Mr. Herbert Linley arrived at his own house in the forenoon of the next
day. Mrs. Linley, running out to the head of the stairs to meet her
husband, saw him approaching her without a traveling companion. “Where
is the governess?” she asked--when the first salutes allowed her the
opportunity of speaking.
“On her way to bed, poor soul, under the care of the housekeeper,”
Linley answered.
“Anything infectious, my dear Herbert?” Mrs. Presty inquired appearing
at the breakfast-room door.
Linley addressed his reply to his wife:
“Nothing more serious, Catherine, than want of strength. She was in such
a state of fatigue, after our long night journey, that I had to lift her
out of the carriage.”
Mrs. Presty listened with an appearance of the deepest interest. “Quite
a novelty in the way of a governess,” she said. “May I ask what her name
is?”
“Sydney Westerfield.”
Mrs. Presty looked at her daughter and smiled satirically.
Mrs. Linley remonstrated.
“Surely,” she said, “you don’t object to the young lady’s name!”
“I have no opinion to offer, Catherine. I don’t believe in the name.”
“Oh, mamma, do you suspect that it’s an assumed name?”
“My dear, I haven’t a doubt that it is. May I ask another question?”
the old lady continued, turning to Linley. “What references did Miss
Westerfield give you?”
“No references at all.”
Mrs. Presty rose with the alacrity of a young woman, and hurried to the
door. “Follow my example,” she said to her daughter, on her way out.
“Lock up your jewel-box.”
Linley drew a deep breath of relief when he was left alone with
his wife. “What makes your mother so particularly disagreeable this
morning?” he inquired.
“She doesn’t approve, dear, of my leaving it to you to choose a
governess for Kitty.”
“Where is Kitty?”
“Out on her pony for a ride over the hills. Why did you send a telegram,
Herbert, to prepare me for the governess? Did you really think I might
be jealous of Miss Westerfield?”
Linley burst out laughing. “No such idea entered my head,” he answered.
“It isn’t _in_ you, my dear, to be jealous.”
Mrs. Linley was not quite satisfied with this view of her character. Her
husband’s well-intended compliment reminded her that there are occasions
when any woman may be jealous, no matter how generous and how gentle she
may be. “We won’t go quite so far as that,” she said to him, “because--”
She stopped, unwilling to dwell too long on a delicate subject. He
jocosely finished the sentence for her. “Because we don’t know what may
happen in the future?” he suggested; making another mistake by making a
joke.
Mrs. Linley returned to the subject of the governess.
“I don’t at all say what my mother says,” she resumed; “but was it
not just a little indiscreet to engage Miss Westerfield without any
references?”
“Unless I am utterly mistaken,” Linley replied, “you would have been
quite as indiscreet, in my place. If you had seen the horrible woman who
persecuted and insulted her--”
His wife interrupted him. “How did all this happen, Herbert? Who first
introduced you to Miss Westerfield?”
Linley mentioned the advertisement, and described his interview with the
schoolmistress. Having next acknowledged that he had received a visit
from Miss Westerfield herself, he repeated all that she had been able
to tell him of her father’s wasted life and melancholy end. Really
interested by this time, Mrs. Linley was eager for more information. Her
husband hesitated. “I would rather you heard the rest of it from Miss
Westerfield,” he said, “in my absence.”
“Why in your absence?”
“Because she can speak to you more freely, when I am not present. Hear
her tell her own story, and then let me know whether you think I have
made a mistake. I submit to your decision beforehand, whichever way it
may incline.”
Mrs. Linley rewarded him with a kiss. If a married stranger had seen
them, at that moment, he would have been reminded of forgotten days--the
days of his honeymoon.
“And now,” Linley resumed, “suppose we talk a little about ourselves. I
haven’t seen any brother yet. Where is Randal?”
“Staying at the farm to look after your interests. We expect him to
come back to-day. Ah, Herbert, what do we not all owe to that dear good
brother of yours? There is really no end to his kindness. The last of
our poor Highland families who have emigrated to America have had their
expenses privately paid by Randal. The wife has written to me, and has
let out the secret. There is an American newspaper, among the letters
that are waiting your brother’s return, sent to him as a little mark
of attention by these good grateful people.” Having alluded to the
neighbors who had left Scotland, Mrs. Linley was reminded of other
neighbors who had remained. She was still relating events of local
interest, when the clock interrupted her by striking the hour of the
nursery dinner. What had become of Kitty? Mrs. Linley rose and rang the
bell to make inquiries.
On the point of answering, the servant looked round at the open door
behind him. He drew aside, and revealed Kitty, in the corridor, hand
in hand with Sydney Westerfield--who timidly hesitated at entering the
room. “Here she is mamma,” cried the child. “I think she’s afraid of
you; help me to pull her in.”
Mrs. Linley advanced to receive the new member of her household, with
the irresistible grace and kindness which charmed every stranger who
approached her. “Oh, it’s all right,” said Kitty. “Syd likes me, and I
like Syd. What do you think? She lived in London with a cruel woman who
never gave her enough to eat. See what a good girl I am? I’m beginning
to feed her already.” Kitty pulled a box of sweetmeats out of her
pocket, and handed it to the governess with a tap on the lid, suggestive
of an old gentleman offering a pinch of snuff to a friend.
“My dear child, you mustn’t speak of Miss Westerfield in that way! Pray
excuse her,” said Mrs. Linley, turning to Sydney with a smile; “I am
afraid she has been disturbing you in your room.”
Sydney’s silent answer touched the mother’s heart; she kissed her little
friend. “I hope you will let her call me Syd,” she said gently; “it
reminds me of a happier time.” Her voice faltered; she could say no
more. Kitty explained, with the air of a grown person encouraging a
child. “I know all about it, mamma. She means the time when her papa was
alive. She lost her papa when she was a little girl like me. I didn’t
disturb her. I only said, ‘My name’s Kitty; may I get up on the bed?’
And she was quite willing; and we talked. And I helped her to dress.”
Mrs. Linley led Sydney to the sofa, and stopped the flow of her
daughter’s narrative. The look, the voice, the manner of the governess
had already made their simple appeal to her generous nature. When her
husband took Kitty’s hand to lead her with him out of the room, she
whispered as he passed: “You have done quite right; I haven’t a doubt of
it now!”