Book: The Evil Genius

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As they ascended the stairs together, Linley found that his wife
had a reason of her own for leaving the drawing-room.

"I am quite weary enough to go to bed," she explained. "But I
wanted to speak to you first. It's about Miss Westerfield. (No,
no, we needn't stop on the landing.) Do you know, I think I have
found out what has altered our little governess so strangely--I
seem to startle you?"

"No."

"I am only astonished," Mrs. Linley resumed, "at my own stupidity
in not having discovered it before. We must be kinder than ever
to the poor girl now; can't you guess why? My dear, how dull you
are! Must I remind you that we have had two single men among our
visitors? One of them is old and doesn't matter. But the other--I
mean Sir George, of course--is young, handsome, and agreeable. I
am so sorry for Sydney Westerfield. It's plain to me that she is
hopelessly in love with a man who has run through his fortune,
and must marry money if he marries at all. I shall speak to
Sydney to-morrow; and I hope and trust I shall succeed in winning
her confidence. Thank Heaven, here we are at my door at last! I
can't say more now; I'm ready to drop. Good-night, dear; you look
tired, too. It's a nice thing to have friends, I know; but, oh,
what a relief it is sometimes to get rid of them!"

She kissed him, and let him go.

Left by himself, to compare his wife's innocent mistake with the
terrible enlightenment that awaited her, Linley's courage failed
him. He leaned on the quaintly-carved rail that protected the
outer side of the landing, and looked down at the stone hall far
below. If the old woodwork (he thought) would only give way under
his weight, there would be an escape from the coming catastrophe,
found in an instant.

A timely remembrance of Sydney recalled him to himself. For her
sake, he was bound to prevent Mrs. Presty's contemplated
interview with his wife on the next morning.

Descending the stairs, he met his brother in the corridor on the
first floor.

"The very man I want to see," Randal said. "Tell me, Herbert,
what is the matter with that curious old woman?"

"Do you mean Mrs. Presty?"

"Yes. She has just been telling me that our friend Mrs. MacEdwin
has taken a fancy to Miss Westerfield, and would be only too glad
to deprive us of our pretty governess."

"Did Mrs. Presty say that in Miss Westerfield's presence?"

"No. Soon after you and Catherine left the room, Miss Westerfield
left it too. I daresay I am wrong, for I haven't had time to
think of it; but Mrs. Presty's manner suggested to me that she
would be glad to see the poor girl sent out of the house."

"I am going to speak to her, Randal, on that very subject. Is she
still in the drawing-room?"

"Yes."

"Did she say anything more to you?"

"I didn't give her the chance; I don't like Mrs. Presty. You look
worn and worried, Herbert. Is there anything wrong?"

"If there is, my dear fellow, you will hear of it tomorrow."

So they parted.

Comfortably established in the drawing-room, Mrs. Presty had just
opened her favorite newspaper. Her only companion was Linley's
black poodle, resting at her feet. On the opening of the door,
the dog rose--advanced to caress his master--and looked up in
Linley's face. If Mrs. Presty's attention had happened to be
turned that way, she might have seen, in the faithful creature's
sudden and silent retreat, a warning of her son-in-law's humor at
that moment. But she was, or assumed to be, interested in her
reading; and she deliberately overlooked Linley's appearance.
After waiting a little to attract her attention, he quietly took
the newspaper out of her hand.

"What does this mean?" Mrs. Presty asked.

"It means, ma'am, that I have something to say to you."

"Apparently, something that can't be said with common civility?
Be as rude as you please; I am well used to it."

Linley wisely took no notice of this.

"Since you have lived at Mount Morven," he proceeded, "I think
you have found me, on the whole, an easy man to get on with. At
the same time, when I do make up my mind to be master
in my own house, I _am_ master."

Mrs. Presty crossed her hands placidly on her lap, and asked:
"Master of what?"

"Master of your suspicions of Miss Westerfield. You are free, of
course, to think of her and of me as you please. What I forbid is
the expression of your thoughts--either by way of hints to my
brother, or officious communications with my wife. Don't suppose
that I am afraid of the truth. Mrs. Linley shall know more than
you think for, and shall know it to-morrow; not from you, but
from me."

Mrs. Presty shook her head compassionately. "My good sir, surely
you know me too well to think that I am to be disposed of in that
easy way? Must I remind you that your wife's mother has 'the
cunning of the devil'?"

Linley recognized his own words. "So you were listening among the
trees!" he said.

