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Added to a feminine perception, Miss Sergeant has a dispassionateness and a sense of humor quite rare in her sex. Price 30 cents. S^» |lt0tttettt JlftfT. By Robert Buchanan. A thrilling story, giving the experience in !he hereafter of a man who was haoged. It is weird but not revolting. Price 30 cents. ff^e 90n)*matt. By Hall Caine. It is vigorous and faithful, portrays with the intimacy of entire acquaintanceship, not only the physical features of island life in the Northern Seas, but the insular habits of thought of the dwellers on those secluded haunts of the old Sea Kings or Vikings of the past. Price 30 cents. JOHN LOVELL BROOKE* S DAUGHTER. 7 and their work \ both came, perhaps, as a welcome break in the monotony of their barren lives \ and they were sorry when the day came for their scholars to leave them ibr a time. Still more did they grieve when the inevitable day of a final departure arrived. They knew — some by hearsay, some by experience, and some by instinct alone — that the going away from school into the world was the beginning of a new life, full, very often, of danger and temptation, in which the good sisters and their teaching were likely to be forgotten, and it was a sorrow to them to be henceforth dissociated from the thoughts and lives of those who had often been un("'er their guardianship and tuition for many years. Such 1 parting — probably a final one — was new imminent, and not a few of the sisters were troubled by the prospect, although it svas against their rule to let any sign of such grief appear. It was not the hour of recreation, but the ordinary rou- tine of the establishment was for a little while suspended, partly becau.e it was holiday-time, and partly because an unusual event was coming to pass. One of the parlor boarders, who had been with the sisters since her child- hood, first as a boarder and then as a guest, was about to leave them= She was to be fetched away by her mother and her mother's father, who was an English milord, of fabulous wealth and distinction, and, although at present a heretic, exceedingly " well-disposed " towards the Catho- lic church. It was not often that a gentleman set foot within the precincts of the convent ; and although he would not be a" owed to penetrate farther than the parlor, the very fact of his presence sent a thrill of excitement through the house. An English milord, a heretic, the grandfather of " cette chdre Lisa," whom they were to loose so soon ! No wonder the most placid of the nuns, the most stolid of the lay-:i3ters, tingled with excitement to the finger-tips ! The girl whose departure from the convent school was thus regretted was known amongst her English friends as Lesley Brooke. French lips, unaccustomed to a name litce Lesley, had changed it into Lisa ; but Lesley loved her own name, which was a heriL.ge in her family, and had been handed down to her from her grandmother. She was always glad to hear it from friendly English lips. She was nineteen now, and had stayed with the sisters an unusually long time without exactly knowing why. Family circum- 8 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER^ Stances, she was told, had hitherto prevented her mother from taking her to an English home. But now the current :>f her life was to be changed. She was to leave Paris : she was, she believed, even to leave France. Her mother had written that she was to go to London, and that she (Lady Alice Brooke) would come for her, in company with Les- ley's grandfather, Lord Courtleroy, with whom she had been traveling abroad for some time past. Lesley was overjoyed by the news. She had lately come to suspect something strange, something abnormal, in her own position. She had remained at school when other girls went to their homes : she never had been able to ani swer questions respecting her relations and their belongings. Her mother, indeed, she knew ; for she sometimes spent a portion of the holidays with Lady Alice at a quiet watering- place in France or Italy. And her mother was all that could be desired. Gentle, refined, beautiful, with a slight shade of Kielanchoiy Vv'hich only made her delicate face more attractive — at leas' in Lesley's eyes — Lady Alice Brooke gained love and admiration whithersoever she went. But she never spoke of her husband. Lesley had gradually learned that she must not mention his name. In her younger days she had been wont to ask questions about her unknown father. Was he dead ? — was he in another country ? — why had she never seen him ? She soon found that these questions were gently but decidedly checked. Her mother did not decline in so many words to answer them, but she set them aside. Only once, when Lesley was fifteen, and made some timid, wistful reference to the father whom she had never known, did Lady Alice make her a formal answer. ** I will tell you all about your father when you are old enc'igh to hear," she said. ' Until then, Lesley, I had rather that you did not talk of him." Lesley shrank into herself abashed, and never mentioned his name again. All the same, as she grew older, her fancy played about this unknown father, as the fancy of young girls always plays about a mystery. Had he committed some crime ? had h'^ disgraced himself and his family that his name might not be breathed in Lady Alice's ear ? But she could not believe that her good, beautiful mother would ever have loved and married a wicked man I — such was the *f T JiROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 9 phrase that she, in her girlish innocence and ignorance, used to herself. As to scandal and tittle-tattle, none of it reached th- seclusion of her convent-home, or was allowed to sully her fair mind. And it was impossible for her to connect the idea of folly, guilt, or shame with the pure, sweet face of her mother, or the stately pride and dignity of her mother's father, the Earl of Courtleroy. There was evidently a mystery ; but she was sure of one thing, that it was a mystery without disgrace. And now, as she stood waiting on the stone steps, her face flushed a little, and her eyes filled at the thought that she would now, perhaps, be allowed to hear the story of her parents' lives. For she knew that she was going to leave the convent, and