Book: The Evil Genius

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The secret of Sydney's triumph over adverse circumstances lay
hidden in Sydney herself.

Everything in the ordinary routine of life at Mount Morven was a
source of delight and surprise to the unfortunate creature who
had passed through six years of cruelty, insult, and privation at
her aunt's school. Look where she might, in her new sphere of
action, she saw pleasant faces and heard kind words. At meal
times, wonderful achievements in the art of cookery appeared on
the table which she had not only never tasted, but never even
heard of. When she went out walking with her pupil they were free
to go where they pleased, without restriction of time--except the
time of dinner. To breathe the delicious air, to look at the
glorious scenery, were enjoyments so exquisitely exhilarating
that, by Sydney's own confession, she became quite light headed
with pleasure. She ran races with Kitty--and nobody reproved her.
She rested, out of breath, while the stronger child was ready to
run on--and no merciless voice cried "None of your laziness;
time's up!" Wild flowers that she had never yet seen might be
gathered, and no offense was committed. Kitty told her the names
of the flowers, and the names of the summer insects that flashed
and hummed in the hillside breezes; and was so elated at teaching
her governess that her rampant spirits burst out in singing.
"Your turn next," the joyous child cried, when she too was out of
breath. "Sing, Sydney--sing!" Alas for Sydney! She had not sung
since those happiest days of her childhood, when her good father
had told her fairy stories, and taught her songs. They were all
forgotten now. "I can't sing, Kitty; I can't sing." The pupil,
hearing this melancholy confession, became governess once more.
"Say the words, Syd; and hum the tune after me." They laughed
over the singing lesson, until the echoes of the hills mocked
them, and laughed too. Looking into the schoolroom, one day, Mrs.
Linley found that the serious business of teaching was not
neglected. The lessons went on smoothly, without an obstacle in
the way. Kitty was incapable of disappointing her friend and
playfellow, who made learning easy with a smile and a kiss. The
balance of authority was regulated to perfection in the lives of
these two simple creatures. In the schoolroom, the governess
taught the child. Out of the schoolroom, the child taught the
governess. Division of labor was a principle in perfect working
order at Mount Morven--and nobody suspected it! But, as the weeks
followed each other, one more remarkable circumstance presented
itself which every person in the household was equally quick to
observe. The sad Sydney Westerfield whom they all pitied had now
become the pretty Sydney Westerfield whom they all admired. It
was not merely a change--it was a transformation. Kitty stole the
hand-glass from her mother's room, and insisted that her
governess should take it and look at herself. "Papa says you're
as plump as a partridge; and mamma says you're as fresh as a
rose; and Uncle Randal wags his head, and tells them he saw it
from the first. I heard it all when they thought I was playing
with my doll--and I want to know, you best of nice girls, what
you think of your own self?"

"I think, my dear, it's time we went on with our lessons."

"Wait a little, Syd; I have something else to say."

"What is it?"

"It's about papa. He goes out walking with us--doesn't he?"

"Yes."

"He didn't go out walking with me--before you came here. I've
been thinking about it; and I'm sure papa likes you. What are you
looking in the drawer for?"

"For your lesson books, dear."

"Yes--but I haven't quite done yet. Papa talks a good deal to
you, and you don't talk much to papa. Don't you like him?"

"Oh, Kitty!"

"Then do you like him?"

"How can I help liking him? I owe all my happiness to your papa."

"Do you like him better than mamma?"

"I should be very ungrateful, if I liked anybody better than your
mamma."

Kitty considered a little, and shook her head. "I don't
understand that," she declared roundly. "What do you mean?"

Sydney cleaned the pupil's slate, and set the pupil's sum--and
said nothing.

Kitty placed a suspicious construction of her own on her
governess's sudden silence. "Perhaps you don't like my wanting to
know so many things," she suggested. "Or perhaps you meant to
puzzle me?"

Sydney sighed, and answered, "I'm puzzled myself."



Chapter VII.


Sydney Suffers.

In the autumn holiday-time friends in the south, who happened to
be visiting Scotland, were invited to stop at Mount Morven on
their way to the Highlands; and were accustomed to meet the
neighbors of the Linleys at dinner on their arrival. The time for
this yearly festival had now come round again; the guests were in
the house; and Mr. and Mrs. Linley were occupied in making their
arrangements for the dinner-party. With her unfailing
consideration for every one about her, Mrs. Linley did not forget
Sydney while she was sending out her cards of invitation. "Our
table will be full at dinner," she said to her husband; "Miss
Westerfield had better join us in the evening with Kitty."