"Yes; I was listening; and I have only to regret that I didn't
hear more. Let us return to our subject. I don't trust my
daughter's interests--my much-injured daughter's interests--in
your hands. They are not clean hands, Mr. Linley. I have a duty
to do; and I shall do it to-morrow."

"No, Mrs. Presty, you won't do it to-morrow."

"Who will prevent me?"

"I shall prevent you."

"In what way, if you please?"

"I don't think it necessary to answer that question. My servants
will have their instructions; and I shall see myself that my
orders are obeyed."

"Thank you. I begin to understand; I am to be turned out of the
house. Very well. We shall see what my daughter says."

"You know as well as I do, Mrs. Presty, that if your daughter is
forced to choose between us she will decide for her husband. You
have the night before you for consideration. I have no more to
say."

Among Mrs. Presty's merits, it is only just to reckon a capacity
for making up her mind rapidly, under stress of circumstances.
Before Linley had opened the door, on his way out, he was called
back.

"I am shocked to trouble you again," Mrs. Presty said, "but I
don't propose to interfere with my night's rest by thinking about
_you_. My position is perfectly clear to me, without wasting time
in consideration. When a man so completely forgets what is due to
the weaker sex as to threaten a woman, the woman has no
alternative but to submit. You are aware that I had arranged to
see my daughter to-morrow morning. I yield to brute force, sir.
Tell your wife that I shall not keep my appointment. Are you
satisfied?"

"Quite satisfied," Linley said--and left the room.

His mother-in-law looked after him with a familiar expression of
opinion, and a smile of supreme contempt.

"You fool!"

Only two words; and yet there seemed to be some hidden meaning in
them--relating perhaps to what might happen on the next
day--which gently tickled Mrs. Presty in the region assigned by
phrenologists to the sense of self-esteem.



Chapter XII.


Two of Them Sleep Badly.

Waiting for Sydney to come into the bedroom as usual and wish her
good-night, Kitty was astonished by the appearance of her
grandmother, entering on tiptoe from the corridor, with a small
paper parcel in her hand.

"Whisper!" said Mrs. Presty, pointing to the open door of
communication with Mrs. Linley's room. "This is your birthday
present. You mustn't look at it till you wake to-morrow morning."
She pushed the parcel under the pillow--and, instead of saying
good-night, took a chair and sat down.

"May I show my present," Kitty asked, "when I go to mamma in the
morning?"

The present hidden under the paper wrapper was a sixpenny
picture-book. Kitty's grandmother disapproved of spending money
lavishly on birthday gifts to children. "Show it, of course; and
take the greatest care of it," Mrs. Presty answered gravely. "But
tell me one thing, my dear, wouldn't you like to see all your
presents early in the morning, like mine?"

Still smarting under the recollection of her interview with her
son-in-law, Mrs. Presty had certain ends to gain in putting this
idea into the child's head. It was her special object to raise
domestic obstacles to a private interview between the husband and
wife during the earlier hours of the day. If the gifts, usually
presented after the nursery dinner, were produced on this
occasion after breakfast, there would be a period of delay before
any confidential conversation could take place between Mr. and
Mrs. Linley. In this interval Mrs. Presty saw her opportunity of
setting Linley's authority at defiance, by rousing the first
jealous suspicion in the mind of his wife.

Innocent little Kitty became her grandmother's accomplice on the
spot. "I shall ask mamma to let me have my presents at
breakfast-time," she announced.

"And kind mamma will say Yes," Mrs. Presty chimed in. "We will
breakfast early, my precious child. Good-night."

Kitty was half asleep when her governess entered the room
afterward, much later than usual. "I thought you had forgotten
me," she said, yawning and stretching out her plump little arms.

Sydney's heart ached when she thought of the separation that was
to come with the next day; her despair forced its way to
expression in words.

"I wish I could forget you," she answered, in reckless
wretchedness.

The child was still too drowsy to hear plainly. "What did you
say?" she asked. Sydney gently lifted her in the bed, and kissed
her again and again. Kitty's sleepy eyes opened in surprise. "How
cold your hands are!" she said; "and how often you kiss me. What
is it you have come to say to me--good-night or good-by?"

Sydney laid her down again on the pillow, gave her a last kiss,
and ran out of the room.

