She went back to the writing-table. "My heart is easier," she said, simply. "I can be merciful to her now."
After writing a few lines, she rose and handed the paper to him.
He looked up from it in surprise. "Addressed to Mrs. MacEdwin!" he said.
"Addressed," she answered, "to the only person I know who feels a true interest in Miss Westerfield. Have you not heard of it?"
"I remember," he said--and read the lines that followed:
"I recommend Miss Westerfield as a teacher of young children, having had ample proof of her capacity, industry, and good temper while she has been governess to my child. She leaves her situation in my service under circumstances which testify to her sense of duty and her sense of gratitude."
"Have I said," she asked, "more than I could honorably and truly say--even after what has happened?"
He could only look at her; no words could have spoken for him as his silence spoke for him at that moment. When she took back the written paper there was pardon in her eyes already.
The last worst trial remained to be undergone; she faced it resolutely. "Tell Miss Westerfield that I wish to see her."
On the point of leaving the room, Herbert was called back. "If you happen to meet with my mother," his wife added, "will you ask her to come to me?"
Mrs. Presty knew her daughter's nature; Mrs. Presty had been waiting near at hand, in expectation of the message which she now received.
Tenderly and respectfully, Mrs. Linley addressed herself to her mother. "When we last met, I thought you spoke rashly and cruelly. I know now that there was truth--_some_ truth, let me say--in what offended me at the time. If you felt strongly, it was for my sake. I wish to beg your pardon; I was hasty, I was wrong."
On an occasion when she had first irritated and then surprised him, Randal Linley had said to Mrs. Presty, "You have got a heart, after all!" Her reply to her daughter showed that view of her character to be the right one. "Say no more, my dear," she answered "_I_ was hasty; _I_ was wrong."
The words had barely fallen from her lips, before Herbert returned. He was followed by Sydney Westerfield.
The governess stopped in the middle of the room. Her head sank on her breast; her quick convulsive breathing was the only sound that broke the silence. Mrs. Linley advanced to the place in which Sydney stood. There was something divine in her beauty as she looked at the shrinking girl, and held out her hand.
Sydney fell on her knees. In silence she lifted that generous hand to her lips. In silence, Mrs. Linley raised her--took the writing which testified to her character from the table--and presented it. Linley looked at his wife, looked at the governess.
He waited--and still neither the one nor the other uttered a word. It was more than he could endure. He addressed himself to Sydney first.
"Try to thank Mrs. Linley," he said.
She answered faintly: "I can't speak!"
He appealed to his wife next. "Say a last kind word to her," he pleaded.
She made an effort, a vain effort to obey him. A gesture of despair answered for her as Sydney had answered: "I can't speak!"
True, nobly true, to the Christian virtue that repents, to the Christian virtue that forgives, those three persons stood together on the brink of separation, and forced their frail humanity to suffer and submit.
In mercy to the woman, Linley summoned the courage to part them.
He turned to his wife first.
"I may say, Catherine, that she has your good wishes for happier days to come?"
Mrs. Linley pressed his hand.
He approached Sydney, and gave his wife's message. It was in his heart to add something equally kind on his own part. He could only say what we have all said--how sincerely, how sorrowfully, we all know--the common word, "Good-by!"--the common wish, "God bless you!"
At that last moment the child ran into the room, in search of her mother.
There was a low murmur of horror at the sight of her. That innocent heart, they had all hoped, might have been spared the misery of the parting scene!
She saw that Sydney had her hat and cloak on. "You're dressed to go out," she said. Sydney turned away to hide her face. It was too late; Kitty had seen the tears. "Oh, my darling, you're not going away!" She looked at her father and mother. "Is she going away?" They were afraid to answer her. With all her little strength, she clasped her beloved friend and play-fellow round the waist. "My own dear, you're not going to leave me!" The dumb misery in Sydney's face struck Linley with horror. He placed Kitty in her mother's arms. The child's piteous cry, "Oh, don't let her go! don't let her go!" followed the governess as she suffered her martyrdom, and went out. Linley's heart ached; he watched her until she was lost to view. "Gone!" he murmured to himself--"gone forever!"
Mrs. Presty heard him, and answered him:--"She'll come back again!"
