Mrs. Presty waited in the garden to be joined by her daughter and
Captain Bennydeck, and waited in vain. It was past her grandchild’s
bedtime; she decided on returning to the house.
“Suppose we look for them in the sitting-room?” Kitty proposed.
“Suppose we wait a moment, before we go in?” her wise grandmother
advised. “If I hear them talking I shall take you upstairs to bed.”
“Why?”
Mrs. Presty favored Kitty with a hint relating to the management of
inquisitive children which might prove useful to her in after-life.
“When you grow up to be a woman, my dear, beware of making the mistake
that I have just committed. Never be foolish enough to mention your
reasons when a child asks, Why?”
“Was that how they treated _you_, grandmamma, when you were a child
yourself?”
“Of course it was!”
“Why?”
They had reached the sitting-room door by this time. Kitty opened it
without ceremony and looked in. The room was empty.
Having confided her granddaughter to the nursemaid’s care, Mrs. Presty
knocked at Catherine’s bedroom door. “May I come in?”
“Come in directly! Where is Kitty?”
“Susan is putting her to bed.”
“Stop it! Kitty mustn’t go to bed. No questions. I’ll explain myself
when you come back.” There was a wildness in her eyes, and a tone of
stern command in her voice, which warned her mother to set dignity
aside, and submit.
“I don’t ask what has happened,” Mrs. Presty resumed on her return.
“That letter, that fatal letter to the Captain, has justified my worst
fears. What in Heaven’s name are we to do now?”
“We are to leave this hotel,” was the instant reply.
“When?”
“To-night.”
“Catherine! do you know what time it is?”
“Time enough to catch the last train to London. Don’t raise objections!
If I stay at this place, with associations in every part of it which
remind me of that unhappy man, I shall go mad! The shock I have
suffered, the misery, the humiliation--I tell you it’s more than I can
bear. Stay here by yourself if you like; I mean to go.”
She paced with frantic rapidity up and down the room. Mrs. Presty took
the only way by which it was possible to calm her. “Compose yourself,
Catherine, and all that you wish shall be done. I’ll settle everything
with the landlord, and give the maid her orders. Sit down by the open
window; let the wind blow over you.”
The railway service from Sydenham to London is a late service. At a few
minutes before midnight they were in time for the last train. When they
left the station, Catherine was calm enough to communicate her plans
for the future. The nearest hotel to the terminus would offer them
accommodation for that night. On the next day they could find some
quiet place in the country--no matter where, so long as they were
not disturbed. “Give me rest and peace, and my mind will be easier,”
Catherine said. “Let nobody know where to find me.”
These conditions were strictly observed--with an exception in favor of
Mr. Sarrazin. While his client’s pecuniary affairs were still unsettled,
the lawyer had his claim to be taken into her confidence.
* * * * *
The next morning found Captain Bennydeck still keeping his rooms at
Sydenham. The state of his mind presented a complete contrast to the
state of Catherine’s mind. So far from sharing her aversion to the
personal associations which were connected with the hotel, he found his
one consolation in visiting the scenes which reminded him of the beloved
woman whom he had lost. The reason for this was not far to seek. His was
the largest nature, and his had been the most devoted love.
As usual, his letters were forwarded to him from his place of residence
in London. Those addressed in handwritings that he knew were the first
that he read. The others he took out with him to that sequestered part
of the garden in which he had passed the happiest hours of his life by
Catherine’s side.
He had been thinking of her all the morning; he was thinking of her now.
His better judgment protested; his accusing conscience warned him that
he was committing, not only an act of folly but (with his religious
convictions) an act of sin--and still she held her place in his
thoughts. The manager had told him of her sudden departure from the
hotel, and had declared with perfect truth that the place of her
destination had not been communicated to him. Asked if she had left
no directions relating to her correspondence, he had replied that his
instructions were to forward all letters to her lawyer. On the point of
inquiring next for the name and address, Bennydeck’s sense of duty and
sense of shame (roused at last) filled him with a timely contempt for
himself. In feeling tempted to write to Catherine--in encouraging fond
thoughts of her among scenes which kept her in his memory--he had been
false to the very principles to which he had appealed at their farewell
interview. She had set him the right example, the example which he was
determined to follow, in leaving the place. Before he could falter in
his resolution, he gave notice of his departure. The one hope for him
now was to find a refuge from himself in acts of mercy. Consolation was
perhaps waiting for him in his Home.
His unopened correspondence offered a harmless occupation to his
thoughts, in the meanwhile. One after another he read the letters, with
an attention constantly wandering and constantly recalled, until he
opened the last of them that remained. In a moment more his interest was
absorbed. The first sentences in the letter told him that the deserted
creature whom he had met in the garden--the stranger to whom he had
offered help and consolation in the present and in the future--was no
other than the lost girl of whom he had been so long in search; the
daughter of Roderick Westerfield, once his dearest and oldest friend.
In the pages that followed, the writer confided to him her sad story;
leaving it to her father’s friend to decide whether she was worthy of
the sympathy which he had offered to her, when he thought she was a
stranger.
This part of her letter was necessarily a repetition of what Bennydeck
had read, in the confession which Catherine had addressed to him. That
generous woman had been guilty of one, and but one, concealment of the
truth. In relating the circumstances under which the elopement from
Mount Morven had taken place, she had abstained, in justice to the
sincerity of Sydney’s repentance, from mentioning Sydney’s name.
“Another instance,” the Captain thought bitterly, as he closed the
letter, “of the virtues which might have made the happiness of my life!”
But he was bound to remember--and he did remember--that there was now a
new interest, tenderly associating itself with his life to come. The
one best way of telling Sydney how dear she was to him already, for
her father’s sake, would be to answer her in person. He hurried away to
London by the first train, and drove at once to Randal’s place of abode
to ask for Sydney’s address.
Wondering what had become of the postscript to his letter, which had
given Bennydeck the information of which he was now in search, Randal
complied with his friend’s request, and then ventured to allude to the
report of the Captain’s marriage engagement.
“Am I to congratulate you?” he asked.
“Congratulate me on having discovered Roderick Westerfield’s daughter.”
That reply, and the tone in which it was given, led Randal to ask if the
engagement had been prematurely announced.
“There is no engagement at all,” Bennydeck answered, with a look which
suggested that it might be wise not to dwell on the subject.
But the discovery was welcome to Randal, for his brother’s sake. He
ran the risk of consequences, and inquired if Catherine was still to be
found at the hotel.
The Captain answered by a sign in the negative.
Randal persisted. “Do you know where she has gone?”
“Nobody knows but her lawyer.”
“In that case,” Randal concluded, “I shall get the information that
I want.” Noticing that Bennydeck looked surprised, he mentioned his
motive. “Herbert is pining to see Kitty,” he continued; “and I mean to
help him. He has done all that a man could do to atone for the past. As
things are, I believe I shall not offend Catherine, if I arrange for a
meeting between father and child. What do you say?”
Bennydeck answered, earnestly and eagerly: “Do it at once!”
They left the house together--one to go to Sydney’s lodgings, the other
on his way to Mr. Sarrazin’s office.