Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 64, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 April 1899 — The Convict's Daughter. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Convict's Daughter.

BY WILKIE COLLINS.

CHAPTER Vl.—(Continued.) Miss Wigger tapped her on the shoulder «nd pointed to the door. “Are you well enough tooee your way out?” she asked. Then to him: “I might have told you that 1 don't allow my house to be made an ■Office for the engagement of governesses. JLs it is, I merely remind you that your ’Carriage is at the door." He took the only course that was open <o him; he took his hat. Sydney turned away to leave the room. Xdnley opened the door for her. “Don’t ■be discouraged,” he whispered as she pass■ed him; “you shall hear from me.” Having said this, he made his parting bow to ’the school mistress. Leaving the house, 'Linley slipped a bribe into the servant’s iband. “I am going to write to Miss Westerfield,” he said, “will you see that she <ets my letter?” “That I will!” At the first stationer’s shop that he passed, he stopped the carriage and wrote his •letter. “I shall be glad indeed if I can offer you a happier life than the life you are deeding now. It rests with you to help ene to do this. Will you send me the ad■dress of your parents, or the name of any 'friend with whom I can arrange to give Fm a trial as governess to my little girl? am waiting your answer in the neighborhood. I add the name of the hotel at which I am staying.” The stationer’s boy—inspired by a private view of half a crown, set off at a cun—and returned at a run with a reply: “I have neither parents nor friends, and I have just been dismissed from my employment at the school Will you permit ane to see you, for a few minutes only, at your hotel? Indeed, indeed, sir, I am mot forgetful of what I owe to my respect «or you, and my respect for myself. I •only ask leave to satisfy you that I am •quite unworthy of the interest which you have been pleased to feel in S. W.” Sn those sad words, Sydney Westerfield ■announced that she had completed her •education. CHAPTER VII. Not far from the source of the famous ■river, which rises in the mountains be•tween Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond, •and divides the’ Highlands and the Lowlands of Scotland, travelers arrive at the •venerable gray walls of Mount Morven; jand, after consulting their guide books, <sk permission to see the house. If these strangers on their travels had been permitted to ascend to the first floor, ■and had been invited to say good night to Mrs. Linley’s pretty little daughter, they would have seen the stone walls of Sitty’s bed chamber snugly covered with velvet hangings, they would have trod on « doubly laid carpet; they would have looked at a bright little bed, of the last ■new pattern, worthy of a child’s deeply •delicious sleep; and they would only have ■discovered that the room was three hundred years old when they had drawn aside the window curtains and had revealed the Adamantine solidity of the outer walls. Or, if they had found their way next into Mrs. Linley’s sitting room, here again a transformation scene would have revealed more modern luxury, presented in the perfection which implies restraint within the limits of good taste. But on this occasion, instead of seeing the head of a lovely little child on the pillow, side by side with the head of her doll, they would have en•countered an elderly lady of considerable «ize, fast asleep, and snoring in a vast Armchair, with a book on her lap. The lady, composed under the soporific Influence of literature, was a person of importance in the house —holding rank as Mrs. Linley’s mother; and being otherwise noticeable for having married two busbands and survived them both. The first of these gentlemen—the Right Honorable Joseph Ormond—had been a member of Parliament. Mrs. Linley was bis one surviving child. He died at an Advanced age, leaving his widow well provided for. After hesitating for some little time, Mrs. Ormond accepted the proposal of the ugliest and dullest man among the ranks of her admirers. Why Ahe became the wife of Mr. Presty, a ■merchant enriched by the sale of vinegar, •she was never able to explain. Returning to the sitting room after bidding Kitty good night, Mrs. Linley discov■ered the old lady asleep, and saw that the book on her mother’s lap was sliding off. Before she could check the downward movement, the book fell on the floor, and Mrs. Presty woke. “Oh, mamma, lam so sorry. I was just too late to catch it.” “It doesn’t matter, my dear. I dare say I should go to sleep again if I went on with my novel." Mrs. Presty consulted her watch. “Your husband is no longer in London,” she announced; “he has begun his journey home. Give me a railway guide, and I’ll tell you when he will be here to-morrow.” But before this could be done a servant ■entered with a telegram for Mrs. Linley. Her mother, however, took it and read it. Her face assumed an expression of stern . Alatrust. She shook her head. V -“Bead jt yourself,” she then said, “and Itomember what I told you, when you trailed your husband to find a governess tor my grandchild. I said: You don’t baow men as l do. I hope you may not dive to repent it." , Mrs. Linley was too fond- of her husband to let this pass. “Why shouldn’t I ■trust him?” she asked. “He was going to London on business—and it was an excel“Bead your telegram,” Mrs. Presty repeated, with dignity, “and judge for yourLinley read: “I have engaged a governess. She will travel in the same train with me. I think ought to prepare you to receive a perl gjA -whom you may be surprised to see. She is very young and very inexperienced; tmlike the ordinary run of goveroe*ses. When you hear how cruelly the poor girt has been used, I am sure you with her as I do.”

