Book: The Evil Genius

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"Take it."

The tone of the mistress's voice was completely changed. The
servant looked at her with vague misgivings. "Are you not well,
ma'am?"

"Quite well."

The servant withdrew.

Mrs. Linley's chair happened to be near one of the windows, which
commanded a view of the drive leading to the main entrance of the
house. A carriage had just arrived bringing holiday travelers to
visit that part of Mount Morven which was open to strangers. She
watched them as they got out, talking and laughing, and looking
about them. Still shrinking instinctively from the first doubt of
Herbert that had ever entered her mind, she found a refuge from
herself in watching the ordinary events of the day. One by one
the tourists disappeared under the portico of the front door. The
empty carriage was driven away next, to water the horses at the
village inn. Solitude was all she could see from the windows;
silence, horrible silence, surrounded her out of doors and in.
The thoughts from which she recoiled forced their way back into
her mind; the narrative of the nursemaid's discovery became a
burden on her memory once more. She considered the circumstances.
In spite of herself, she considered the circumstances again. Her
husband and Sydney Westerfield together in the shrubbery--and
Sydney crying. Had Mrs. Presty's abominable suspicion of them
reached their ears? or?--No! that second possibility might be
estimated at its right value by any other woman; not by Herbert
Linley's wife.

She snatched up the newspaper, and fixed her eyes on it in the
hope of fixing her mind on it next. Obstinately, desperately, she
read without knowing what she was reading. The lines of print
were beginning to mingle and grow dim, when she was startled by
the sudden opening of the door. She looked round.

Her husband entered the room.


Chapter XIV.


Kitty Feels the Heartache.


Linley advanced a few steps--and stopped.

His wife, hurrying eagerly to meet him, checked herself. It might
have been distrust, or it might have been unreasoning fear--she
hesitated on the point of approaching him.

"I have something to say, Catherine, which I'm afraid will
distress you."

His voice faltered, his eyes rested on her--then looked away
again. He said no more.

He had spoken a few commonplace words--and yet he had said
enough. She saw the truth in his eyes, heard the truth in his
voice. A fit of trembling seized her. Linley stepped forward, in
the fear that she might fall. She instantly controlled herself,
and signed to him to keep back. "Don't touch me!" she said. "You
come from Miss Westerfield!"

That reproach roused him.

"I own that I come from Miss Westerfield," he answered. "She
addresses a request to you through me."

"I refuse to grant it."

"Hear it first."

"No!"

"Hear it--in your own interest. She asks permission to leave the
house, never to return again. While she is still innocent--"

His wife eyed him with a look of unutterable contempt. He
submitted to it, but not in silence.

"A man doesn't lie, Catherine, who makes such a confession as I
am making now. Miss Westerfield offers the one atonement in her
power, while she is still innocent of having wronged you--except
in thought."

"Is that all?" Mrs. Linley asked.

"It rests with you," he replied, "to say if there is any other
sacrifice of herself which will be more acceptable to you."

"Let me understand first what the sacrifice means. Does Miss
Westerfield make any conditions?"

"She has positively forbidden me to make conditions."

"And goes out into the world, helpless and friendless?"

"Yes ."

Even under the terrible trial that wrung her, the nobility of the
woman's nature spoke in her next words.

"Give me time to think of what you have said," she pleaded. "I
have led a happy life; I am not used to suffer as I am suffering
now."

They were both silent. Kitty's voice was audible on the stairs
that led to the picture-gallery, disputing with the maid. Neither
her father nor her mother heard her.

"Miss Westerfield is innocent of having wronged me, except in
thought," Mrs. Linley resumed. "Do you tell me that on your word
of honor?"

"On my word of honor."

So far his wife was satisfied. "My governess," she said, "might
have deceived me--she has not deceived me. I owe it to her to
remember that. She shall go, but not helpless and not
friendless."

Her husband forgot the restraints he had imposed on himself.

"Is there another woman in the world like you!" he exclaimed.

"Many other women," she answered, firmly. "A vulgar termagant,
feeling a sense of injury, finds relief in an outburst of
jealousy and a furious quarrel. You have always lived among
ladies. Surely you ought to know that a wife in my position, who
respects herself, restrains herself. I try to remember what I owe
to others as well as what they owe to me."

She approached the writing table, and took up a pen.

