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diff --git a/1627-0.txt b/1627-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bddd16e --- /dev/null +++ b/1627-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13613 @@ +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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EVIL GENIUS *** + +***** This file should be named 1627-0.txt or 1627-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/2/1627/ + +Produced by James Rusk + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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