it had been vaguely hinted by Lady Alice in a recent letter that on leaving the convent Lesley must be prepared for a great surprise. Lesley looked over the silent, sweet-scented garden, and half-sighed, half-smiled, to think that she should leave it so soon, and perhaps for ever. But she was excited rather than sad, and when one of the sisters appeared at the door of the study, or salle d'Hude, Lesley turned towards her with a quick, eager gesture, which not all the training to which she had been subjected since her childhood would have availed to suppress. " Oh, sister, tell me, has she come ? " The sister was a tall, spare woman, with a thin face and great dark eyes, with eyelids slightly reddened, as though by long weeping or sleeplessness. It was an austere face, but its severity softened into actual sweetness as she smiled at her pupil's eagerness. " Gently, my child : why so impetuous ? " she said, tak- ing the girl's hand in her own. " Yes, madame has arrived : she is in the parlor, speaking to the Reverend Mother ; and in five minutes you are to go to her." " Not for five minutes ? " said Lesley ; and then, con- trolling herself she added, penitently. '* I know I am impatient, Sister Rose." ** Yes, dear child : you are impatient : it is in your nature, in your blood," said the sister, looking at her with a sort of pity in her eyes — a pity which Lesley resented, without quite knowing why. *' And you are going into a world where you will find many things sadly different from your expectations. If you remember the lessons that we have lO BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, Li tried to read you here — lessons of patience, endurance, resignation to the will of others, and especially to the will of God — you will be happy in spite of sorrow and tribula- tion." The young girl trembled : it seemed as if the sister spoke with a purpose, as if she knew of some difficulty, some danger that lay before her. She had been trained to ask no questions, and therefore she kept silence. But her lips trembled, and her beautiful brown eyes filled with tears. " Come, my dear child," said Sister Rose, taking her by the hand, after a short pause, " I will take you to your mother. She will be ready for you now. May God pro- tect you and guide you in your way through the world ! " And Lesley lowered her head as if she had received a blessing. Sister Rose was a woman whom Lesley honored and revered, and her words, therefore, sank deep, and often recurred to the young girl's mind in days to come. They went in silence to the door of the parlor. Here Sister Rose relinquished her pupil's hand, tapped three times on one of the panels, and signed to Lesley to open the door. With a trembling hand Lesley obeyed the sign ; and in another moment she was in her mother's arms. Lady Alice Brooke was a very attractive looking woman. She was tall, slight, and graceful, and although she must have been close upon forty, she certainly had not the appearance of a woman over four or five and thirty. Her complexion was untouched by time : her cheeks were smooth and fair, her blue eyes clear. Her pretty brown hair had perhaps lost a little of the golden tinge of its youth, but it was still soft and abundant. But the reason why people often turned to look at her did no*^ lie in any pleasure of grace and beauty that she possessed, so much as in an indefinable air of distinction and refinement which seemed to pervade her whole being, and marked her oflf from the rest of the world as one made ot finer clay than others. Many people resented this demeanor — which was quite unconscious on Lady Alice's part — and thought that it sig- nified pride, haughtiness, coldness of heart ; but in all this they were greatly, if not altogether, mistaken. Lady Alice was not of a cold nature, and she was nc ver willingly haughty ; but in some respects, she was what the world calls proud. She w-^-s proud of her ancient lineage ; of the t BROOKr^ nArTCTTTER. If m. i repute of her family, of the stainlessness of its name. And she had brought up Lesley, as far as she could, in the same old tradition. Lesley was like her mother, and unlike, too. She had her mother's tall, graceful figure ; but there was much more vivacity in her face than there had ever been in Lady Alice's ; much more warmth and life and color. There was more determination in the lines of her mouth and chin : her brow was broader and fuller, and her eyes were dark brown instead of blue. But the likeness was there,* with a diversity of expression and of coloring. " I thought you were never coming," said Lesley at length, as she clung fondly to her mother. " I could hardly sleep last night for thinking how delightful it would be to go away with you ! " Lady Alice gave a little start, and looked at the girl as if there had been some hidden meaning in her words. " Go away with me ? " she repeated. " Yes, mother darling, and be with you always : to look after you and not let grandpapa tire you with long walks and long games of backgammon. I shall be his companion as well as yours, and I shall take care of you both. I have planned ever so many things that I mean to do — especially when we go to Scotland." " Lesley," said Lady Alice, faintly, " I am tired : let me sit down." And then, as the girl made her seat herself in the one arm-chair that the room contained, and hung over her with affectionate solicitude, she went on, with paling lips : " You never said these things in your letter, child ! I did not know that you were so anxious to come away— with me." " Oh, mamma, dear, you surely knew it all the time ? " said Lesley, thinking the coirment a reproach. "You surely knew how I longed to be vv'ith you ? But I would not say much in my letters for fear of making you think I was unhappy ; and I have always been very happy here with the dear sisters and the girls. But I thought you under stoodvciQ^vcid^xama. — understood by instinct, as it were," said Lesley, kneeling by her mother's side, and throwing an occasional shy glance into her mother's face. *' I understand perfectly, dear, and I see your unselfish motive. It makes me all the more sorry to disappoint you as I am about to do" n BROOKF^S DAUGHTER. ** Oh, mamma ! Am I not to leave school, then ? " " Yes, dear, you will leave