Feeling his position acutely, Linley refrained from openly
admiring her generosity. Until he had deserved to be forgiven, he
had forfeited the right to express an opinion on her conduct. She
misinterpreted his silence. As she understood it, he appreciated
an act of self-sacrifice on Miss Westerfield's side--but he had
no word of encouragement for an act of self-sacrifice on his
wife's side. She threw down the pen, with the first outbreak of
anger that had escaped her yet.

"You have spoken for the governess," she said to him. "I haven't
heard yet, sir, what you have to say for yourself. Is it you who
tempted her? You know how gratefully she feels toward you--have
you perverted her gratitude, and led her blindfold to love?
Cruel, cruel, cruel! Defend yourself if you can."

He made no reply.

"Is it not worth your while to defend yourself?" she burst out,
passionately. "Your silence is an insult!"

"My silence is a confession," he answered, sadly. "_She_ may
accept your mercy--I may not even hope for it."

Something in the tone of his voice reminded her of past days--the
days of perfect love and perfect confidence, when she had been
the one woman in the world to him. Dearly treasured remembrances
of her married life filled her heart with tenderness, and dimmed
with tears the angry light that had risen in her eyes. There was
no pride, no anger, in his wife when she spoke to him now.

"Oh, my husband, has she taken your love from me?"

"Judge for yourself, Catherine, if there is no proof of my love
for you in what I have resisted--and no remembrance of all that I
owe to you in what I have confessed."

She ventured a little nearer to him. "Can I believe you?"

"Put me to the test."

She instantly took him at his word. "When Miss Westerfield has
left us, promise not to see her again."

"I promise."

"And not even to write to her."

"I promise."

She went back to the writing-table. "My heart is easier," she
said, simply. "I can be merciful to her now."

After writing a few lines, she rose and handed the paper to him.
He looked up from it in surprise. "Addressed to Mrs. MacEdwin!"
he said.

"Addressed," she answered, "to the only person I know who feels a
true interest in Miss Westerfield. Have you not heard of it?"

"I remember," he said--and read the lines that followed:

"I recommend Miss Westerfield as a teacher of young children,
having had ample proof of her capacity, industry, and good temper
while she has been governess to my child. She leaves her
situation in my service under circumstances which testify to her
sense of duty and her sense of gratitude."

"Have I said," she asked, "more than I could honorably and truly
say--even after what has happened?"

He could only look at her; no words could have spoken for him as
his silence spoke for him at that moment. When she took back the
written paper there was pardon in her eyes already.

The last worst trial remained to be undergone; she faced it
resolutely. "Tell Miss Westerfield that I wish to see her."

On the point of leaving the room, Herbert was called back. "If
you happen to meet with my mother," his wife added, "will you ask
her to come to me?"

Mrs. Presty knew her daughter's nature; Mrs. Presty had been
waiting near at hand, in expectation of the message which she now
received.

Tenderly and respectfully, Mrs. Linley addressed herself to her
mother. "When we last met, I thought you spoke rashly and
cruelly. I know now that there was truth--_some_ truth, let me
say--in what offended me at the time. If you felt strongly, it
was for my sake. I wish to beg your pardon; I was hasty, I was
wrong."

On an occasion when she had first irritated and then surprised
him, Randal Linley had said to Mrs. Presty, "You have got a
heart, after all!" Her reply to her daughter showed that view of
her character to be the right one. "Say no more, my dear," she
answered "_I_ was hasty; _I_ was wrong."

The words had barely fallen from her lips, before Herbert
returned. He was followed by Sydney Westerfield.

The governess stopped in the middle of the room. Her head sank on
her breast; her quick convulsive breathing was the only sound
that broke the silence. Mrs. Linley advanced to the place in
which Sydney stood. There was something divine in her beauty as
she looked at the shrinking girl, and held out her hand.

Sydney fell on her knees. In silence she lifted that generous
hand to her lips. In silence, Mrs. Linley raised her--took the
writing which testified to her character from the table--and
presented it. Linley looked at his wife, looked at the governess.
He waited--and still neither the one nor the other uttered a
word. It was more than he could endure. He addressed himself to
Sydney first.

"Try to thank Mrs. Linley," he said.

She answered faintly: "I can't speak!"

He appealed to his wife next. "Say a last kind word to her," he
pleaded.

She made an effort, a vain effort to obey him. A gesture of
despair answered for her as Sydney had answered: "I can't speak!"