ried, is he really afraid that I shall be jealous? Mamma! Why are you looking so serious?” Mrs. Presty took the telegram from her daughter and read extracts from it with indignant emphasis of voice and manner. “Travels in the same train with him. Very young, and very inexperienced. And he sympathizes with her. Ha! I know the men, Catherine —I know the men!” CHAPTER VIII. Mr. Herbert Linley arrived at his own house in the forenoon of the next day. Mrs. Linley running out to the head of the stairs to meet her husband, saw him approaching her without a traveling companion. “Where is the governess?” she asked —when the first salutes allowed her an opportunity to speak. “On her way to bed, poor soul, under the care of the housekeeper,” Linley answered. “Anything infectious, my dear ; Herbert?” Mrs. Presty inquired, appearing at the breakfast room door. Linley addressed his reply to his wife: “Nothing more serious, Catherine, than want of strength. She was in such a state of fatigue, after our long night journey, that I had to lift her out of the carriage.” Mrs. Presty listened with an appearance of the deepest interest. “Quite a novelty in the way of a governess,” she said. Linley drew a deep breath of relief when he was left alone with Ms wife. “What makes your mother so particularly disagreeable this morning?” he inquired. “She doesn’t approve, dear, of my leaving it to you to choose a governess for Kitty.” Linley mentioned the advertisement, and described his interview with the school mistress. Having next acknowledged that he had received a visit from Miss Westerfield herself, he repeated all that she had been able to tell him of her father’s wasted life and melancholy end. Really interested by this time, Mrs. Linley was eager for more information. Her husband hesitated. “I would rather you heard the rest of it from Miss Westerfield,” he said—“in my absence.” “Why, in your absence?” ■‘Because she can speak to you more freely, when I am not present. Hear her tell her own story, and then let me know whether you think I have made a mistake. I submit to your decision beforehand, whichever way it may incline.” Mrs. Linley rewarded him with a kiss. If a married stranger had seen them, at that moment, he would have been reminded of forgotten days—the days of his honeymoon. “And now,” Linley resumed, “suppose we talk a little about ourselves. I haven’t seen my brother yet. Where is Randal?” “Staying at the farm to look after your interests. We expect him to come back to-day. Ah! Herbert, what do we not all owe to that dear good brother of yours! There is really no end to his kindness. The last of our poor Highland families, who have emigrated to America, have had their expenses privately paid by Randal. The wife has written to me, and has let out the secret. There is an American newspaper among the letters that are waiting your brother’s return, sent to him as a little mark of attention by these good, grateful people.” Having alluded to the neighbors who had left Scotland, Mrs. Linley was reminded of other neighbors who had remained. She was still relating events of local interest, when the clock interrupted her by striking the hour of the nursery dinner. What had become of Kitty? Mrs. Linley rose and rang the bell to make inquiries. On the point of answering, the servant looked round at the open door behind him. He drew aside, and revealed Kitty, in the corridor, hand in hand with Sydney Westerfield —who timidly hesitated at entering the room. “Here she is, mamma,” cried the child. “I think she’s afraid of you; help me to pull her in.” Mrs. Linley advanced to receive the new member of her household, with the irresistible grace and kindnes swhich charmed every stranger who approached her. “Oh, it’s all right,” said Kitty. “Syd likes me, and I like Syd. What do you think? She lived in London with a cruel woman who never gave her enough to eat. See what a good girl I 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 to 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 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: “Yon have done quite right; I haven’t a doubt about it.” 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 crea- “ # ■ - -i * -s i