"I suppose so," Linley answered with some hesitation.

"You seem to doubt about it, Herbert. Why?"

"I was only wondering--"

"Wondering about what?"

"Has Miss Westerfield got a gown, Catherine, that will do for a
party?"

Linley's wife looked at him as if she doubted the evidence of her
own senses. "Fancy a man thinking of that!" she exclaimed.
"Herbert, you astonish me."

He laughed uneasily. "I don't know how I came to think of
it--unless it is that she wears the same dress every day. Very
neat; but (perhaps I'm wrong) a little shabby too."

"Upon my word, you pay Miss Westerfield a compliment which you
have never paid to me! Wear what I may, you never seem to know
how _I_ am dressed."

"I beg your pardon, Catherine, I know that you are always dressed
well."

That little tribute restored him to his place in his wife's
estimation. "I may tell you now," she resumed, with her gentle
smile, "that you only remind me of what I had thought of already.
My milliner is at work for Miss Westerfield. The new dress must
be your gift."

"Are you joking?"

"I am in earnest. To-morrow is Sydney's birthday; and here is
_my_ present." She opened a jeweler's case, and took out a plain
gold bracelet. "Suggested by Kitty," she added, pointing to an
inlaid miniature portrait of the child. Herbert read the
inscription: _To Sydney Westerfield with Catherine Linley's
love._ He gave the bracelet back to his wife in silence; his
manner was more serious than usual--he kissed her hand.

The day of the dinner-party marked an epoch in Sydney's life.

For the first time, in all her past experience, she could look in
the glass, and see herself prettily dressed, with a gold bracelet
on her arm. If we consider how men (in one way) and milliners (in
another) profit by it, vanity is surely to be reckoned, not among
the vices but among the virtues of the sex. Will any woman, who
speaks the truth, hesitate to acknowledge that her first
sensations of gratified vanity rank among the most exquisite and
most enduring pleasures that she has ever felt? Sydney locked her
door, and exhibited herself to herself--in the front view, the
side view, and the back view (over the shoulder) with eyes that
sparkled and cheeks that glowed in a delicious confusion of pride
and astonishment. She practiced bowing to strangers in her new
dress; she practiced shaking hands gracefully, with her bracelet
well in view. Suddenly she stood still before the glass and
became serious and thoughtful. Kind and dear Mr. Linley was in
her mind now. While she was asking herself anxiously what he
would think of her, Kitty--arrayed in _her_ new finery, as vain
and as happy as her governess--drummed with both fists outside
the door, and announced at the top of her voice that it was time
to go downstairs. Sydney's agitation at the prospect of meeting
the ladies in the drawing-room added a charm of its own to the
flush that her exercises before the glass had left on her face.
Shyly following instead of leading her little companion into the
room, she presented such a charming appearance of youth and
beauty that the ladies paused in their talk to look at her. Some
few admired Kitty's governess with generous interest; the greater
number doubted Mrs. Linley's prudence in engaging a girl so very
pretty and so very young. Little by little, Sydney's
manner--simple, modest, shrinking from observation--pleaded in
her favor even with the ladies who had been prejudiced against
her at the outset. When Mrs. Linley presented her to the guests,
the most beautiful woman among them (Mrs. MacEdwin) made room for
her on the sofa, and with perfect tact and kindness set the
stranger at her ease. When the gentlemen came in from the
dinner-table, Sydney was composed enough to admire the brilliant
scene, and to wonder again, as she had wondered already, what Mr.
Linley would say to her new dress.

Mr. Linley certainly did notice her--at a distance.

He looked at her with a momentary fervor of interest and
admiration which made Sydney (so gratefully and so guiltlessly
attached to him) tremble with pleasure; he even stepped forward
as if to approach her, checked himself, and went back again among
his guests. Now, in one part of the room, and now in another, she
saw him speaking to them. The one neglected person whom he never
even looked at again, was the poor girl to whom his approval was
the breath of her life. Had she ever felt so unhappy as she felt
now? No, not even at her aunt's school!

Friendly Mrs. MacEdwin touched her arm. "My dear, you are losing
your pretty color. Are you overcome by the heat? Shall I take you
into the next room?"

Sydney expressed her sincere sense of the lady's kindness. Her
commonplace excuse was a true excuse--she had a headache; and she
asked leave to retire to her room.