In the corridor she heard Linley's voice on the lower floor. He
was asking one of the servants if Miss Westerfield was in the
house or in the garden. Her first impulse was to advance to the
stairs and to answer his question. In a moment more the
remembrance of Mrs. Linley checked her. She went back to her
bed-chamber. The presents that she had received, since her
arrival at Mount Morven, were all laid out so that they could be
easily seen by any person entering the room, after she had left
the house. On the sofa lay the pretty new dress which she had
worn at the evening party. Other little gifts were arranged on
either side of it. The bracelet, resting on the pedestal of a
statue close by, kept a morsel of paper in its place--on which
she had written a few penitent words of farewell addressed to
Mrs. Linley. On the toilet-table three photographic portraits
showed themselves among the brushes and combs. She sat down, and
looked first at the likenesses of Mrs. Linley and Kitty.

Had she any right to make those dear faces her companions in the
future?

She hesitated; her tears dropped on the photographs. "They're as
good as spoiled now," she thought; "they're no longer fit for
anybody but me." She paused, and abruptly took up the third and
last photograph--the likeness of Herbert Linley.

Was it an offense, now, even to look at his portrait? No idea of
leaving it behind her was in her mind. Her resolution vibrated
between two miseries--the misery of preserving her keep-sake
after she had parted from him forever, and the misery of
destroying it. Resigned to one more sacrifice, she took the card
in both hands to tear it up. It would have been scattered in
pieces on the floor, but for the chance which had turned the
portrait side of the card toward her instead of the back. Her
longing eyes stole a last look at him--a frenzy seized her--she
pressed her lips to the photograph in a passion of hopeless love.
"What does it matter?" she asked herself. "I'm nothing but the
ignorant object of his kindness--the poor fool who could see no
difference between gratitude and love. Where is the harm of
having him with me when I am starving in the streets, or dying in
the workhouse?" The fervid spirit in her that had never known a
mother's loving discipline, never thrilled to the sympathy of a
sister-friend, rose in revolt against the evil destiny which had
imbittered her life. Her eyes still rested on the photograph.
"Come to my heart, my only friend, and kill me!" As those wild
words escaped her, she thrust the card furiously into the bosom
of her dress--and threw herself on the floor. There was something
in the mad self-abandonment of that action which mocked the
innocent despair of her childhood, on the day when her mother
left her at the cruel mercy of her aunt.

That night was a night of torment in secret to another person at
Mount Morven.

Wandering, in his need of self-isolation, up and down the dreary
stone passages in the lower part of the house, Linley counted the
hours, inexorably lessening the interval between him and the
ordeal of confession to his wife. As yet, he had failed to find
the opportunity of addressing to Sydney the only words of
encouragement he could allow to pass his lips: he had asked for
her earlier in the evening, and nobody could tell him where she
was. Still in ignorance of the refuge which she might by bare
possibility hope to find in Mrs. MacEdwin's house, Sydney was
spared the torturing doubts which now beset Herbert Linley's
mind. Would the noble woman whom they had injured allow their
atonement to plead for them, and consent to keep their miserable
secret? Might they still put their trust in that generous nature
a few hours hence? Again and again those questions confronted
Linley; and again and again he shrank from attempting to answer
them.



Chapter XIII.


Kitty Keeps Her Birthday.

They were all assembled as usual at the breakfast-table.

Preferring the request suggested to her by Mrs. Presty, Kitty had
hastened the presentation of the birthday gifts, by getting into
her mother's bed in the morning, and exacting her mother's
promise before she would consent to get out again. By her own
express wish, she was left in ignorance of what the presents
would prove to be. "Hide them from me," said this young epicure
in pleasurable sensations, "and make me want to see them until I
can bear it no longer." The gifts had accordingly been collected
in an embrasure of one of the windows; and the time had now
arrived when Kitty could bear it no longer.

In the procession of the presents, Mrs. Linley led the way.

She had passed behind the screen which had thus far protected the
hidden treasures from discovery, and appeared again with a vision
of beauty in the shape of a doll. The dress of this wonderful
creature exhibited the latest audacities of French fashion. Her
head made a bow; her eyes went to sleep and woke again; she had a
voice that said two words--more precious than two thousand in the
mouth of a mere living creature. Kitty's arms opened and embraced
her gift with a scream of ecstasy. That fervent pressure found
its way to the right spring. The doll squeaked: "Mamma!"--and
creaked--and cried again--and said: "Papa!" Kitty sat down on the
floor; her legs would support her no longer. "I think I shall
faint," she said quite seriously.

