am? I’m beginning to feed her already.” Kitty pulled a box of sweetmeats out of her pocket, and handed it to the governess with a tap on the lid, suggestive of an old gentleman offering a pinch of snuff to a friend.
“My dear child, you mustn’t speak of Miss Westerfield in that way! Pray excuse her,” said Mrs. Linley, turning to Sydney with a smile; “I am afraid she has been disturbing you in your room.”
Sydney’s silent answer touched the mother’s heart; she kissed her little friend. “I hope you will let her call me Syd,” she said gently; “it reminds me of a happier time.” Her voice faltered; she could say no more. Kitty explained, with the air of a grown person encouraging a child. “I know all about it, mamma. She means the time when her papa was alive. She lost her papa when she was a little girl like me. I didn’t disturb her. I only said, ‘My name’s Kitty; may I get up on the bed?’ And she was quite willing; and we talked. And I helped her to dress.” Mrs. Linley led Sydney to the sofa, and stopped the flow of her daughter’s narrative. The look, the voice, the manner of the governess had already made their simple appeal to her generous nature. When her husband took Kitty’s hand to lead her with him out of the room, she whispered as he passed: “You have done quite right; I haven’t a doubt of it now!”
Chapter III. Mrs. Presty Changes Her Mind.
The two ladies were alone.
Widely as the lot in life of one differed from the lot in life of the other, they presented a contrast in personal appearance which was more remarkable still. In the prime of life, tall and fair—the beauty of her delicate complexion and her brilliant blue eyes rivaled by the charm of a figure which had arrived at its mature perfection of development—Mrs. Linley sat side by side with a frail little dark-eyed creature, thin and pale, whose wasted face bore patient witness to the three cruelest privations under which youth can suffer—want of fresh air, want of nourishment, and want of kindness. The gentle mistress of the house wondered sadly if this lost child of misfortune was capable of seeing the brighter prospect before her that promised enjoyment of a happier life to come.
“I was afraid to disturb you while you were resting,” Mrs. Linley said. “Let me hope that my housekeeper has done what I might have done myself, if I had seen you when you arrived.”
“The housekeeper has been all that is good and kind to me, madam.”
“Don’t call me ‘madam’; it sounds so formal—call me ‘Mrs. Linley.’ You must not think of beginning to teach Kitty till you feel stronger and better. I see but too plainly that you have not been happy. Don’t think of your past life, or speak of your past life.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Linley; my past life is my one excuse for having ventured to come into this house.”
“In what way, my dear?”
At the moment when that question was put, the closed curtains which separated the breakfast-room from the library were softly parted in the middle. A keen old face, strongly marked by curiosity and distrust, peeped through—eyed the governess with stern scrutiny—and retired again into hiding.
The introduction of a stranger (without references) into the intimacy of the family circle was, as Mrs. Presty viewed it, a crisis in domestic history. Conscience, with its customary elasticity, adapted itself to the emergency, and Linley’s mother-in-law stole information behind the curtain—in Linley’s best interests, it is quite needless to say.
The talk of the two ladies went on, without a suspicion on either side that it was overheard by a third person.
Sydney explained herself.
“If I had led a happier life,” she said, “I might have been able to resist Mr. Linley’s kindness. I concealed nothing from him. He knew that I had no friends to speak for me; he knew that I had been dismissed from my employment at the school. Oh, Mrs. Linley, everything I said which would have made other people suspicious of me made him feel for me! I began to wonder whether he was an angel or a man. If he had not prevented it, I should have fallen on my knees before him. Hard looks and hard words I could have endured patiently, but I had not seen a kind look, I had not heard a kind word, for more years than I can reckon up. That is all I can say for myself; I leave the rest to your mercy.”
“Say my sympathy,” Mrs. Linley answered, “and you need say no more. But there is one thing I should like to know. You have not spoken to me of your mother. Have you lost both your parents?”
“No.”
“Then you were brought up by your mother?”
“Yes.”
“You surely had some experience of kindness when you were a child?”
A third short answer would have been no very grateful return for Mrs. Linley’s kindness. Sydney had no choice but to say plainly what her experience of her mother had been.
“Are there such women in the world!” Mrs. Linley exclaimed. “Where is your mother now?”
“In America—I think.”
“You think?”
“My mother married again,” said Sydney. “She went to America with her husband and my little brother, six years ago.”
“And left you behind?”
“Yes.”
“And has she never written to you?”
“Never.”
This time, Mrs. Linley kept silence; not without an effort. Thinking of Sydney’s mother—and for one morbid moment seeing her own little darling in Sydney’s place—she was afraid to trust herself to speak while the first impression was vividly present to her mind.
“I will only hope,” she replied, after waiting a little, “that some kind person pitied and helped you when you were deserted. Any change must have been for the better after that. Who took charge of you?”
“My mother’s sister took charge of me, an elder sister, who kept a school. The time when I was most unhappy was the time when my aunt began to teach me. ‘If you don’t want to be beaten, and kept on bread and water,’ she said, ‘learn, you ugly little wretch, and be quick about it.” ’
“Did she speak in that shameful way to the other girls?”
“Oh, no! I was taken into her school for nothing, and, young as I was, I was expected to earn my food and shelter by being fit to teach the lowest class. The girls hated me. It was such a wretched life that I hardly like to speak of it now. I ran away, and I was caught, and severely punished. When I grew older and wiser, I tried to find some other employment for myself. The elder girls bought penny journals that published stories. They were left about now and then in the bedrooms. I read the stories when I had the chance. Even my ignorance discovered how feeble and foolish they were. They encouraged me to try if I could write a story myself; I couldn’t do worse, and I might do better. I sent my manuscript to the editor. It was accepted and printed—but when I wrote and asked him if he would pay me something for it, he refused. Dozens of ladies,