school." " And — and — with you ? " " You will come with me, certainly — until to-morrow, darling. But you leave me to-morrow, too." The color began to fade from Lesley's cheeks, as it had already faded from Lady Alice's. The girl felt a great swelling in her throat, and a film seemed to dim the clear- ness of her sight. But Sister Rose's words came back to her mind with an inspiring thrill which restored her strength. " Pf-tience, endurance, resignation I " Was this the occa- sion on which she was to show whether these virtues were hers or not ? She would not fail in the hour of trial : she would be patient and endure ! " If you will explain, mamma dear," she said, entreat- ingly, " I will try to do — as you would like." " My darling ! My Lesley ! What a help it is to me to see you so brave ! " said her mother, putting her arms round the girl's shoulders, a£nd resting her face on the bright young head. " If I could keep you with me ! but it will be only for a time, my child, and then — then you will come back to me ? " " Come back to you, mamma ? As if anything would keep me away ! But what is it ? where am I to go ? what am I to do ? Why haven't you told me before ? " She was trembling with excitement. Patience was not one of Lesley's virtues. She felt, with sudden heat of passion, that she could bear any pain rather than this sus- pense, which her mother's gentle reluctance to give pain inflicted upon her. " I did not tell you before," said Lady Alice, slowly, "because I was under a promise not to do so. I have been obliged to keep you in the dark about your future for many a long year, Lesley, and the concealment has always weighed upon my mind. You must forgive me, dearest, for this : I did not see the consequence of my promise when I made it first." " What promise was it, mamma ? " " To let you leave me for a time, my dear : to let you go from me — to let you choose your own life — oh, it seems hard and cruel to me now." "Tell me," pleaded Lesley, whose heart was by this time beating with painful rapidity, '• tell me all — quickly, mamma, and I promise- le nature to be brought r.< i6 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, suddenly into contact with a very strong emotion, either of anguish, love, or joy. " I suffered for my loss," Lady Alice went on, after a short pause. " But at first without knowing that I suffered. There comes a time in every woman's life, Lesley, when she is in need of help and counsel, when, in fact, she is in danger. As soon as a woman loves, she stands on the brink of a precipice." " I thought," murmured Lesley, '* that love was the most beautiful thing in the world ? " " Is that what the nuns have taught you ? " asked her mother, with a keen glance at the girl's flushing cheek. "Well, in one sense it is true. Love is a beautiful thing to look at — an angel to outward show — with the heart, too often, of a fiend ; and it is he who leads us to that precipice of which I spoke — the precipice of disillusion and des- pair." To Lesley these words were as blasphemy, for they contradicted the whole spirit of the teaching which she had received. But she did not dare to contradict her mother's opinions. She looked down, and reflected dumbly that her mother knew more about the subject than she could possibly do. The good Sisters had talked to her about heavenly love ; she had made no fine distinctions in her mind as to the kind of love they meant — possibly there were two kinds. And while she was considering this knotty point, her mother began to speak again. " I was between eighteen and nineteen," said Lady Alice, •* scarcely as old as you are now, when a new interest came into my life . My father gave permission to a young literary man to examine our archives, which contained much of historical value. He never thought of cautioning me to leave the library to Mr. Brooke's sole occupation. I was accustomed to spend much of my time there : and the stranger — Mr. Brooke — must have heard this fact from the servants, for he begged that he might not disturb me, and that I would frequent the library as usual. After a little hesitation, I began to do so. My father was in London, and my only chaperon was an old lady who was too infirm to be of much use. Before long, I began to help Mr. Brooke in his researches and inquiries. He was writing a book on the great Scottish families of that part of the country, and the subject interested me. Need I tell you BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, »7 i what followed, Lesley ? Need I explain to you the heedless selfish folly of that time ? I forgot my duty to my father, my duty to myself. I fancied I loved this man, and I promised to marry him." There was a a light of interest in Lesley's eyes. She did not altogether understand her mother's tone. It sounded as though Lady Alice condemned lovers and all their ways, and such condemnation puzzled the girl, in spite of her convent breeding. During the last few months she had been allowed a much wider range of literature than was usual in the Sisters' domain ; her mother had requested that she should be supplied with certain volumes of history, fiction, and poetry, that had considerably enlarged Lesley's views of life ; and yet Lady Alice's words seemed to contradict all that the girl had previously heard or read of love. The mother read the unspoken question in Lesley's eyes, and answered it in a somewhat modified tone. ** My dear, I do not mean that I think it wrong to love. So long as the world lasts I suppose people will love — and be miserable. It is right enough, if it is opposed by no other law. But in my case, I was wrong from beginning to end. I knew that my father would never give his per- mission to my marriage with Mr. Brooke ; and, in my youthful folly, I thought that my best plan was to take my own way. I married Mr. Brooke in private, and then I went away with him to London. And it was not long, Lesley, before I rued my disobedience and my deceit. It was a great mistake." '• But mamma, why were you so sure that grandpapa would not give his consent ? " Lady Alice opened her gentle eyes with a look of pro- found astonishment. " Darling, don't you see ? Mr. Brooke was — nobody." ** But if you loved him " " No, Lesley, your grandfather would never have heard of such