The Evil Genius. Wilkie Collins

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      “He’s down with me in the kitchen, ma’am; I’m teaching him to make a plum cake for himself. He’s so happy! I hope you don’t want him just now?”

      “Not the least in the world. I want you to take care of him while I am away. By-the-by, where’s Syd?”

      The elder child (the girl) had been christened Sydney, in compliment to one of her father’s female relatives. The name was not liked by her mother—who had shortened it to Syd, by way of leaving as little of it as possible. With a look at Mrs. Westerfield which expressed ill-concealed aversion, the landlady answered: “She’s up in the lumber-room, poor child. She says you sent her there to be out of the way.”

      “Ah, to be sure, I did.”

      “There’s no fireplace in the garret, ma’am. I’m afraid the little girl must be cold and lonely.”

      It was useless to plead for Syd—Mrs. Westerfield was not listening. Her attention was absorbed by her own plump and pretty hands. She took a tiny file from the dressing-table, and put a few finishing touches to her nails. “Send me some hot water,” she said; “I want to dress.”

      The servant girl who carried the hot water upstairs was new to the ways of the house. After having waited on Mrs. Westerfield, she had been instructed by the kind-hearted landlady to go on to the top floor. “You will find a pretty little girl in the garret, all by herself. Say you are to bring her down to my room, as soon as her mamma has gone out.”

      Mrs. Westerfield’s habitual neglect of her eldest child was known to every person in the house. Even the new servant had heard of it. Interested by what she saw, on opening the garret door, she stopped on the threshold and looked in.

      The lumber in the room consisted of two rotten old trunks, a broken chair, and a dirty volume of sermons of the old-fashioned quarto size. The grimy ceiling, slanting downward to a cracked window, was stained with rain that had found its way through the roof. The faded wall-paper, loosened by damp, was torn away in some places, and bulged loose in others. There were holes in the skirting-board; and from one of them peeped the brightly timid eyes of the child’s only living companion in the garret—a mouse, feeding on crumbs which she had saved from her breakfast.

      Syd looked up when the mouse darted back into its hole, on the opening of the door. “Lizzie! Lizzie!” she said, gravely, “you ought to have come in without making a noise. You have frightened away my youngest child.”

      The good-natured servant burst out laughing. “Have you got a large family, miss?” she inquired, humoring the joke.

      Syd failed to see the joke. “Only two more,” she answered as gravely as ever—and lifted up from the floor two miserable dolls, reduced to the last extremity of dirt and dilapidation. “My two eldest,” this strange child resumed, setting up the dolls against one of the empty trunks. “The eldest is a girl, and her name is Syd. The other is a boy, untidy in his clothes, as you see. Their kind mamma forgives them when they are naughty, and buys ponies for them to ride on, and always has something nice for them to eat when they are hungry. Have you got a kind mamma, Lizzie? And are you very fond of her?”

      Those innocent allusions to the neglect which was the one sad experience of Syd’s young life touched the servant’s heart. A bygone time was present to her memory, when she too had been left without a playfellow to keep her company or a fire to warm her, and she had not endured it patiently.

      “Oh, my dear,” she said, “your poor little arms are red with cold. Come to me and let me rub them.”

      But Syd’s bright imagination was a better protection against the cold than all the rubbing that the hands of a merciful woman could offer. “You are very kind, Lizzie,” she answered. “I don’t feel the cold when I am playing with my children. I am very careful to give them plenty of exercise, we are going to walk in the Park.”

      She gave a hand to each of the dolls, and walked slowly round and round the miserable room, pointing out visionary persons of distinction and objects of interest. “Here’s the queen, my dears, in her gilt coach, drawn by six horses. Do you see her scepter poking out of the carriage window? She governs the nation with that. Bow to the queen. And now look at the beautiful bright water. There’s the island where the ducks live. Ducks are happy creatures. They have their own way in everything, and they’re good to eat when they’re dead. At least they used to be good, when we had nice dinners in papa’s time. I try to amuse the poor little things, Lizzie. Their papa is dead. I’m obliged to be papa and mamma to them, both in one. Do you feel the cold, my dears?” She shivered as she questioned her imaginary children. “Now we are at home again,” she said, and led the dolls to the empty fireplace. “Roaring fires always in my house,” cried the resolute little creature, rubbing her hands cheerfully before the bleak blank grate.

      Warm-hearted Lizzie could control herself no longer.

      “If the child would only make some complaint,” she burst out, “it wouldn’t be so dreadful! Oh, what a shame! what a shame!” she cried, to the astonishment of little Syd. “Come down, my dear, to the nice warm room where your brother is. Oh, your mother? I don’t care if your mother sees us; I should like to give your mother a piece of my mind. There! I don’t mean to frighten you; I’m one of your bad children—I fly into a passion. You carry the dolls and I’ll carry you. Oh, how she shivers! Give us a kiss.”

      Sympathy which expressed itself in this way was new to Syd. Her eyes opened wide in childish wonder—and suddenly closed again in childish terror, when her good friend the servant passed Mrs. Westerfield’s door on the way downstairs. “If mamma bounces out on us,” she whispered, “pretend we don’t see her.” The nice warm room received them in safety. Under no stress of circumstances had Mrs. Westerfield ever been known to dress herself in a hurry. A good half-hour more had passed before the house door was heard to bang—and the pleasant landlady, peeping through the window, said: “There she goes. Now, we’ll enjoy ourselves!”

      5.—The Landlord.

      Mrs. Westerfield’s destination was the public-house in which she had been once employed as a barmaid. Entering the place without hesitation, she sent in her card to the landlord. He opened the parlor door himself and invited her to walk in.

      “You wear well,” he said, admiring her. “Have you come back here to be my barmaid again?”

      “Do you think I am reduced to that?” she answered.

      “Well, my dear, more unlikely things have happened. They tell me you depend for your income on Lord Le Basque—and his lordship’s death was in the newspapers last week.”

      “And his lordship’s lawyers continue my allowance.”

      Having smartly set the landlord right in those words, she had not thought it necessary to add that Lady Le Basque, continuing the allowance at her husband’s request, had also notified that it would cease if Mrs. Westerfield married again.

      “You’re a lucky woman,” the landlord remarked. “Well, I’m glad to see you. What will you take to drink?”

      “Nothing, thank you. I want to know if you have heard anything lately of James Bellbridge?”

      The landlord was a popular person in his own circle—not accustomed to restrain himself when he saw his way to a joke. “Here’s constancy!” he said. “She’s sweet on James, after having jilted him twelve years ago!”

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