In the midst of the general laughter, Sydney silently placed a
new toy (a pretty little imitation of a jeweler's casket) at
Kitty's side, and drew back before the child could look at her.
Mrs. Presty was the only person present who noticed her pale face
and the trembling of her hands as she made the effort which
preserved her composure.

The doll's necklace, bracelets, and watch and chain, riveted
Kitty's attention on the casket. Just as she thought of looking
round for her dear Syd, her father produced a new outburst of
delight by presenting a perambulator worthy of the doll. Her
uncle followed with a parasol, devoted to the preservation of the
doll's complexion when she went out for an airing. Then there
came a pause. Where was the generous grandmother's gift? Nobody
remembered it; Mrs. Presty herself discovered the inestimable
sixpenny picture-book cast away and forgotten on a distant
window-seat. "I have a great mind to keep this," she said to
Kitty, "till you are old enough to value it properly." In the
moment of her absence at the window, Linley's mother-in-law lost
the chance of seeing him whisper to Sydney. "Meet me in the
shrubbery in half an hour," he said. She stepped back from him,
startled by the proposal. When Mrs. Presty was in the middle of
the room again, Linley and the governess were no longer near each
other.

Having by this time recovered herself, Kitty got on her legs.
"Now," the spoiled child declared, addressing the company
present, "I'm going to play."

The doll was put into the perambulator, and was wheeled about the
room, while Mrs. Linley moved the chairs out of the way, and
Randal attended with the open parasol--under orders to "pretend
that the sun was shining." Once more the sixpenny picture-book
was neglected. Mrs. Presty picked it up from the floor,
determined by this time to hold it in reserve until her
ungrateful grandchild reached years of discretion. She put it in
the bookcase between Byron's "Don Juan" and Butler's "Lives of
the Saints." In the position which she now occupied, Linley was
visible approaching Sydney again. "Your own interests are
seriously concerned," he whispered, "in something that I have to
tell you."

Incapable of hearing what passed between them, Mrs. Presty could
see that a secret understanding united her son-in-law and the
governess. She looked round cautiously at Mrs. Linley.

Kitty's humor had changed; she was now eager to see the doll's
splendid clothes taken off and put on again. "Come and look at
it," she said to Sydney; "I want you to enjoy my birthday as much
as I do." Left by himself, Randal got rid of the parasol by
putting it on a table near the door. Mrs. Presty beckoned to him
to join her at the further end of the room.

"I want you to do me a favor," she began.

Glancing at Linley before she proceeded, Mrs. Presty took up a
newspaper, and affected to be consulting Randal's opinion on a
passage which had attracted her attention. "Your brother is
looking our way," she whispered: "he mustn't suspect that there
is a secret between us."

False pretenses of any kind invariably irritated Randal. "What do
you want me to do?" he asked sharply.

The reply only increased his perplexity.

"Observe Miss Westerfield and your brother. Look at them now."

Randal obeyed.

"What is there to look at?" he inquired.

"Can't you see?"

"I see they are talking to each other."

"They are talking confidentially; talking so that Mrs. Linley
can't hear them. Look again."

Randal fixed his eyes on Mrs. Presty, with an expression which
showed his dislike of that lady a little too plainly. Before he
could answer what she had just said to him, his lively little
niece hit on a new idea. The sun was shining, the flowers were in
their brightest beauty--and the doll had not yet been taken into
the garden! Kitty at once led the way out; so completely
preoccupied in steering the perambulator in a straight course
that she forgot her uncle and the parasol. Only waiting to remind
her husband and Sydney that they were wasting the beautiful
summer morning indoors, Mrs. Linley followed her daughter--and
innocently placed a fatal obstacle in Mrs. Presty's way by
leaving the room. Having consulted each other by a look, Linley
and the governess went out next. Left alone with Randal, Mrs.
Presty's anger, under the complete overthrow of her
carefully-laid scheme, set restraint at defiance.

"My daughter's married life is a wreck," she burst out, pointing
theatrically to the door by which Linley and Sydney Westerfield
had retired. "And Catherine has the vile creature whom your
brother picked up in London to thank for it! Now do you
understand me?"

"Less than ever," Randal answered--"unless you have taken leave
of your senses."

Mrs. Presty recovered the command of her temper.

