Mrs. Presty Makes a Discovery.
The dinner-party had come to an end; the neighbors had taken their
departure; and the ladies at Mount Morven had retired for the night.
On the way to her room Mrs. Presty knocked at her daughter’s door. “I
want to speak to you, Catherine. Are you in bed?”
“No, mamma. Come in.”
Robed in a dressing-gown of delicately-mingled white and blue, and
luxuriously accommodated on the softest pillows that could be placed in
an armchair, Mrs. Linley was meditating on the events of the evening.
“This has been the most successful party we have ever given,” she
said to her mother. “And did you notice how charmingly pretty Miss
Westerfield looked in her new dress?”
“It’s about that girl I want to speak to you,” Mrs. Presty answered,
severely. “I had a higher opinion of her when she first came here than I
have now.”
Mrs. Linley pointed to an open door, communicating with a second and
smaller bed-chamber. “Not quite so loud,” she answered, “or you
might wake Kitty. What has Miss Westerfield done to forfeit your good
opinion?”
Discreet Mrs. Presty asked leave to return to the subject at a future
opportunity.
“I will merely allude now,” she said, “to a change for the worse in your
governess, which you might have noticed when she left the drawing-room
this evening. She had a word or two with Herbert at the door; and she
left him looking as black as thunder.”
Mrs. Linley laid herself back on her pillows and burst out laughing.
“Black as thunder? Poor little Sydney, what a ridiculous description of
her! I beg your pardon, mamma; don’t be offended.”
“On the contrary, my dear, I am agreeably surprised. Your poor father--a
man of remarkable judgment on most subjects--never thought much of
your intelligence. He appears to have been wrong; you have evidently
inherited some of my sense of humor. However, that is not what I wanted
to say; I am the bearer of good news. When we find it necessary to get
rid of Miss Westerfield--”
Mrs. Linley’s indignation expressed itself by a look which, for the
moment at least, reduced her mother to silence. Always equal to the
occasion, however, Mrs. Presty’s face assumed an expression of innocent
amazement, which would have produced a round of applause on the stage.
“What have I said to make you angry?” she inquired. “Surely, my dear,
you and your husband are extraordinary people.”
“Do you mean to tell me, mamma, that you have said to Herbert what you
said just now to me?”
“Certainly. I mentioned it to Herbert in the course of the evening.
He was excessively rude. He said: ‘Tell Mrs. MacEdwin to mind her own
business--and set her the example yourself.’”
Mrs. Linley returned her mother’s look of amazement, without her
mother’s eye for dramatic effect. “What has Mrs. MacEdwin to do with
it?” she asked.
“If you will only let me speak, Catherine, I shall be happy to explain
myself. You saw Mrs. MacEdwin talking to me at the party. That
good lady’s head--a feeble head, as all her friends admit--has been
completely turned by Miss Westerfield. ‘The first duty of a governess’
(this foolish woman said to me) ‘is to win the affections of her pupils.
_My_ governess has entirely failed to make the children like her. A
dreadful temper; I have given her notice to leave my service. Look at
that sweet girl and your little granddaughter! I declare I could cry
when I see how they understand each other and love each other.’ I quote
our charming friend’s nonsense, verbatim (as we used to say when we were
in Parliament in Mr. Norman’s time), for the sake of what it led to. If,
by any lucky chance, Miss Westerfield happens to be disengaged in the
future, Mrs. MacEdwin’s house is open to her--at her own time, and on
her own terms. I promised to speak to you on the subject, and I perform
my promise. Think over it; I strongly advise you to think over it.”
Even Mrs. Linley’s good nature declined to submit to this. “I shall
certainly not think over what cannot possibly happen,” she said.
“Good-night, mamma.”
“Good-night, Catherine. Your temper doesn’t seem to improve as you get
older. Perhaps the excitement of the party has been too much for
your nerves. Try to get some sleep before Herbert comes up from the
smoking-room and disturbs you.”
Mrs. Linley refused even to let this pass unanswered. “Herbert is too
considerate to disturb me, when his friends keep him up late,” she said.
