Book: The Evil Genius

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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 ton es 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.

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