For some time, Catherine and her mother had been left together
undisturbed.
Mrs. Presty had read (and destroyed) the letters of Lady Myrie and Mrs.
Romsey, with the most unfeigned contempt for the writers--had repeated
what the judge had really said, as distinguished from Lady Myrie’s
malicious version of it--and had expressed her intention of giving
Catherine a word of advice, when she was sufficiently composed to profit
by it. “You have recovered your good looks, after that fit of crying,”
Mrs. Presty admitted, “but not your good spirits. What is worrying you
now?”
“I can’t help thinking of poor Kitty.”
“My dear, the child wants nobody’s pity. She’s blowing away all her
troubles by a ride in the fresh air, on the favorite donkey that she
feeds every morning. Yes, yes, you needn’t tell me you are in a false
position; and nobody can deny that it’s shameful to make the child feel
it. Now listen to me. Properly understood, those two spiteful women
have done you a kindness. They have as good as told you how to protect
yourself in the time to come. Deceive the vile world, Catherine, as it
deserves to be deceived. Shelter yourself behind a respectable character
that will spare you these insults in the future.” In the energy of her
conviction, Mrs. Presty struck her fist on the table, and finished in
three audacious words: “Be a Widow!”
It was plainly said--and yet Catherine seemed to be at a loss to
understand what her mother meant.
“Don’t doubt about it,” Mrs. Presty went on; “do it. Think of Kitty if
you won’t think of yourself. In a few years more she will be a young
lady. She may have an offer of marriage which may be everything we
desire. Suppose her sweetheart’s family is a religious family; and
suppose your Divorce, and the judge’s remarks on it, are discovered.
What will happen then?”
“Is it possible that you are in earnest?” Catherine asked. “Have you
seriously thought of the advice that you are giving me? Setting aside
the deceit, you know as well as I do that Kitty would ask questions. Do
you think I can tell my child that her father is dead? A lie--and such a
dreadful lie as that?”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Presty.
“Nonsense?” Catherine repeated indignantly.
“Rank nonsense,” her mother persisted. “Hasn’t your situation forced
you to lie already? When the child asks why her father and her governess
have left us, haven’t you been obliged to invent excuses which are lies?
If the man who was once your husband isn’t as good as dead to _you_, I
should like to know what your Divorce means! My poor dear, do you think
you can go on as you are going on now? How many thousands of people
have read the newspaper account of the trial? How many hundreds of
people--interested in a handsome woman like you--will wonder why they
never see Mr. Norman? What? You will go abroad again? Go where you may,
you will attract attention; you will make an enemy of every ugly woman
who looks at you. Strain at a gnat, Catherine, and swallow a camel. It’s
only a question of time. Sooner or later you will be a Widow. Here’s the
waiter again. What does the man want now?”
The waiter answered by announcing:
“Captain Bennydeck.”
Catherine’s mother was nearer to the door than Catherine; she attracted
the Captain’s attention first. He addressed his apologies to her. “Pray
excuse me for disturbing you--”
Mrs. Presty had an eye for a handsome man, irrespective of what his age
might be. In the language of the conjurors a “magic change” appeared in
her; she became brightly agreeable in a moment.
“Oh, Captain Bennydeck, you mustn’t make excuses for coming into your
own room!”
Captain Bennydeck went on with his excuses, nevertheless. “The landlady
tells me that I have unluckily missed seeing Mr. Randal Linley, and that
he has left a message for me. I shouldn’t otherwise have ventured--”
Mrs. Presty stopped him once more. The Captain’s claim to the Captain’s
rooms was the principle on which she took her stand. She revived the
irresistible smiles which had conquered Mr. Norman and Mr. Presty. “No
ceremony, I beg and pray! You are at home here--take the easy-chair!”
Catherine advanced a few steps; it was time to stop her mother, if the
thing could be done. She felt just embarrassment enough to heighten her
color, and to show her beauty to the greatest advantage. It literally
staggered the Captain, the moment he looked at her. His customary
composure, as a well-bred man, deserted him; he bowed confusedly; he had
not a word to say. Mrs. Presty seized her opportunity, and introduced
them to each other. “My daughter Mrs. Norman--Captain Bennydeck.”
Compassionating him under the impression that he was a shy man,
Catherine tried to set him at his ease. “I am indeed glad to have an
opportunity of thanking you,” she said, inviting him by a gesture to be
seated. “In this delightful air, I have recovered my health, and I owe
it to your kindness.”
The Captain regained his self-possession. Expressions of gratitude had
been addressed to him which, in his modest estimate of himself, he could
not feel that he had deserved.
