The members of the family at Mount Morven consulted together, before
Sydney Westerfield was informed of her brother’s disappearance and of
her mother’s death.
Speaking first, as master of the house, Herbert Linley offered his
opinion without hesitation. His impulsive kindness shrank from the
prospect of reviving the melancholy recollections associated with
Sydney’s domestic life. “Why distress the poor child, just as she is
beginning to feel happy among us?” he asked. “Give me the newspaper; I
shan’t feel easy till I have torn it up.”
His wife drew the newspaper out of his reach. “Wait a little,” she said,
quietly; “some of us may feel that it is no part of our duty to conceal
the truth.”
Mrs. Presty spoke next. To the surprise of the family council, she
agreed with her son-in-law.
“Somebody must speak out,” the old lady began; “and I mean to set the
example. Telling the truth,” she declared, turning severely to her
daughter, “is a more complicated affair than you seem to think. It’s a
question of morality, of course; but--in family circles, my dear--it’s
sometimes a question of convenience as well. Is it convenient to upset
my granddaughter’s governess, just as she is entering on her new duties?
Certainly not! Good heavens, what does it matter to my young friend
Sydney whether her unnatural mother lives or dies? Herbert, I second
your proposal to tear up the paper with the greatest pleasure.”
Herbert, sitting next to Randal, laid his hand affectionately on his
brother’s shoulder. “Are you on our side?” he asked.
Randal hesitated.
“I feel inclined to agree with you,” he said to Herbert. “It does seem
hard to recall Miss Westerfield to the miserable life that she has led,
and to do it in the way of all others which must try her fortitude most
cruelly. At the same time--”
“Oh, don’t spoil what you have said by seeing the other side of the
question!” cried his brother “You have already put it admirably; leave
it as it is.”
“At the same time,” Randal gently persisted, “I have heard no reasons
which satisfy me that we have a right to keep Miss Westerfield in
ignorance of what has happened.”
This serious view of the question in debate highly diverted Mrs. Presty.
“I do not like that man,” she announced, pointing to Randal; “he
always amuses me. Look at him now! He doesn’t know which side he is on,
himself.”
“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.