True, nobly true, to the Christian virtue that repents, to the
Christian virtue that forgives, those three persons stood
together on the brink of separation, and forced their frail
humanity to suffer and submit.

In mercy to the woman, Linley summoned the courage to part them.
He turned to his wife first.

"I may say, Catherine, that she has your good wishes for happier
days to come?"

Mrs. Linley pressed his hand.

He approached Sydney, and gave his wife's message. It was in his
heart to add something equally kind on his own part. He could
only say what we have all said--how sincerely, how sorrowfully,
we all know--the common word, "Good-by!"--the common wish, "God
bless you!"

At that last moment the child ran into the room, in search of her
mother.

There was a low murmur of horror at the sight of her. That
innocent heart, they had all hoped, might have been spared the
misery of the parting scene!

She saw that Sydney had her hat and cloak on. "You're dressed to
go out," she said. Sydney turned away to hide her face. It was
too late; Kitty had seen the tears. "Oh, my darling, you're not
going away!" She looked at her father and mother. "Is she going
away?" They were afraid to answer her. With all her little
strength, she clasped her beloved friend and play-fellow round
the waist. "My own dear, you're not going to leave me!" The dumb
misery in Sydney's face struck Linley with horror. He placed
Kitty in her mother's arms. The child's piteous cry, "Oh, don't
let her go! don't let her go!" followed the governess as she
suffered her martyrdom, and went out. Linley's heart ached; he
watched her until she was lost to view. "Gone!" he murmured to
himself--"gone forever!"

Mrs. Presty heard him, and answered him:--"She'll come back
again!"



SECOND BOOK


Chapter XV.


The Doctor.


As the year advanced, the servants at Mount Morven remarked that
the weeks seemed to follow each other more slowly than usual. In
the higher regions of the house, the same impression was
prevalent; but the sense of dullness among the gentlefolks
submitted to circumstances in silence.

If the question had been asked in past days: Who is the brightest
and happiest member of the family? everybody would have said:
Kitty. If the question had been asked at the present time,
differences of opinion might have suggested different
answers--but the whole household would have refrained without
hesitation from mentioning the child's name.

Since Sydney Westerfield's departure Kitty had never held up her
head.

Time quieted the child's first vehement outbreak of distress
under the loss of the companion whom she had so dearly loved.
Delicate management, gently yet resolutely applied, held the
faithful little creature in check, when she tried to discover the
cause of her governess's banishment from the house. She made no
more complaints; she asked no more embarrassing questions--but it
was miserably plain to everybody about her that she failed to
recover her spirits. She was willing to learn her lessons (but
not under another governess) when her mother was able to attend
to her: she played with her toys, and went out riding on her
pony. But the delightful gayety of other days was gone; the
shrill laughter that once rang through the house was heard no
more. Kitty had become a quiet child; and, worse still, a child
who seemed to be easily tired.

The doctor was consulted.

He was a man skilled in the sound medical practice that learns
its lessons without books--bedside practice. His opinion declared
that the child's vital power was seriously lowered. "Some cause
is at work here," he said to the mother, "which I don't
understand. Can you help me?" Mrs. Linley helped him without
hesitation. "My little daughter dearly loved her governess; and
her governess has been obliged to leave us." That was her reply.
The doctor wanted to hear no more; he at once advised that Kitty
should be taken to the seaside, and that everything which might
remind her of the absent friend--books, presents, even articles
of clothing likely to revive old associations--should be left at
home. A new life, in new air. When pen, ink, and paper were
offered to him, that was the doctor's prescription.

Mrs. Linley consulted her husband on the choice of the seaside
place to which the child should be removed.

The blank which Sydney's departure left in the life of the
household was felt by the master and mistress of Mount
Morven--and felt, unhappily, without any open avowal on either
side of what was passing in their minds. In this way the
governess became a forbidden subject between them; the husband
waited for the wife to set the example of approaching it, and the
wife waited for the husband. The trial of temper produced by this
state of hesitation, and by the secret doubts which it
encouraged, led insensibly to a certain estrangement--which
Linley in particular was morbidly unwilling to acknowledge. If,
when the dinner-hour brought them together, he was silent and
dull in his wife's presence, he attributed it to anxiety on the
subject of his brother--then absent on a critical business errand
in London. If he sometimes left the house the first thing in the
morning, and only returned at night, it was because the
management of the model farm had become one of his duties, in
Randal's absence. Mrs. Linley made no attempt to dispute this
view of the altered circumstances in home-life--but she submitted
with a mind ill at ease. Secretly fearing that Linley was
suffering under Miss Westerfield's absence, she allowed herself
to hope that Kitty's father would see a necessity, in his own
case, for change of scene, and would accompany them to the
seaside.