a marriage. He had his own plans for me. My dear, I am not saying a word against your father in saying this. I am only telling you the fact — that he was what is often called a self-made, self-educated man, who could not possibly be styled my equal in the eyes of society. His father had been a small tradesman in Devonshire. The son being clever and^-and — handsome, made his way a little 2 18 BJiOOKiVS DAUGHTER, in the world. He became a journalist : he wrote for iiia< gazines and newspapers and reviews : he was what is called a literary hack. He had no certain prospects, no certain income, when he married nie. I thinli," said Lady Alice, with a sort of cold scorn, which was intensified by the very softness of her tones, " thai he could not have done a more unjustifiable thing than persuade a girl in my position to marry him." Lesley felt a slight diminution of sympathy with her mother. Perhaps Lady Alice was conscious of some change in ner face, for she added hastily. " Don't misjudge me, Lesley. If there had been between us the strong and tender love of which women too often dream, poverty might perhaps have been forgotten. It sounds terribly worldly to draw attention to the fact that poverty is apt to kill a love which was not very strong at the beginning. But the fact was that neither Caspar Brooke nor 1 knew our own minds. He was three-and- iwenty and I was eighteen. We married in haste, and we certainly repented very much at leisure." " Was he not — kind ? " asked Lesley, timidly. " Kind ? " said her mother, with a sigh. ** Oh, yes, perhaps he was kind — at first. Until he was tired of me, or I was tired of him. l don't know on which side the disillusion was felt first. Think where I came from — from the dear old Castle, the moors, the lochs, the free fresh air of Scotland, to a dreary lodging of two little rooms in a dingy street, where 1 had to cut and contrive and econo- mize to make ends meet. I was an ignorant girl, and I could not do it. I got into debt, and my husband was angry with me. Why should I tell you the petty, sordid details of my life ? I soon found out that I was miserable and that he was miserable too." Lesley listened breathlessly with hidden face. The story was full of humiliation for her. It seemed like a desecra- tion of all that she had hitherto held dear. " My father and my friends would not forgive me," Lady Alice went on. '* In our direst straits of poverty, I am glad to say that I never appealed to them. We struggled on together — your father and I — until you were four years old. Then a change came — a change which made it impossible for me to bear the misery of my life. Your father " BROOA'rS DAUcrTTER, She came to a sudden stop, and sat with eyes fixed on the opposite wall, a curious expression of mingled desola- tion and contempt upon her cold, clear-cut face. For some reason or other Lesley felt afraid to hear what her mother had to say. '• Mamma, don't tell me ! Don't look like that," she cried. '* I can't bear to hear it ! Why need you tell me any more ? " " Because," said her mother, slowly, " because your father exacts this sacrifice from me : that I should tell you — you^ my daughter — the reason why I left him. I pro- mised that I would do so, and I will keep my promise. The thing that hurts me most, Lesley, is to think that I may be injuring you — staining your innocence — darkening your youth — by telling you what I have to tell. At your age, I would rather that you knew nothing of life but its brighter side— nothing of love but what was fair and sweet. But it is the punishment of my first false step that I should bring sorrow upon my child. Lesley, in years to come remember that I have warned you to be honest and true, unless you would make those miserable whom you love best. If I had never deceived my father, my husband would never perhaps have deceived me ; and I should not have to tell my child that the last person in the world whom she must trust is her father." There was a little silence, and then she continued in a strained and unnatural tone. " There was a woman — another woman — whom beloved. That is all." Lesley shivered and hid her face. To her mind, young and innocent as it was, the fact which her mother stated seemed like an indelible stain. She hardly dared as yet think \/hat it meant. And, after a long pause. Lady Alice went on quietly — " I do not want to exaggerate. I do not believe that he meant to leave me — even to be untrue to me. I could not speak to you of him if I thought him so black-hearted, so treacherous. I mean simply this — take the fact as I state it, and inquire no further ; I found that my husband cared for some one else more than he cared for me. My resolu- tion was taken at once : I packed up my things, left his house, and threw myself at my father's feet. He was good to me and forgave me, and since then. . . I have never entered my husband's house again." ^ BROOKr^^ DAUGHTER, " He must have been wicked — wicked ! " said Lesley, in a strangled voice. " No, he was not wicked. Let me do him so much justice. He was upright on the whole, I believe. He never meant to give me cause for complaint. But I had reason to believe that another woman suited him better than I did . . . and it was only fair to leave him." ** But did he — could he — marry her? I mean " My poor Lesley, you are very ignorant," said Lady Alice, smiling a wan smile, and touching the girl's cheek lightly with her hand. " How could he marry another woman when I was alive ? Your father and I separated on account of what is called incompatibility of temper. The question of the person whom he apparently preferred to me never arose between us." " Then, is it not possible, mamma, that you may have been mistaken ? " said Lesley, impetuously. Lady Alice shook her head. *' Quite impossible, Lesley. I accuse your father of nothing. J only mean that another woman — one of his friends — would have suited him better than I, and that he knew it. I have no cause for complaint against him. And I would not have told you this^ had I not felt it a duty to put in the strongest possible light my rea- sons for leaving him, so that a day may never come when you turn round upon me and blame me — as others have done — for fickleness, for ill-temper, for impatience with my husband ; because now you know — as no one else knows — the whole truth.'