Book: The Evil Genius

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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 today. 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.

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