They were all assembled as usual at the breakfast-table.
Preferring the request suggested to her by Mrs. Presty, Kitty had
hastened the presentation of the birthday gifts, by getting into her
mother’s bed in the morning, and exacting her mother’s promise before
she would consent to get out again. By her own express wish, she was
left in ignorance of what the presents would prove to be. “Hide them
from me,” said this young epicure in pleasurable sensations, “and
make me want to see them until I can bear it no longer.” The gifts had
accordingly been collected in an embrasure of one of the windows; and
the time had now arrived when Kitty could bear it no longer.
In the procession of the presents, Mrs. Linley led the way.
She had passed behind the screen which had thus far protected the hidden
treasures from discovery, and appeared again with a vision of beauty in
the shape of a doll. The dress of this wonderful creature exhibited the
latest audacities of French fashion. Her head made a bow; her eyes
went to sleep and woke again; she had a voice that said two words--more
precious than two thousand in the mouth of a mere living creature.
Kitty’s arms opened and embraced her gift with a scream of ecstasy. That
fervent pressure found its way to the right spring. The doll squeaked:
“Mamma!”--and creaked--and cried again--and said: “Papa!” Kitty sat down
on the floor; her legs would support her no longer. “I think I shall
faint,” she said quite seriously.
In the midst of the general laughter, Sydney silently placed a new toy
(a pretty little imitation of a jeweler’s casket) at Kitty’s side, and
drew back before the child could look at her. Mrs. Presty was the only
person present who noticed her pale face and the trembling of her hands
as she made the effort which preserved her composure.
The doll’s necklace, bracelets, and watch and chain, riveted Kitty’s
attention on the casket. Just as she thought of looking round for her
dear Syd, her father produced a new outburst of delight by presenting
a perambulator worthy of the doll. Her uncle followed with a parasol,
devoted to the preservation of the doll’s complexion when she went
out for an airing. Then there came a pause. Where was the generous
grandmother’s gift? Nobody remembered it; Mrs. Presty herself discovered
the inestimable sixpenny picture-book cast away and forgotten on a
distant window-seat. “I have a great mind to keep this,” she said to
Kitty, “till you are old enough to value it properly.” In the moment
of her absence at the window, Linley’s mother-in-law lost the chance
of seeing him whisper to Sydney. “Meet me in the shrubbery in half an
hour,” he said. She stepped back from him, startled by the proposal.
When Mrs. Presty was in the middle of the room again, Linley and the
governess were no longer near each other.
Having by this time recovered herself, Kitty got on her legs. “Now,” the
spoiled child declared, addressing the company present, “I’m going to
play.”
The doll was put into the perambulator, and was wheeled about the room,
while Mrs. Linley moved the chairs out of the way, and Randal attended
with the open parasol--under orders to “pretend that the sun was
shining.” Once more the sixpenny picture-book was neglected. Mrs. Presty
picked it up from the floor, determined by this time to hold it in
reserve until her ungrateful grandchild reached years of discretion. She
put it in the bookcase between Byron’s “Don Juan” and Butler’s “Lives of
the Saints.” In the position which she now occupied, Linley was visible
approaching Sydney again. “Your own interests are seriously concerned,”
he whispered, “in something that I have to tell you.”
Incapable of hearing what passed between them, Mrs. Presty could see
that a secret understanding united her son-in-law and the governess. She
looked round cautiously at Mrs. Linley.
Kitty’s humor had changed; she was now eager to see the doll’s splendid
clothes taken off and put on again. “Come and look at it,” she said
to Sydney; “I want you to enjoy my birthday as much as I do.” Left by
himself, Randal got rid of the parasol by putting it on a table near the
door. Mrs. Presty beckoned to him to join her at the further end of the
room.
“I want you to do me a favor,” she began.
Glancing at Linley before she proceeded, Mrs. Presty took up a
newspaper, and affected to be consulting Randal’s opinion on a passage
which had attracted her attention. “Your brother is looking our way,”
she whispered: “he mustn’t suspect that there is a secret between us.”
False pretenses of any kind invariably irritated Randal. “What do you
want me to do?” he asked sharply.
The reply only increased his perplexity.
“Observe Miss Westerfield and your brother. Look at them now.”
Randal obeyed.
“What is there to look at?” he inquired.
“Can’t you see?”
“I see they are talking to each other.”
“They are talking confidentially; talking so that Mrs. Linley can’t hear
them. Look again.”
Randal fixed his eyes on Mrs. Presty, with an expression which showed
his dislike of that lady a little too plainly. Before he could answer
what she had just said to him, his lively little niece hit on a
new idea. The sun was shining, the flowers were in their brightest
beauty--and the doll had not yet been taken into the garden! Kitty
at once led the way out; so completely preoccupied in steering the
perambulator in a straight course that she forgot her uncle and the
parasol. Only waiting to remind her husband and Sydney that they were
wasting the beautiful summer morning indoors, Mrs. Linley followed her
daughter--and innocently placed a fatal obstacle in Mrs. Presty’s way by
leaving the room. Having consulted each other by a look, Linley and the
governess went out next. Left alone with Randal, Mrs. Presty’s anger,
under the complete overthrow of her carefully-laid scheme, set restraint
at defiance.
