days. Anyway, it seemed to me to be as pretty a
+domestic scene as a man could wish to look at. The arrival of Kitty made
+the picture complete.
+
+Our visit was necessarily limited by a due remembrance of the hour of
+departure, by an early tidal train. Kitty’s last words to Sydney bade
+her bear their next meeting in mind, and not be melancholy at only
+saying good-by for a time. Like all children, she asks strange
+questions. When we were out in the street again, she said to her uncle:
+“Do you think my nice Captain will marry Syd?”
+
+Randal had noticed, in Captain Bennydeck’s face, signs which betrayed
+that the bitterest disappointment of his life was far from being a
+forgotten disappointment yet. If it had been put by any other person,
+poor Kitty’s absurd question might have met with a bitter reply. As it
+was, her uncle only said: “My dear child, that is no business of yours
+or mine.”
+
+Not in the least discouraged, Kitty turned to me. “What do _you_ think,
+Samuel?”
+
+I followed Randal’s lead, and answered, “How should I know?”
+
+The child looked from one to the other of us. “Shall I tell you what I
+think?” she said, “I think you are both of you humbugs.”
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Evil Genius, by Wilkie Collins
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