* " But I should never blame you, mamma." " I do not know. I know this — that your father is a man who can persuade and argue and represent his con- duct in any light that suits his purpose. He is a very eloquent — a very plausible man. He will try to win 70U over to his side." " But I shall never see him." " Yes, Lesley, you will. You are going to him to-morrow.** " I will not — I will not " — said the girl, springing from her knees, and involuntarily clenching her right hand. " I will not speak to him — if he treated my darling mother so shamefully he must be bad, and I will not acknowledge any relationship to him." A look of apprehension showed itself in Lady Alice's eyes. g V a s f BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. ai ** Darling," she said, " you must not let your generous love for me run away with your judgment. I am bound, and you must be bound with me. Listen, when your father found that t had left him he was exceedingly angry. He came to your grandfather's house, he clamored to see me, he attempted to justify himself — oh, I cannot tell you the misery that I went through. At last I consented to see him. He behaved like a madman. He swore that he would have me back — tyrant that he was ! " " Mamma — perhaps he cared ? " " Cared ! He cared for his reputation," said Lady Alice growing rather white about the lips. " For nothing else ! Not for me, Lesley ! When his violence had expended itself we came to terms. He agreed to let me live where I liked on condition that when you were eight years old you were sent to school, and saw me only during the holidays " " But why ? " " He said that he dreaded my influence on your mind," said Lady Alice. " That you should be brought up at a good school was the first thmg. Secondly, that when you were nineteen you should spend a year with him, and then a year with me ; and that when you were twenty-one you should choose for yourself with which of the two you pre- ferred to cast in your lot." " Oh, mamma, I cannot go to him now." " You must go, Lesley. I am bound, and you are bound by my promise. Only for a year, my darling. Then you can come back to me for ever. I stipulated that I should see you first, and say to you what I chose." " But cannot I wait a little while ? " " Twenty-four hours, Lesley ; that is all. You go to your father to-morrow.'* 1 2Z BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, CHAPTER hi: MOTHER AND TAUGHTER. The conversation between Lesley and her mother occupied a considerable time, and the sun was sinking westward when at last the two ladies left the Convent. Lesley's adieux had been made before Lady Alice's arrival, and the only persons whom she saw, therefore, after the long interview with her mother, were the Mother Superior, and the Sister who had summoned her to the parlor. While Lady Alice and the Reverend Mother exchanged a few last words, Lesley drew close to Sister Rose's side, and laid her hand on the serge-covered arm. " You were right," she said. *' Sister, I see already «^hat I shall need patience and endurance where I am going." " Gentleness and love, also," said the Sister. Then, as if in answer to an indefinable change in Lesley's lips and eyes, she added gently, " We are told that peacemakers are blessed." " I could not make peace " Lesley began, hastily, and then she stopped short, confused, not knowing how much Sister Rose had heard of her mother's story. Bui if Sister Rose were ignorant of it, her next words were singularly appropriate. For she said, in a low tone — " Peace is better than war : forgiveness better than hatred. Dear child, it may be in your hands to reconcile those who have been long divided. Do your best." Lesley had no time to reply. . It was a long drive from the Convent of the Annon^ ciades to the hotel where Lord Courtleroy and Lady Alice were staying. The mother and daughter spoke little ; each seemed wrapped in her own reflections. There were a hundred questions which Lesley was longing to ask ; but she did not like to disturb her mother's silence. Dusk had fallen before their destmation was reached ; and Lesley's 'houghts were diverted a little from their sad bewilderment by what was to her the novel sight of Paris by gaslight, BROOKE'S DAUCTJTER, n and the ever-flowing, opposing currents of human beings that filled the streets Hitherto, when she had left the Sisters for her holidays, her mother had wisely kept her within certain bounds : she had not gone out of doors after dark, she had not seen anything but the quieter sides of life. But now all seemed to be changed. Her mother mentioned the name of the best hotel in Paris as their destination : she said a few words about shopping, dresses, and jewellery, which made Lesley's heart beat faster, in spite of a conviction that it was very mean and base to feel any joy in such trivial matters. Especially under present circumstances. But she was young and full of life, and there certainly was some excitement in the prospect before her. " I shall not need much where I am going, shall I ? " she hazarded timidly. " Perhaps not, but you must not be in any difficulty. There is not time to do a great deal, but you can be fitted and have some dresses sent after you, and I can choose your hats. And a fur-lined cloak for travelling — you will want that. We must do what we can in the time. It is not likely that your father sees much society." " It will be very lonely," said Lesley, with a little gasp. " My poor child ! I am afraid it wiU. I can tell some friends of mine to call on you ; but I don't know whether they will be admitted." " Where is — the house ? " Lesley asked. She did not like to say " my father's house." " In Upper Woburn Place, Bloomsbury. I believe it is near Euston Square, or some such neighborhood." " Then it is not where you lived, mamma ? " " No, dear. We lived further West, in a street near Portman Square. I believe that Mr. Brooke finds Blooms- bury a convenient district for the kind of work that he has to do." She spoke very formally of her husband ; but Lesley began to notice an under-current of resentment, of some- thing like contempt, in her voice when she spoke of him. Lady Alice tried in vain to simulate an indifference which she did not