Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1289 page)

“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.

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 labour 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 neighbours 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.