Approaching the door, she found herself face to face with Mr.
Linley. He had just been giving directions to one of the
servants, and was re-entering the drawing-room. She stopped,
trembling and cold; but, in the very intensity of her
wretchedness, she found courage enough to speak to him.

"You seem to avoid me, Mr. Linley," she began, addressing him
with ceremonious respect, and keeping her eyes on the ground. "I
hope--" she hesitated, and desperately looked at him--"I hope I
haven't done anything to offend you?"

In her knowledge of him, up to that miserable evening, he
constantly spoke to her with a smile. She had never yet seen him
so serious and so inattentive as he was now. His eyes, wandering
round the room, rested on Mrs. Linley--brilliant and beautiful,
and laughing gayly. Why was he looking at his wife with plain
signs of embarrassment in his face? Sydney piteously persisted in
repeating her innocent question: "I hope I haven't done anything
to offend you?"

He seemed to be still reluctant to notice her--on the one
occasion of all others when she was looking her best! But he
answered at last.

"My dear child, it is impossible that you should offend me; you
have misunderstood and mistaken me. Don't suppose--pray don't
suppose that I am changed or can ever be changed toward you."

He emphasized the kind intention which those words revealed by
giving her his hand.

But the next moment he drew back. There was no disguising it, he
drew back as if he wished to get away from her. She noticed that
his lips were firmly closed and his eyebrows knitted in a frown;
he looked like a man who was forcing himself to submit to some
hard necessity that he hated or feared.

Sydney left the room in despair.

He had denied in the plainest and kindest terms that he was
changed toward her. Was that not enough? It was nothing like
enough. The facts were there to speak for themselves: he was an
altered man; anxiety, sorrow, remorse--one or the other seemed to
have got possession of him. Judging by Mrs. Linley's gayety of
manner, his wife could not possibly have been taken into his
confidence.

What did it mean? Oh, the useless, hopeless question! And yet,
again and again she asked herself: what did it mean?

In bewildered wretchedness she lingered on the way to her room,
and stopped at the end of a corridor.

On her right hand, a broad flight of old oak stairs led to the
bed-chambers on the second floor of the house. On her left hand,
an open door showed the stone steps which descended to the
terrace and the garden. The moonlight lay in all its loveliness
on the flower-beds and the grass, and tempted her to pause and
admire it. A prospect of sleepless misery was the one prospect
before her that Sydney could see, if she retired to rest. The
cool night air came freshly up the vaulted tunnel in which the
steps were set; the moonlit garden offered its solace to the
girl's sore heart. No curious women-servants appeared on the
stairs that led to the bed-chambers. No inquisitive eyes could
look at her from the windows of the ground floor--a solitude
abandoned to the curiosity of tourists. Sydney took her hat and
cloak from the stand in a recess at the side of the door, and
went into the garden.


Chapter VIII.

Mrs. Presty Makes a Discovery.


The dinner-party had come to an end; the neighbors had taken
their departure; and the ladies at Mount Morven had retired
for the night.

On the way to her room Mrs. Presty knocked at her daughter's
door. "I want to speak to you, Catherine. Are you in bed?"

"No, mamma. Come in."

Robed in a dressing-gown of delicately-mingled white and blue,
and luxuriously accommodated on the softest pillows that could be
placed in an armchair, Mrs. Linley was meditating on the events
of the evening. "This has been the most successful party we have
ever given," she said to her mother. "And did you notice how
charmingly pretty Miss Westerfield looked in her new dress?"

"It's about that girl I want to speak to you," Mrs. Presty
answered, severely. "I had a higher opinion of her when she first
came here than I have now."

Mrs. Linley pointed to an open door, communicating with a second
and smaller bed-chamber. "Not quite so loud," she answered, "or
you might wake Kitty. What has Miss Westerfield done to forfeit
your good opinion?"

Discreet Mrs. Presty asked leave to return to the subject at a
future opportunity.

"I will merely allude now," she said, "to a change for the worse
in your governess, which you might have noticed when she left the
drawing-room this evening. She had a word or two with Herbert at
the door; and she left him looking as black as thunder."

Mrs. Linley laid herself back on her pillows and burst out
laughing. "Black as thunder? Poor little Sydney, what a
ridiculous description of her! I beg your pardon, mamma; don't be
offended."

