Book: The Evil Genius

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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 l 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."

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