feel, and the very effort roughened her voice and sharpened her accent in a way of which she was unconscious. The effect on a young girl, who had not sef > much of human emotion, was to induce a passing 84 PROOKI^S DAUGHTER. doubt of her mother's judgment, and a transient wonder as to whether her father had always been so much in the wrong. The sensation was but momentary, for Lesley was devotedly attached to her mother, and could not believe her to be mistaken. And, while she was repenting of her hasty injustice, the carriage stopped between the white globes of electric light that fronted a great hotel, and Lesley was obliged to give her attention to the things around her rather than to her own thoughts and feelings. A waiter conducted the mother and daughter up one flight of stairs and consigned them to the care of a chamber- maid. The chambermaid led them to the door of a suite of rooms, where they weie met by Dayman, Lady Alice's own woman, whose stolid face relaxed into a smile of pleasure at the sight of Lesley. " Take Miss Brooke to her own room and see that she is made nice for dmner," said her mistress. " His Lord- ship has ordered dinner in our own rooms, I suppose ? "' ** Yes, my lady. Covers for four — Captain Duchesne is here." *' Oh," said Lady Alice, with an accent of faint surprise, " oh — well — Lesley, dear, we must not be late." To Lesley it seemed hardly worth while to unpack her boxes and dress herself for that one evening in the soft embroidered white muslin which had hitherto served for her best Sunday frock. But Mrs. Dayman insisted on a careful toilette, and was well satisfied with the result. "There, Miss Lesley," she said, "you have just your mamma's look — a sort of finished look, as if you were perfect outside and in ! " Lesley laughed. " That compliment might bt taken in two ways, Dayman," she said, as she turned to meel her mother at the door. And in a few minutes she was stand- ing in the gay little French salon, where the earl was con- versing with a much younger man in a glare of waxlights. Lord Courtleroy was a stately-looking man, with per- fectly show- white hair and beard, an upright carriage, and bright, piercing, blue eyes. A striking man in appearance, and of exceedingly well-marked characteristics. The family pride for which he had long been noted seemed to show itself in his bearing and in every feature as he greeted his granddaughter, and yet it v/as softened by a touch of personal affection with which family pride had nothing BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. aj whatever to do. For Lord Courtleroy's feelings towards Lesley were mixed. He saw in her ihe child of a man whose very name he detested, who stood as a type to him of all that was hateful in the bourgeois class. But he also saw in her his own granddaughter, " poor Alice's girl," whom fate had used so unkindly in giving her Caspar Brooke for a father. The earl had next to no personal knowledge of Caspar Brooke. They had not met since the one sad and stormy interview which they had held together when Lady Alice had left her husband's house. And Lord Courtleroy was wont to declare that he did not wish to know anything more of Mr. Brooke. That he was a Radical journalist, and that he had treated a daughter of the Courtleroys with shameful unkindness and neglect, was quite enough for the earl. And his manner to Lesley varied a little according as his sense of her affinity with his own family or his remembrance of her kinship with Mr. Brooke was uppermost. Lesley was too simply filial in disposkion to resent or even to remark on his changes of mood. She admired her grandfather immensely, and was pleased to hear him com- ment on her growth and development since she saw him last. And then the visitor was introduced to her ^ and to Lesley's interest and surprise she saw that he was young. Young men were an unknown quantity to Lesley. She could not remember that she had ever spoken to a man so young and so good-looking before 1 Captain Henry Duchesne was tall, well-made, well-dressed : he was very dark in complexion, and had a rather heavy jaw ; but his dark eyes were pleasant and honest, and he had a very attractive smile. The length of his moustache was almost the first thing that struck Lesley : it seemed to her so abnormally lengthy, with such very stiffly waxed ends, that she could scarcely avert her eyes from them. She was not able to tell, save from instinct, whether a man were well or ill-dressed, but she felt sure that Captain Duchesne's air of smartness was due to the perfection of every detail of his attire. She liked his manner : it was easy, well- bred, and unassuming ; and she felt glad that he was present. For after the communication made to her by her mother, the evening might have proved an occasion of embarrassment. It was a relief to talk to some one for a little while who did not know her present circumstances and position. ^ 26 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, Lady Alice watched the two young people with a little dawning trouble in her sad eyes. She had known and liked Harry Duchesne since his childhood, and she had not been free from certain hopes and visions of his future, which affected Lesley also, but she thought that her father's invitation had been premature. Especially when she heard Captain Duchesne say to the girl in the course of the evening — " Are you going to London to-morrow ? " " Yes, I believe so," said Lesley, looking down. " And you will be in town during the winter, I hope ? " Lady Alice thought it well to interpose. " My daughter will not be staying with me. She goes to a relation's house for a few months, and will lead a very quiet life indeed. When she comes back to Courtleroy it will be time enough for her to commence a round of gaieties." This with a smile ; but, as Henry Duchesne knew well enough, with Lady Alice a smile sometimes covered a very serious purpose. His quick perceptions showed him that he.was not wanted to call on Miss Brooke during her stay in London, and he adroitly changed the subject. '* Unfashionable relations, I suppose," he said to him- self, reflecting on the matter at a later hour of the evening. " Upon my word I shouldn't have thought that Lady Alice was so worldly-minded ! She certainly didn't want me