"On the contrary, my dear, I am agreeably surprised. Your poor
father--a man of remarkable judgment on most subjects--never
thought much of your intelligence. He appears to have been wrong;
you have evidently inherited some of my sense of humor. However,
that is not what I wanted to say; I am the bearer of good news.
When we find it necessary to get rid of Miss Westerfield--"

Mrs. Linley's indignation expressed itself by a look which, for
the moment at least, reduced her mother to silence. Always equal
to the occasion, however, Mrs. Presty's face assumed an
expression of innocent amazement, which would have produced a
round of applause on the stage. "What have I said to make you
angry?" she inquired. "Surely, my dear, you and your husband are
extraordinary people."

"Do you mean to tell me, mamma, that you have said to Herbert
what you said just now to me?"

"Certainly. I mentioned it to Herbert in the course of the
evening. He was excessively rude. He said: 'Tell Mrs. MacEdwin to
mind her own business--and set her the example yourself.'"

Mrs. Linley returned her mother's look of amazement, without her
mother's eye for dramatic effect. "What has Mrs. MacEdwin to do
with it?" she asked.

"If you will only let me speak, Catherine, I shall be happy to
explain myself. You saw Mrs. MacEdwin talking to me at the party.
That good lady's head--a feeble head, as all her friends
admit--has been completely turned by Miss Westerfield. 'The first
duty of a governess' (this foolish woman said to me) 'is to win
the affections of her pupils. _My_ governess has entirely failed
to make the children like her. A dreadful temper; I have given
her notice to leave my service. Look at that sweet girl and your
little granddaughter! I declare I could cry when I see how they
understand each other and love each other.' I quote our charming
friend's nonsense, verbatim (as we used to say when we were in
Parliament in Mr. Norman's time), for the sake of what it led to.
If, by any lucky chance, Miss Westerfield happens to be
disengaged in the future, Mrs. MacEdwin's house is open to
her--at her own time, and on her own terms. I promised to speak
to you on the subject, and I perform my promise. Think over it; I
strongly advise you to think over it."

Even Mrs. Linley's good nature declined to submit to this. "I
shall certainly not think over what cannot possibly happen," she
said. "Good-night, mamma."

"Good-night, Catherine. Your temper doesn't seem to improve as
you get older. Perhaps the excitement of the party has been too
much for your nerves. Try to get some sleep before Herbert comes
up from the smoking-room and disturbs you."

Mrs. Linley refused even to let this pass unanswered. "Herbert is
too considerate to disturb me, when his friends keep him up
late," she said. "On those occasions, as you may see for
yourself, he has a bed in his dressing-room."

Mrs. Presty passed through the dressing-room on her way out. "A
very comfortable-looking bed," she remarked, in a tone intended
to reach her daughter's ears. "I wonder Herbert ever leaves it."

The way to her own bed-chamber led her by the door of Sydney's
room. She suddenly stopped; the door was not shut. This was in
itself a suspicious circumstance.

Young or old, ladies are not in the habit of sleeping with their
bedroom doors ajar. A strict sense of duty led Mrs. Presty to
listen outside. No sound like the breathing of a person asleep
was to be heard. A strict sense of duty conducted Mrs. Presty
next into the room, and even encouraged her to approach the bed
on tip-toe. The bed was empty; the clothes had not been disturbed
since it had been made in the morning!

The old lady stepped out into the corridor in a state of
excitement, which greatly improved her personal appearance. She
looked almost young again as she mentally reviewed the list of
vices and crimes which a governess might commit, who had retired
before eleven o'clock, and was not in her bedroom at twelve. On
further reflection, it appeared to be barely possible that Miss
Westerfield might be preparing her pupil's exercises for the next
day. Mrs. Presty descended to the schoolroom on the first floor.

No. Here again there was nothing to see but an empty room.

Where was Miss Westerfield?

Was it within the limits of probability that she had been bold
enough to join the party in the smoking-room? The bare idea was
absurd.

In another minute, nevertheless, Mrs. Presty was at the door,
listening. The men's voices were loud: they were talking
politics. She peeped through the keyhole; the smokers had, beyond
all doubt, been left to themselves. If the house had not been
full of guests, Mrs. Presty would now have raised an alarm. As
things were, the fear of a possible scandal which the family
might have reason to regret forced her to act with caution. In
the suggestive retirement of her own room, she arrived at a wise
and wary decision. Opening her door by a few inches, she placed a
chair behind the opening in a position which commanded a view of
Sydney's room. Wherever the governess might be, her return to her
bed-chamber, before the servants were astir in the morning, was a
chance to be counted on. The night-lamp in the corridor was well
alight; and a venerable person, animated by a sense of duty, was
a person naturally superior to the seductions of sleep. Before
taking the final precaution of extinguishing her candle, Mrs.
Presty touched up her complexion, and resolutely turned her back
on her nightcap. "This is a case in which I must keep up my
dignity," she decided, as she took her place in the chair.