"Won't you come with us, Herbert?" she suggested, when they had
both agreed on the choice of a place.

His temper was in a state of constant irritation. Without meaning
it he answered her harmless question sharply.

"How can I go away with you, when we are losing by the farm, and
when there is nobody to check the ruinous expenses but myself?"

Mrs. Linley's thoughts naturally turned to Randal's prolonged
absence. "What can be keeping him all this time in London?" she
said.

Linley's failing patience suffered a severe trial.

"Don't you know," he broke out, "that I have inherited my poor
mother's property in England, saddled with a lawsuit? Have you
never heard of delays and disappointments, and quibbles and false
pretenses, encountered by unfortunate wretches like me who are
obliged to go to law? God only knows when Randal will be free to
return, or what bad news he may bring with him when he does come
back."

"You have many anxieties, Herbert; and I ought to have remembered
them."

That gentle answer touched him. He made the best apology in his
power: he said his nerves were out of order, and asked her to
excuse him if he had spoken roughly. There was no unfriendly
feeling on either side; and yet there was something wanting in
the reconciliation. Mrs. Linley left her husband, shaken by a
conflict of feelings. At one moment she felt angry with him; at
another she felt angry with herself.

With the best intentions (as usual) Mrs. Presty made mischief,
nevertheless. Observing that her daughter was in tears, and
feeling sincerely distressed by the discovery, she was eager to
administer consolation. "Make your mind easy, my dear, if you
have any doubt about Herbert's movements when he is away from
home. I followed him myself the day before yesterday when he went
out. A long walk for an old woman--but I can assure you that
he does really go to the farm."

Implicitly trusting her husband--and rightly trusting
him--Linley's wife replied by a look which Mrs. Presty received
in silent indignation. She summoned her dignity and marched out
of the room.

Five minutes afterward, Mrs. Linley received an intimation that
her mother was seriously offended, in the form of a little note:

"I find that my maternal interest in your welfare, and my devoted
efforts to serve you, are only rewarded with furious looks. The
less we see of each other the better. Permit me to thank you for
your invitation, and to decline accompanying you when you leave
Mount Morven tomorrow." Mrs. Linley answered the note in person.
The next day Kitty's grandmother--ripe for more mischief--altered
her mind, and thoroughly enjoyed her journey to the seaside.


Chapter XVI.


The Child.


During the first week there was an improvement in the child's
health, which justified the doctor's hopeful anticipations. Mrs.
Linley wrote cheerfully to her husband; and the better nature of
Mrs. Linley's mother seemed, by some inscrutable process, to
thrive morally under the encouraging influences of the sea air.
It may be a bold thing to say, but it is surely true that our
virtues depend greatly on the state of our health.

During the second week, the reports sent to Mount Morven were
less encouraging. The improvement in Kitty was maintained; but it
made no further progress.

The lapse of the third week brought with it depressing results.
There could be no doubt now that the child was losing ground.
Bitterly disappointed, Mrs. Linley wrote to her medical adviser,
describing the symptoms, and asking for instructions. The doctor
wrote back: "Find out where your supply of drinking water comes
from. If from a well, let me know how it is situated. Answer by
telegraph." The reply arrived: "A well near the parish church."
The doctor's advice ran back along the wires: "Come home
instantly."

They returned the same day--and they returned too late.

Kitty's first night at home was wakeful and restless; her little
hands felt feverish, and she was tormented by perpetual thirst.
The good doctor still spoke hopefully; attributing the symptoms
to fatigue after the journey. But, as the days followed each
other, his medical visits were paid at shorter intervals. The
mother noticed that his pleasant face became grave and anxious,
and implored him to tell her the truth. The truth was told in two
dreadful words: "Typhoid Fever."

A day or two later, the doctor spoke privately with Mr. Linley.
The child's debilitated condition--that lowered state of the
vital power which he had observed when Kitty's case was first
submitted to him--placed a terrible obstacle in the way of
successful resistance to the advance of the disease. "Say nothing
to Mrs. Linley just yet. There is no absolute danger so far,
unless delirium sets in." "Do you think it likely?" Linley asked.
The doctor shook his head, and said "God knows."