to know where Miss Brooke was going. To some relation of that disreputable father of hers, I should fancy. Poor girl ! " For, like many other persons in London society. Captain Duchesne knew only the name and nothing of the character of the man whom Lady Alice had married and left. It was vaguely supposed that he v/as not a very respectable character, and that no woman of spirit would have sub- mitted to live with him any longer. Lady Alice's reputa- tion stood so high that it could not be supposed that any one except her husband was in fault. Brooke is not an uncommon name. In certain circles the name of Caspar Brooke was known well enough ; but was not often identi- fied with the man who had run away with an earl's daughter. He had other claims to repute, but in a world to which Lady Alice had not the right of entry. When Harry Duchesne had departed Lady Alice went with Lesley to her bedroom. ■ Mother and daughter sat BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. »7 down together, clasping each other's hands, and looking wistfully from time to time into each other's faces, but saying very little. The wish to ask questions faded out of Lesley's mind. She could not ask more than her mother chose to tell her. But Lady Alice thought that she had already said too much, and she restrained her tongue. It was after a long and pregnant silence that she murmured — " Lesley, my child, I want you to promise me some- thing." " Oh, yes, mamma ! " " i feel like one who is sending a lamb forth into the midst of wolves. Not that Mr. Brooke is a wolf — exactly," said Lady Alice, with a forced laugh, " but I mean that you are young and — and — unsophisticated, and that there may be a mixture of people at his house." Lesley was silent ; she did not quite know what " a mixture of people " would be like. " I am so afraid for you, darling," said her mother, pleadingly. ** Afraid lest you should be drawn into relationships and connections that you might afterwards regret. Do you understand me ? Will you promise me to make no vows of any sort while you are away from me? Only for one year, my child — promise me for the year." " I don't think I quite understand you, mamma." " Must I put it so plainly ? I mean this, Lesley. Don't engage yourself to be married while you are in your father's house." ** Oh, that is easily promised ! " said Lesley, with a smile of frank amusement and relief. *' It may not be so easy to carry out as you think. Give me your word, darling. You promise not to form any engagement of marriage for a year? You promise me that?" " Oh, yes, mamma, I promise," said the girl, so lightly that Lady Alice almost felt that she had done an unwar- rantable thing in exacting a promise only half understood. But she swallowed her rising qualms, and went on, as if exculpating herself — " It is a safeguard. I do not ask you to marry only a man that I approve — I simply ask you to wait until I can help you with my advice. It will be no loss to you in any way. You are too young to think of these things yet ; 08 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. but it is on the young that unscrupulous persons love to prey — and therefore ] give you a warning." " I am quite sure that I shall not need it," said Lesley, confidently ; " and if I did, I could write and ask your advice " " No, no ! Oh, how could I forget to tell you ? You are not to write to me while you are in your father's house." " Oh, mamma, that is cruel." " It is his doing, not mine. Intercede with him, if you like. That was one of the conditions — that for this one year you should have no intercourse with me. And for the next year you will have no intercourse with him. And after that, you may choose for yourself." .But this deprivation of correspondence affected Lesley more powerfully than even the prospect of separation — to which she was used already. She threw herself into her mother's arms and wept bitterly for a few moments. Then it occurred to her that she was acting neither thoughtfully nor courageously, and that her grief would only grieve her mother, and could remedy nothing. So she sat up and dried her eyes, and tried to respond cheerfully when Lady Alice spoke a few soothing words. But in the whole course of her short life poor Lesley had never been so miserable as she was that night. The bustle of preparation which had to be gone through next day prevented her, however, from thinking too much about her troubles. She and Lady Alice, with the faithful Dayman, were to leave Paris late in the afternoon ; and the morning was spent in huriied excursions to shops, interviews with milliners and dressmakers, eager discus- sions on color, shape, and fitness. Lesley was glad to see that she was not to be sent to London with anything over- fine in the way of clothes. The gowns chosen were extremely simple, b-it in good taste ; and the modiste promised that they should be sent after the young lady in the course of a very few days. There was some argument as to whether Lesley would require a ball dress, or dinner dresses. Lady Alice thought not. But, although nothing that could actually be called a ball-dress was ordered, there were one or two frocks of lovely shimmering hue and delightfully soft texture which* would serve for any such festivity. BROOKE' a DAUGHTER. 39 " Though in my day," said Lady Alice, smiling, '* we did not go to balls in Bloomsbury. But, of course, I don't know what society Mr. Brooke sees now." Lesley was conscious of the sarcasm. The earl remained in Paris, while Lady Alice went with her daughter from Havre to Southampton, and thence to London. Dayman travelled with them -, and a supple- mentary escort appeared in the person of Captain Duchesne, who "happened to be travelling that way." Lady Alice was not displeased to see him, although she had a guilty sense of stealing a march upon her husband in providing Lesley with a standard of youthful good-breeding and good-looks. It might tend to preserve her from forming any silly attachment in her father's circle, Lady Alice thought. As a matter of fact, she was singularly ignorant of what that circle might comprise. She had left him before his more prosperous days began to dawn, and she continued therefore to picture him to herself as the struggling journalist in murky