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. Sydney told all the details of the sad history of her young life. When she had finished she looked round, and started to her feet. “Oh, here’s a lady! Shall Igo away?” The curtains hanging over the entrance to the library were opened for the second time. With composure and dignity, the lady who had startled Sydney entered the room. “Have you been reading in the library?” Mrs. Linley asked. And Mrs. Presty answered:’' “No, Catherine; I have been listening. Introduce me to Miss Westerfield,” Mrs. Presty proceeded coolly. . Mrs. Linley showed some hesitation. What would the governess thing of her mother? Perfectly careless of what the governess might think, Mrs. Presty crossed the room and introduced herself. “Miss Westerfield, I am Mrs. Linley’s mother. And I am, in one respect, a remarkable person. When I form an opinion, and find it’s the opinion of a fool, I am not in the least ashamed to change my mind. I have changed my mind about you. Shake hands.” Sydney respectfully obeyed. “I had the worst possible opinion of you,” Mrs. Presty resumed, “before I had the pleasure of listening on the other side of the curtain. If I had been ashamed to listen behind those curtains, there is no injury that my stupid prejudices might not have inflicted on this unfortunate girl. As it is, I have heard her story, and I do her justice. Count oh me, Sydney, as your friend.” “Now we are alone, Catherine,” she added, when the door had closed on the governess, “I have a word of advice for your private ear. We have much to anticipate from Miss Westerfield that is pleasant and encouraging. But I don’t conceal it from myself or from you, we have also something to fear.” “To fear?” Mrs. Linley repeated. “I don’t understand you.” “First obstacle in the way Of her moral development, her father —tried, found guilty, and dying in prison. Second obstacle, her mother—an unnatural wretch, who neglected and deserted her own flesh and blood. Third obstacle, her mother’s sister —being her mother over again in an aggravated form. People who only look at the surface of things might ask what we gain by investigating Miss Westerfield’s past life. We gain this: We know what to expect of Miss Westerfield in the future.” “Oh, mamma, I never knew you so unjust before. You can’t have heard all that Miss Westerfield said to me. You don’t know her, as I know her. So patient, so forgiving, so grateful to Herbert.” “So grateful to Herbert.” Mrs. Presty looked at her daughter in silent surprise. There could be no doubt about it; Mrs. Linley failed entirely to see any possibilities of future danger in the grateful feeling of her sensitive governess toward her handsome husband. At this exhibition of simplicity, the. old lady’s last reserves of endurance gave way; she rose to go. “You have an excellent heart, Catherine,” she remarked; “but as for your head ” “Well, and what of my head?” “It’s always beautifully dressed, my dear, by your maid.” W’ith that parting shot, Mrs. Presty took her departure by way of the library. Almost at the same moment, the door of the breakfast room was opened. A young man advanced and shook hands cordially with Mrs. Linley. CHAPTER IX. Self-revealed by the family likeness as Herbert’s brother, Randal Linley was nevertheless greatly Herbert’s inferior in personal appearance. His features were in no way remarkable for manly beauty. In stature, he hardly reached the middle height; and, young as he was, either bad habit or physical weakness had so affected the upper part of his figure that he stooped. “Have you seen a new face among us since you returned?” were his sister-in-law’s first words. Randal answered that he had seen Miss Westerfield. The inevitable question followed. What did he think of her? “I’ll tell you in a week or two more,” he replied. “No! tell me at once.” “I doa’t like trusting my first impressions; I have a bad habit of jumping to conclusions.” “Jump to a conclusion now, to please me.” Randal smiled and gave way. “Your governess,” he replied, “looks out of health, and strikes me as being insignificant and ugly. Let us see what our fine air and our easy life will do for her. He went into the library and returned with his letters. “This will amuse Kitty,” he said, handing to his sister-in-law a New York newspaper, to which she had already referred in speaking to her husband. Mrs. Linley examined the engravings—and turned back again to look once more at an illustration which had interested her. A paragraph on the same page caught her attention. She had hardly glanced at the first words before a cry of alarm escaped her. “Dreadful news tor Miss Westerfield!” she exclaimed. “Read it, Randal.” He read these words: “The week’s list of insolvent traders includes an Englishman named James Bellbridge, formerly connected with a disreputable saloon in this city. Bellbridge is under suspicion of having caused the death of his wife, in a fit of delirium tremens. The unfortunate woman had been married, for the first time, to one of the English aristocracy—the Honorable Roderick Westerfield—whose trial for casting away a ship under his command excited considerable interest in London some years since. The melancholy circumstances of the case are complicated by the disappearance, on the day of the murder, of the woman’s young son by her first husband. The poor boy is supposed to have ran away in terror from his miserable home, and the police are endeavoring to discover some trace of him. It is reported that another child of the first marriage is living in England. But nothing is known about her.” “Serious news for Miss Westerfield, as you say,” Randal resumed. “And, as I think, serious news for us. Here is a mere girl—a poor, friendless creature—absolutely dependent bn our protection.” It was thought necessary to break the news to Miss Westerfield, and this Miss Linley did herself as gently as possible. Randal awaited his sister-in-law’s return from the governess’ * UIULa* US* AVOCaivU v* 11

dal anticipated, Mrs. Linley returned. "“Has it been very distressing?" he asked, seeing the traces of tears in her eyes. “There are noble qualities,” she answered, “in that poor ill-used gorl. All she asked was to be left in her room for the rest of the day. I feel sure of her resolution to control herself; and yet I should like to encourage her if I can. Her chief sorrow must be —not for the mother who has so shamefully neglected her—but for the poor little brother, a castaway, lost in a strange land. Can we do nothing to relieve her anxiety?” “I can write," Randal said, “to a man whom I know in New York, a lawyer in large practice.” “The very person we want! Write — pray write by to-day’s post!” The letter was dispatched. It was decided—and wisely decided, as the result showed—to say nothing to Sydney until the answer was received. Randal’s correspondent wrote back with as little delay as possible. He had made every inquiry, without success. Not a trace of the boy had been found. The one event that had happened, since the appearance of the paragraph in a New York newspaper, was the confinement of James Bellbridge in an asylum as a madman under restraint, without hope of recovery. (To be continued.)