“You little know,” he replied, “under what interested motives I have
acted. When I established myself in this hotel, I was fairly driven out
of my yacht by a guest who went sailing with me.”
Mrs. Presty became deeply interested. “Dear me, what did he do?”
Captain Bennydeck answered gravely: “He snored.”
Catherine was amused; Mrs. Presty burst out laughing; the Captain’s dry
humor asserted itself as quaintly as ever. “This is no laughing matter,”
he resumed, looking at Catherine. “My vessel is a small one. For two
nights the awful music of my friend’s nose kept me sleepless. When I
woke him, and said, ‘Don’t snore,’ he apologized in the sweetest manner,
and began again. On the third day I anchored in the bay here, determined
to get a night’s rest on shore. A dispute about the price of these
rooms offered them to me. I sent a note of apology on board--and slept
peacefully. The next morning, my sailing master informed me that there
had been what he called ‘a little swell in the night.’ He reported the
sounds made by my friend on this occasion to have been the awful sounds
of seasickness. ‘The gentleman left the yacht, sir, the first thing this
morning,’ he said; ‘and he’s gone home by railway.’ On the day when you
happened to arrive, my cabin was my own again; and I can honestly thank
you for relieving me of my rooms. Do you make a long stay, Mrs. Norman?”
Catherine answered that they were going to London by the next train.
Seeing Randal’s card still unnoticed on the table, she handed it to the
Captain.
“Is Mr. Linley an old friend of yours?” he asked, as he took the card.
Mrs. Presty hastened to answer in the affirmative for her daughter. It
was plain that Randal had discreetly abstained from mentioning his true
connection with them. Would he preserve the same silence if the Captain
spoke of his visit to Mrs. Norman, when he and his friend met next? Mrs.
Presty’s mind might have been at ease on that subject, if she had known
how to appreciate Randal’s character and Randal’s motives. The same keen
sense of the family disgrace, which had led him to conceal from Captain
Bennydeck his brother’s illicit relations with Sydney Westerfield, had
compelled him to keep secret his former association, as brother-in-law,
with the divorced wife. Her change of name had hitherto protected her
from discovery by the Captain, and would in all probability continue to
protect her in the future. The good Bennydeck had been enjoying himself
at sea when the Divorce was granted, and when the newspapers reported
the proceedings. He rarely went to his club, and he never associated
with persons of either sex to whom gossip and scandal are as the breath
of their lives. Ignorant of these circumstances, and remembering what
had happened on that day, Mrs. Presty looked at him with some anxiety
on her daughter’s account, while he was reading the message on Randal’s
card. There was little to see. His fine face expressed a quiet sorrow,
and he sighed as he put the card back in his pocket.
An interval of silence followed. Captain Bennydeck was thinking over the
message which he had just read. Catherine and her mother were looking
at him with the same interest, inspired by very different motives.
The interview so pleasantly begun was in some danger of lapsing into
formality and embarrassment, when a new personage appeared on the scene.
Kitty had returned in triumph from her ride. “Mamma! the donkey did more
than gallop--he kicked, and I fell off. Oh, I’m not hurt!” cried the
child, seeing the alarm in her mother’s face. “Tumbling off is such a
funny sensation. It isn’t as if you fell on the ground; it’s as if the
ground came up to _you_ and said--Bump!” She had got as far as that,
when the progress of her narrative was suspended by the discovery of a
strange gentleman in the room.
The smile that brightened the captain’s face, when Kitty opened the
door, answered for him as a man who loved children. “Your little girl,
Mrs. Norman?” he said.
“Yes.”
(A common question and a common reply. Nothing worth noticing, in either
the one or the other, at the time--and yet they proved to be important
enough to turn Catherine’s life into a new course.)
In the meanwhile, Kitty had been whispering to her mother. She wanted
to know the strange gentleman’s name. The Captain heard her. “My name is
Bennydeck,” he said; “will you come to me?”
Kitty had heard the name mentioned in connection with a yacht. Like all
children, she knew a friend the moment she looked at him. “I’ve
seen your pretty boat, sir,” she said, crossing the room to Captain
Bennydeck. “Is it very nice when you go sailing?”
“If you were not going back to London, my dear, I should ask your
mamma to let me take you sailing with me. Perhaps we shall have another
opportunity.”
The Captain’s answer delighted Kitty. “Oh, yes, tomorrow or next day!”
she suggested. “Do you know where to find me in London? Mamma, where do
I live, when I am in London?” Before her mother could answer, she hit
on a new idea. “Don’t tell me; I’ll find it for myself. It’s on
grandmamma’s boxes, and they’re in the passage.”
