Book: The Evil Genius

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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 Lornond, 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!"

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