On the next evening but one, the fatal symptom showed itself.
There was nothing violent in the delirium. Unconscious of past
events in the family life, the poor child supposed that her
governess was living in the house as usual. She piteously
wondered why Sydney remained downstairs in the schoolroom. "Oh,
don't keep her away from me! I want Syd! I want Syd!" That was
her one cry. When exhaustion silenced her, they hoped that the
sad delusion was at an end. No! As the slow fire of the fever
flamed up again, the same words were on the child's lips, the
same fond hope was in her sinking heart.

The doctor led Mrs. Linley out of the room. "Is this the
governess?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"Is she within easy reach?"

"She is employed in the family of a friend of ours, living five
miles away from us."

"Send for her instantly!"

Mrs. Linley looked at him with a wildly-mingled expression of
hope and fear. She was not thinking of herself--she was not even
thinking, for that one moment, of the child. What would her
husband say, if she (who had extorted his promise never to see
the governess again) brought Sydney Westerfield back to the
house?

The doctor spoke to her more strongly still.

"I don't presume to inquire into your private reasons for
hesitating to follow my advice," he said; "but I am bound to tell
you the truth. My poor little patient is in serious danger--every
hour of delay is an hour gained by death. Bring that lady to the
bedside as fast as your carriage can fetch her, and let us see
the result. If Kitty recognizes her governess--there, I tell you
plainly, is the one chance of saving the child's life."

Mrs. Linley's resolution flashed on him in her weary eyes--the
eyes which, by day and night alike, had known so little rest. She
rang for her maid. "Tell your master I want to speak to him."

The woman answered: "My master has gone out."

The doctor watched the mother's face. No sign of hesitation
appeared in it--the one thought in her mind now was the thought
of the child. She called the maid back.

"Order the carriage."

"At what time do you want it, ma'am?"

"At once!"



Chapter XVII.


The Husband.


Mrs. Linley's first impulse in ordering the carriage was to use
it herself. One look at the child reminded her that her freedom
of action began and ended at the bedside. More than an hour must
elapse before Sydney Westerfield could be brought back to Mount
Morven; the bare thought of what might happen in that interval,
if she was absent, filled the mother with horror. She wrote to
Mrs. MacEdwin, and sent her maid with the letter.

Of the result of this proceeding it was not possible to entertain
a doubt.

Sydney's love for Kitty would hesitate at no sacrifice; and Mrs.
MacEdwin's conduct had already answered for her. She had received
the governess with the utmost kindness, and she had generously
and delicately refrained from asking any questions. But one
person at Mount Morven thought it necessary to investigate the
motives under which she had acted. Mrs. Presty's inquiring mind
arrived at discoveries; and Mrs. Presty's sense of duty
communicated them to her daughter.

"There can be no sort of doubt, Catherine, that our good friend
and neighbor has heard, probably from the servants, of what has
happened; and (having her husband to consider--men are so weak!)
has drawn her own conclusions. If she trusts our fascinating
governess, it's because she knows that Miss Westerfield's
affections are left behind her in this house. Does my explanation
satisfy you?"

Mrs. Linley said: "Never let me hear it again!"

And Mrs. Presty answered: "How very ungrateful!"

The dreary interval of expectation, after the departure of the
carriage, was brightened by a domestic event.

Thinking it possible that Mrs. Presty might know why her husband
had left the house, Mrs. Linley sent to ask for information. The
message in reply informed her that Linley had received a telegram
announcing Randal's return from London. He had gone to the
railway station to meet his brother.

Before she went downstairs to welcome Randal, Mrs. Linley paused
to consider her situation. The one alternative before her was to
acknowledge at the first opportunity that she had assumed the
serious responsibility of sending for Sydney Westerfield. For the
first time in her life, Catherine Linley found herself planning
beforehand what she would say to her husband.

A second message interrupted her, announcing that the two
brothers had just arrived. She joined them in the drawing-room.

Linley was sitting in a corner by himself. The dreadful discovery
that the child's life (by the doctor's confession) was in danger
had completely overwhelmed him: he had never even lifted his head
when his wife opened the door. Randal and Mrs. Presty were
talking together. The old lady's insatiable curiosity was eager
for news from London: she wanted to know how Randal had amused
himself when he was not attending to business.

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