“On those occasions, as you may see for yourself, he has a bed in his
dressing-room.”
Mrs. Presty passed through the dressing-room on her way out. “A very
comfortable-looking bed,” she remarked, in a tone intended to reach her
daughter’s ears. “I wonder Herbert ever leaves it.”
The way to her own bed-chamber led her by the door of Sydney’s room. She
suddenly stopped; the door was not shut. This was in itself a suspicious
circumstance.
Young or old, ladies are not in the habit of sleeping with their bedroom
doors ajar. A strict sense of duty led Mrs. Presty to listen outside.
No sound like the breathing of a person asleep was to be heard. A
strict sense of duty conducted Mrs. Presty next into the room, and even
encouraged her to approach the bed on tip-toe. The bed was empty; the
clothes had not been disturbed since it had been made in the morning!
The old lady stepped out into the corridor in a state of excitement,
which greatly improved her personal appearance. She looked almost young
again as she mentally reviewed the list of vices and crimes which a
governess might commit, who had retired before eleven o’clock, and was
not in her bedroom at twelve. On further reflection, it appeared to be
barely possible that Miss Westerfield might be preparing her pupil’s
exercises for the next day. Mrs. Presty descended to the schoolroom on
the first floor.
No. Here again there was nothing to see but an empty room.
Where was Miss Westerfield?
Was it within the limits of probability that she had been bold enough to
join the party in the smoking-room? The bare idea was absurd.
In another minute, nevertheless, Mrs. Presty was at the door, listening.
The men’s voices were loud: they were talking politics. She peeped
through the keyhole; the smokers had, beyond all doubt, been left to
themselves. If the house had not been full of guests, Mrs. Presty would
now have raised an alarm. As things were, the fear of a possible scandal
which the family might have reason to regret forced her to act with
caution. In the suggestive retirement of her own room, she arrived at a
wise and wary decision. Opening her door by a few inches, she placed
a chair behind the opening in a position which commanded a view of
Sydney’s room. Wherever the governess might be, her return to her
bed-chamber, before the servants were astir in the morning, was a chance
to be counted on. The night-lamp in the corridor was well alight; and
a venerable person, animated by a sense of duty, was a person naturally
superior to the seductions of sleep. Before taking the final precaution
of extinguishing her candle, Mrs. Presty touched up her complexion, and
resolutely turned her back on her nightcap. “This is a case in which
I must keep up my dignity,” she decided, as she took her place in the
chair.
One man in the smoking-room appeared to be thoroughly weary of talking
politics. That man was the master of the house.
Randal noticed the worn, preoccupied look in his brother’s face, and
determined to break up the meeting. The opportunity for which he
was waiting occurred in another minute. He was asked as a moderate
politician to decide between two guests, both members of Parliament, who
were fast drifting into mere contradiction of each other’s second-hand
opinions. In plain terms, they stated the matter in dispute: “Which of
our political parties deserves the confidence of the English people?”
In plain terms, on his sides Randal answered: “The party that lowers
the taxes.” Those words acted on the discussion like water on a fire.
As members of Parliament, the two contending politicians were naturally
innocent of the slightest interest in the people or the taxes; they
received the new idea submitted to them in helpless silence. Friends
who were listening began to laugh. The oldest man present looked at his
watch. In five minutes more the lights were out and the smoking-room was
deserted.
Linley was the last to retire--fevered by the combined influences of
smoke and noise. His mind, oppressed all through the evening, was as ill
at ease as ever. Lingering, wakeful and irritable, in the corridor (just
as Sydney had lingered before him), he too stopped at the open door and
admired the peaceful beauty of the garden.
The sleepy servant, appointed to attend in the smoking room, asked if he
should close the door. Linley answered: “Go to bed, and leave it to
me.” Still lingering at the top of the steps, he too was tempted by the
refreshing coolness of the air. He took the key out of the lock; secured
the door after he had passed through it; put the key in his pocket, and
went down into the garden.