On that fine morning her daughter might remain in the garden
until the luncheon-bell rang. Linley had only to say that he
wished to speak with his wife; and the private interview which he
had so rudely insisted on as his sole privilege, would assuredly
take place. The one chance left of still defeating him on his own
ground was to force Randal to interfere by convincing him of his
brother's guilt. Moderation of language and composure of manner
offered the only hopeful prospect of reaching this end. Mrs.
Presty assumed the disguise of patient submission, and used the
irresistible influence of good humor and good sense.

"I don't complain, dear Randal, of what you have said to me," she
replied. "My indiscretion has deserved it. I ought to have
produced my proofs, and have left it to you to draw the
conclusion. Sit down, if you please. I won't detain you for more
than a few minutes."

Randal had not anticipated such moderation as this; he took the
chair that was nearest to Mrs. Presty. They were both now sitting
with their backs turned to the entrance from the library to the
drawing-room.

"I won't trouble you with my own impressions," Mrs. Presty went
on. "I will be careful only to mention what I have seen and
heard. If you refuse to believe me, I refer you to the guilty
persons themselves."

She had just got to the end of those introductory words when Mrs.
Linley returned, by way of the library, to fetch the forgotten
parasol.

Randal insisted on making Mrs. Presty express herself plainly.
"You speak of guilty persons," he said. "Am I to understand that
one of those guilty persons is my brother?"

Mrs. Linley advanced a step and took the parasol from the table.
Hearing what Randal said, she paused, wondering at the strange
allusion to her husband. In the meanwhile, Mrs. Presty answered
the question that had been addressed to her.

"Yes," she said to Randal; "I mean your brother, and your
brother's mistress--Sydney Westerfield."

Mrs. Linley laid the parasol back on the table, and approached
them.

She never once looked at her mother; her face, white and rigid,
was turned toward Randal. To him, and to him only, she spoke.

"What does my mother's horrible language mean?" she asked.

Mrs. Presty triumphed inwardly; chance had decided in her favor,
after all! "Don't you see," she said to her daughter, "that I am
here to answer for myself?"

Mrs. Linley still looked at Randal, and still spoke to him. "It
is impossible for me to insist on an explanation from my mother,"
she proceeded. "No matter what I may feel, I must remember that
she _is_ my mother. I ask you again--you who have been listening
to her--what does she mean?"

Mrs. Presty's sense of her own importance refused to submit to
being passed over in this way.

"However insolently you may behave, Catherine, you will not
succeed in provoking me. Your mother is bound to open your eyes
to the truth. You have a rival in your husband's affections; and
that rival is your governess. Take your own course now; I have no
more to say." With her head high in the air--looking the picture
of conscious virtue--the old lady walked out.

At the same moment Randal seized his first opportunity of
speaking.

He addressed himself gently and respectfully to his
sister-in-law. She refused to hear him. The indignation which
Mrs. Presty had roused in her made no allowances, and was blind
to all sense of right.

"Don't trouble yourself to account for your silence," she said,
most unjustly. "You were listening to my mother without a word of
remonstrance when I came into the room. You are concerned in this
vile slander, too."

Randal considerately refrained from provoking her by attempting
to defend himself, while she was incapable of understanding him.
"You will be sorry when you find that you have misjudged me," he
said, and sighed, and left her.

She dropped into a chair. If there was any one distinct thought
in her at that moment, it was the thought of her husband. She was
eager to see him; she longed to say to him: "My love, I don't
believe a word of it!" He was not in the garden when she had
returned for the parasol; and Sydney was not in the garden.
Wondering what had become of her father and her governess, Kitty
had asked the nursemaid to look for them. What had happened
since? Where had they been found? After some hesitation, Mrs.
Linley sent for the nursemaid. She felt the strongest reluctance,
when the girl appeared, to approach the very inquiries which she
was interested in making.

"Have you found Mr. Linley?" she said--with an effort.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Where did you find him?"

"In the shrubbery."

"Did your master say anything?"

"I slipped away, ma'am, before he saw me."

"Why?"

"Miss Westerfield was in the shrubbery, with my master. I might
have been mistaken--" The girl paused, and looked confused.

Mrs. Linley tried to tell her to go on. The words were in her
mind; but the capacity of giving expression to them failed her.
She impatiently made a sign. The sign was understood.

"I might have been mistaken," the maid repeated--"but I thought
Miss Westerfield was crying."

Having replied in those terms, she seemed to be anxious to get
away. The parasol caught her eye. "Miss Kitty wants this," she
said, "and wonders why you have not gone back to her in the
garden. May I take the parasol?"

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