One man in the smoking-room appeared to be thoroughly weary of
talking politics. That man was the master of the house.

Randal noticed the worn, preoccupied look in his brother's face,
and determined to break up the meeting. The opportunity for which
he was waiting occurred in another minute. He was asked as a
moderate politician to decide between two guests, both members of
Parliament, who were fast drifting into mere contradiction of
each other's second-hand opinions. In plain terms, they stated
the matter in dispute: "Which of our political parties deserves
the confidence of the English people?" In plain terms, on his
sides Randal answered: "The party that lowers the taxes." Those
words acted on the discussion like water on a fire. As members of
Parliament, the two contending politicians were naturally
innocent of the slightest interest in the people or the taxes;
they received the new idea submitted to them in helpless silence.
Friends who were listening began to laugh. The oldest man present
looked at his watch. In five minutes more the lights were out and
the smoking-room was deserted.

Linley was the last to retire--fevered by the combined
influences of smoke and noise. His mind, oppressed all through
the evening, was as ill at ease as ever. Lingering, wakeful and
irritable, in the corridor (just as Sydney had lingered before
him), he too stopped at the open door and admired the peaceful
beauty of the garden.

The sleepy servant, appointed to attend in the smoking room,
asked if he should close the door. Linley answered: "Go to bed,
and leave it to me." Still lingering at the top of the steps, he
too was tempted by the refreshing coolness of the air. He took
the key out of the lock; secured the door after he had passed
through it; put the key in his pocket, and went down into the
garden.


Chapter IX.


Somebody Attends to the Door.


With slow steps Linley crossed the lawn; his mind gloomily
absorbed in thoughts which had never before troubled his easy
nature--thoughts heavily laden with a burden of self-reproach.

Arrived at the limits of the lawn, two paths opened before him.
One led into a quaintly pretty inclosure, cultivated on the plan
of the old gardens at Versailles, and called the French Garden.
The other path led to a grassy walk, winding its way capriciously
through a thick shrubbery. Careless in what direction he turned
his steps, Linley entered the shrubbery, because it happened to
be nearest to him.

Except at certain points, where the moonlight found its way
through open spaces in the verdure, the grassy path which he was
now following wound onward in shadow. How far he had advanced he
had not noticed, when he heard a momentary rustling of leaves at
some little distance in advance of him. The faint breeze had died
away; the movement among the leaves had been no doubt produced by
the creeping or the flying of some creature of the night. Looking
up, at the moment when he was disturbed by this trifling
incident, he noticed a bright patch of moonlight ahead as he
advanced to a new turn in the path.

The instant afterward he was startled by the appearance of a
figure, emerging into the moonlight from the further end of the
shrubbery, and rapidly approaching him. He was near enough to see
that it was the figure of a woman. Was it one of the female
servants, hurrying back to the house after an interview with a
sweetheart? In his black evening dress, he was, in all
probability, completely hidden by the deep shadow in which he
stood. Would he be less likely to frighten the woman if he called
to her than if he allowed her to come close up to him in the
dark? He decided on calling to her.

"Who is out so late?" he asked.

A cry of alarm answered him. The figure stood still for a moment,
and then turned back as if to escape him by flight.

"Don't be frightened," he said. "Surely you know my voice?"

The figure stood still again. He showed himself in the moonlight,
and discovered--Sydney Westerfield.

"You!" he exclaimed.

She trembled; the words in which she answered him were words in
fragments.

"The garden was so quiet and pretty--I thought there would be no
harm--please let me go back--I'm afraid I shall be shut out--"

She tried to pass him. "My poor child!" he said, "what is there
to be frightened about? I have been tempted out by the lovely
night, like you. Take my arm. It is so close in here among the
trees. If we go back to the lawn, the air will come to you
freely."

She took his arm; he could feel her heart throbbing against it.
Kindly silent, he led her back to the open space. Some garden
chairs were placed here and there; he suggested that she should
rest for a while.

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