Captain Bennydeck’s eyes followed her, as she left the room, with
an expression of interest which more than confirmed the favorable
impression that he had already produced on Catherine. She was on the
point of asking if he was married, and had children of his own, when
Kitty came back, and declared the right address to be Buck’s Hotel,
Sydenham. “Mamma puts things down for fear of forgetting them,” she
added. “Will you put down Buck?”
The Captain took out his pocketbook, and appealed pleasantly to Mrs.
Norman. “May I follow your example?” he asked. Catherine not only
humored the little joke, but, gratefully remembering his kindness, said:
“Don’t forget, when you are in London, that Kitty’s invitation is my
invitation, too.” At the same moment, punctual Mrs. Presty looked at her
watch, and reminded her daughter that railways were not in the habit of
allowing passengers to keep them waiting. Catherine rose, and gave her
hand to the Captain at parting. Kitty improved on her mother’s form of
farewell; she gave him a kiss and whispered a little reminder of her
own: “There’s a river in London--don’t forget your boat.”
Captain Bennydeck opened the door for them, secretly wishing that he
could follow Mrs. Norman to the station and travel by the same train.
Mrs. Presty made no attempt to remind him that she was still in the
room. Where her family interests were concerned, the old lady was
capable (on very slight encouragement) of looking a long way into
the future. She was looking into the future now. The Captain’s social
position was all that could be desired; he was evidently in easy
pecuniary circumstances; he admired Catherine and Catherine’s child. If
he only proved to be a single man, Mrs. Presty’s prophetic soul, without
waiting an instant to reflect, perceived a dazzling future. Captain
Bennydeck approached to take leave. “Not just yet,” pleaded the most
agreeable of women; “my luggage was ready two hours ago. Sit down again
for a few minutes. You seem to like my little granddaughter.”
“If I had such a child as that,” the Captain answered, “I believe I
should be the happiest man living.”
“Ah, my dear sir, all isn’t gold that glitters,” Mrs. Presty remarked.
“That proverb must have been originally intended to apply to children.
May I presume to make you the subject of a guess? I fancy you are not a
married man.”
The Captain looked a little surprised. “You are quite right,” he said;
“I have never been married.”
At a later period, Mrs. Presty owned that she felt an inclination
to reward him for confessing himself to be a bachelor, by a kiss. He
innocently checked that impulse by putting a question. “Had you any
particular reason,” he asked, “for guessing that I was a single man?”
Mrs. Presty modestly acknowledged that she had only her own experience
to help her. “You wouldn’t be quite so fond of other people’s children,”
she said, “if you were a married man. Ah, your time will come yet--I
mean your wife will come.”
He answered this sadly. “My time has gone by. I have never had the
opportunities that have been granted to some favored men.” He thought of
the favored man who had married Mrs. Norman. Was her husband worthy
of his happiness? “Is Mr. Norman with you at this place?” the Captain
asked.
Serious issues depended on the manner in which this question was
answered. For one moment, and for one moment only, Mrs. Presty
hesitated. Then (in her daughter’s interest, of course) she put
Catherine in the position of a widow, in the least blamable of all
possible ways, by honestly owning the truth.
“There is no Mr. Norman,” she said.
“Your daughter is a widow!” cried the Captain, perfectly unable to
control his delight at that discovery.
“What else should she be?” Mrs. Presty replied, facetiously.
What else, indeed! If “no Mr. Norman” meant (as it must surely mean)
that Mr. Norman was dead, and if the beautiful mother of Kitty was an
honest woman, her social position was beyond a doubt. Captain Bennydeck
felt a little ashamed of his own impetuosity. Before he had made up
his mind what to say next, the unlucky waiter (doomed to be a cause of
disturbance on that day) appeared again.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said; “the lady and gentleman who have
taken these rooms have just arrived.”
Mrs. Presty got up in a hurry, and cordially shook hands with the
Captain. Looking round, she took up the railway guide and her knitting
left on the table. Was there anything else left about? There was nothing
to be seen. Mrs. Presty crossed the passage to her daughter’s bedroom,
to hurry the packing. Captain Bennydeck went downstairs, on his way back
to the yacht.
In the hall of the hotel he passed the lady and gentleman--and, of
course, noticed the lady. She was little and dark and would have been
pretty, if she had not looked ill and out of spirits. What would he have
said, what would he have done, if he had known that those two strangers
were Randal Linley’s brother and Roderick Westerfield’s daughter?