第25章 Chapter V. Randal Writes to New York.(2)

Her husband and her mother listened to her in astonishment. Too amiable and too happy--and it must be added too indolent--to assert herself in the ordinary emergencies of family life, Mrs.

Linley only showed of what metal she was made on the very rare occasions when the latent firmness in her nature was stirred to its innermost depths. The general experience of this sweet-tempered and delightful woman, ranging over long intervals of time, was the only experience which remained in the memories of the persons about her. In bygone days, they had been amazed when her unexpected readiness and firmness of decision presented an exception to a general rule--just as they were amazed now.

Herbert tried a last remonstrance. "Is it possible, Catherine, that you don't see the cruelty of showing that newspaper to Miss Westerfield?""

Even this appeal to Mrs. Linley's sympathies failed to shake her resolution. "You may trust me to be careful," was all she said in reply; "I shall prepare her as tenderly for the sad news from America, as if she was a daughter of my own."

Hearing this, Mrs. Presty showed a sudden interest in the proceedings "When do you mean to begin?" she asked.

"At once, mamma."

Mrs. Presty broke up the meeting on the spot. "Wait till I am out of the way," she stipulated. "Do you object to Herbert giving me his arm? Distressing scenes are not in his line or in mine."

Mrs. Linley made no objection. Herbert resigned himself (not at all unwillingly) to circumstances. Arm in arm, he and his wife's mother left the room.

Randal showed no inte ntion of following them; he had given himself time to think. "We are all wrong, Catherine," he said;

"and you alone are right. What can I do to help you?"

She took his hand gratefully. "Always kind! Never thinking of yourself! I will see Miss Westerfield in my own room. Wait here, in case I want you."

After a much shorter absence than Randal 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 girl. Her one thought, as soon as she began to understand my motive in speaking to her, was not for herself, but for me. Even you, a man, must have felt the tears in your eyes, if you had heard her promise that I should suffer no further anxiety on her account. 'You shall see no distressing change in me,' she said, 'when we meet to-morrow.' 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 (as it seems to me) 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 today's post.

The letter was dispatched. It was decided--and wisely decided, as the result proved--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, or (in the opinion of the police) was likely to be found. The one event that had happened, since the appearance of the paragraph in the New York journal, was the confinement of James Bellbridge in an asylum, as a madman under restraint without hope of recovery.