“My daughter’s married life is a wreck,” she burst out, pointing
theatrically to the door by which Linley and Sydney Westerfield had
retired. “And Catherine has the vile creature whom your brother picked
up in London to thank for it! Now do you understand me?”
“Less than ever,” Randal answered--“unless you have taken leave of your
senses.”
Mrs. Presty recovered the command of her temper.
On that fine morning her daughter might remain in the garden until the
luncheon-bell rang. Linley had only to say that he wished to speak with
his wife; and the private interview which he had so rudely insisted on
as his sole privilege, would assuredly take place. The one chance
left of still defeating him on his own ground was to force Randal
to interfere by convincing him of his brother’s guilt. Moderation of
language and composure of manner offered the only hopeful prospect
of reaching this end. Mrs. Presty assumed the disguise of patient
submission, and used the irresistible influence of good humor and good
sense.
“I don’t complain, dear Randal, of what you have said to me,” she
replied. “My indiscretion has deserved it. I ought to have produced my
proofs, and have left it to you to draw the conclusion. Sit down, if you
please. I won’t detain you for more than a few minutes.”
Randal had not anticipated such moderation as this; he took the chair
that was nearest to Mrs. Presty. They were both now sitting with their
backs turned to the entrance from the library to the drawing-room.
“I won’t trouble you with my own impressions,” Mrs. Presty went on.
“I will be careful only to mention what I have seen and heard. If you
refuse to believe me, I refer you to the guilty persons themselves.”
She had just got to the end of those introductory words when Mrs. Linley
returned, by way of the library, to fetch the forgotten parasol.
Randal insisted on making Mrs. Presty express herself plainly. “You
speak of guilty persons,” he said. “Am I to understand that one of those
guilty persons is my brother?”
Mrs. Linley advanced a step and took the parasol from the table. Hearing
what Randal said, she paused, wondering at the strange allusion to her
husband. In the meanwhile, Mrs. Presty answered the question that had
been addressed to her.
“Yes,” she said to Randal; “I mean your brother, and your brother’s
mistress--Sydney Westerfield.”
Mrs. Linley laid the parasol back on the table, and approached them.
She never once looked at her mother; her face, white and rigid, was
turned toward Randal. To him, and to him only, she spoke.
“What does my mother’s horrible language mean?” she asked.
Mrs. Presty triumphed inwardly; chance had decided in her favor, after
all! “Don’t you see,” she said to her daughter, “that I am here to
answer for myself?”
Mrs. Linley still looked at Randal, and still spoke to him. “It is
impossible for me to insist on an explanation from my mother,” she
proceeded. “No matter what I may feel, I must remember that she _is_ my
mother. I ask you again--you who have been listening to her--what does
she mean?”
Mrs. Presty’s sense of her own importance refused to submit to being
passed over in this way.
“However insolently you may behave, Catherine, you will not succeed in
provoking me. Your mother is bound to open your eyes to the truth.
You have a rival in your husband’s affections; and that rival is your
governess. Take your own course now; I have no more to say.” With her
head high in the air--looking the picture of conscious virtue--the old
lady walked out.
At the same moment Randal seized his first opportunity of speaking.
He addressed himself gently and respectfully to his sister-in-law. She
refused to hear him. The indignation which Mrs. Presty had roused in her
made no allowances, and was blind to all sense of right.
“Don’t trouble yourself to account for your silence,” she said,
most unjustly. “You were listening to my mother without a word of
remonstrance when I came into the room. You are concerned in this vile
slander, too.”
Randal considerately refrained from provoking her by attempting to
defend himself, while she was incapable of understanding him. “You will
be sorry when you find that you have misjudged me,” he said, and sighed,
and left her.
She dropped into a chair. If there was any one distinct thought in her
at that moment, it was the thought of her husband. She was eager to see
him; she longed to say to him: “My love, I don’t believe a word of it!”
He was not in the garden when she had returned for the parasol; and
Sydney was not in the garden. Wondering what had become of her father
and her governess, Kitty had asked the nursemaid to look for them. What
had happened since? Where had they been found? After some hesitation,
Mrs. Linley sent for the nursemaid. She felt the strongest reluctance,
when the girl appeared, to approach the very inquiries which she was
interested in making.
“Have you found Mr. Linley?” she said--with an effort.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where did you find him?”
“In the shrubbery.”
“Did your master say anything?”
“I slipped away, ma’am, before he saw me.”
“Why?”
“Miss Westerfield was in the shrubbery, with my master. I might have
been mistaken--” The girl paused, and looked confused.
Mrs. Linley tried to tell her to go on. The words were in her mind; but
the capacity of giving expression to them failed her. She impatiently
made a sign. The sign was understood.
“I might have been mistaken,” the maid repeated--“but I thought Miss
Westerfield was crying.”
Having replied in those terms, she seemed to be anxious to get away. The
parasol caught her eye. “Miss Kitty wants this,” she said, “and
wonders why you have not gone back to her in the garden. May I take the
parasol?”
“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.