The bitterness of the father’s despair broke out in his answer.  “I can bear other troubles, Randal, as well as most men.  This affliction revolts me.  There’s something so horribly unnatural in the child being threatened by death, while the parents (who should die first) are alive and well—­” He checked himself.  “I had better say no more, I shall only shock you.”

The misery in his face wrung the faithful heart of his wife.  She forgot the conciliatory expressions which she had prepared herself to use.  “Hope, my dear, as Randal tells you,” she said, “because there is hope.”

His face flushed, his dim eyes brightened.  “Has the doctor said it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why haven’t I been told of it before?”

“When I sent for you, I heard that you had gone out.”

The explanation passed by him unnoticed—­perhaps even unheard.  “Tell me what the doctor said,” he insisted; “I want it exactly, word for word.”

She obeyed him to the letter.

The sinister change in his face, as the narrative proceeded was observed by both the other persons present, as well as by his wife.  She waited for a kind word of encouragement.  He only said, coldly:  “What have you done?”

Speaking coldly on her side, she answered:  “I have sent the carriage to fetch Miss Westerfield.”

There was a pause.  Mrs. Presty whispered to Randal:  “I knew she would come back again!  The Evil Genius of the family—­that’s what I call Miss Westerfield.  The name exactly fits her!”

The idea in Randal’s mind was that the name exactly fitted Mrs. Presty.  He made no reply; his eyes rested in sympathy on his sister-in-law.  She saw, and felt, his kindness at a time when kindness was doubly precious.  Her ton es trembled a little as she spoke to her silent husband.

“Don’t you approve of what I have done, Herbert?”

His nerves were shattered by grief and suspense; but he made an effort this time to speak gently.  “How can I say that,” he replied, “if the poor child’s life depends on Miss Westerfield?  I ask one favor—­give me time to leave the house before she comes here.”

Mrs. Linley looked at him in amazement.

Her mother touched her arm; Randal tried by a sign to warn her to be careful.  Their calmer minds had seen what the wife’s agitation had prevented her from discovering.  In Linley’s position, the return of the governess was a trial to his self-control which he had every reason to dread:  his look, his voice, his manner proclaimed it to persons capable of quietly observing him.  He had struggled against his guilty passion—­at what sacrifice of his own feelings no one knew but himself—­and here was the temptation, at the very time when he was honorably resisting it, brought back to him by his wife!  Her motive did unquestionably excuse, perhaps even sanction, what she had done; but this was an estimate of her conduct which commended itself to others.  From his point of view—­motive or no motive—­he saw the old struggle against himself in danger of being renewed; he felt the ground that he had gained slipping from under him already.