lodgings — ** the melancholy literary man" who smoked strong tobacco far into the night, and talked of things in which she had no interest at all. If matters were changed with Caspar Brooke since then, Lady Alice did not know it. She had ascertained that Mr. Brooke's sister was living in his house, and that she was capable of acting in some sort as Lesley's chaperon. Then, a connection of the earl's was rector of a neighboring church close to Upper Woburn Place — and he had promised to take Miss Brooke under his especial pastoral care — although, as he mildly insinuated, he was not in the habit of visiting at Number Fifty. And with these recommendations and assurances, Lady Alice was forced to be content. She parted from her daughter at Waterloo Station. It did not seem possible to her to drive up to her husband's house in a cab, and drive away again. She committed her, therefore, to the care of Dayman, and put the girl and her maid into a four-wheeler, with Lesley's luggage on the top. Then she established herself in the ladies' waiting-room, until such time as Dayman should return. With beating heart and flushing cheek Lesley drove through the rapidly-darkening streets to her father's house. She was terribly nervous at the prospect of meeting him. 30 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. And, even after the history that she had learnt from her mother, she felt that she had not the slightest notion as to what manner of man Caspar Brooke might turn out to be. BROOKE* S DAUGHTER. 3« CHAPTER IV. THE MANNER OF MAN. On the day preceding Lesley Brooke's arrival in London, a tall, broad-shouldered man was walking along South- ampton Row. He was a big man — a man whom people turned to look at — a distinctly noticeable man. He was considerably taller and broader than the average of his fellows : he was wide-chested and muscular, though with- out any inclination to stoutness ; and he had a handsome, sunburned face, with a short brown beard and deep-set, dark-brown eyes. His hair was not cut quite to the con- ventional shortness, perhaps : there was a lock that would fall in an unruly manner across the broad brow with an obstinacy no hairdresser could subvert. But, in all other respects, he was very much as other men : he dressed well, if rather carelessly, and presented to the world a somewhat imposing personality. He did not wear gloves, and he had no flower at his button-hole; but the respectability of his silk hat and well-made coat was unimpeachable, and he had all the air of easy command which is so characteristic of the well-bred Englishman. The slight roughness about him w'as as inseparable from his build and his character as it is to the best-groomed and best-bred staghound or mastiff of the highest race. Southampton Row, as is well known, leads into Russell Square. In fact the straight line of the Row merges imper- ceptibly into one side of the Square, whence it continues under the name of Woburn Place, the East side of Tavis- tock Square, Upper Woburn Place, and Euston Square, losing itself at last in the Northern wilderness of the crowded Euston Road. It was at a house which he passed in his straight course from Holburn towards St. Pancras that this very tall and strong-looking gentleman stopped, at about five o'clock on a September afternoon. He stood on the steps for a moment, and looked up and down the house doubtfully, as if seeking for signs of life 3« BROOA'F.\S DAUairTER. from within. A great many people were still out of town, and he was uncertain wiiether the occupants of this house were at home or not. The place had evidently been in the hands of painters and cleaners since he saw it last: the stone-work was scrupulously white, the wood-work was painted a delicate green. The visitor lifted his well- defined eyebrows at the lightness of the color, as he turned to the door and rang the bell. It was easy to see that he was an observant man, upon whose eyes very few things were lost. " Mrs. Romaine in ? " he asked the trim maid who ap* peared in answer to his ring. He noticed that she was a new maid. ** Yes, sir. What name shall I say, please, sir ? " " Mr. Brooke." The girl looked intelligent, as if she had heard the name before. And Mr. Brooke, following her upstairs to the drawing-room, reflected on the quickness with which ser- vants make themselves acquainted with their masters' and mistresses' affairs, and the disadvantages of a civilization in which you were at the mercy of your servants' tongues. These reflections had no bearing on his own circum- stances : they proceeded entirely from Mr. Brooke's habit of taking general views, and making large applications of small things. The day was cloudy, and, although it was only five o'clock, the streets were growing dark. The weather was chilly, moreover, and the wind blew fr.^m the East. It was a pleasant change to enter Mrs. Re ""me's drawing- room, which was full of soft light frori a glowing little fire, full of the scent of roses and the lovely tints of Indian embroideries, Italian tapestries, dead gold-leaf back- grounds, and china that was beautiful as well as rare. Lady Alice Brooke, in her narrow isolation from the world, would not have believed that so charming a room could be found east of Great Portland Street. In which opinion she was very much mistaken ; for her belief that in " society " and society's haunts alone could one find taste, culture, and beauty, led her to ignore the vast number of intellectual and artistic folk who still sojourn in the dim squares of Bloomsbury and Regent's Park. Sooth to say Lady Alice knew absolutely nothing of the worlds of intel- lect and art, save by means of an occasional article in the BROOKE'S DAUGlfTF.R. 33 magiizines, or a stroll through the large picture galleries of London during the season. She was a good woman in her way, and — also in her way — a clever one ; but she had been brought up in another atmosphere from that which her husband lo.ed, elevated in a totally different school, and she was not of a nature to adapt herself to what she did not thoroughly understand. Mrs. Romaine knew well enough that she was quite as well able to hold her own in the fashionable world if once she obtained an entrance to it as any Lady Alice or Lady Anybody of her acquaintance. But then the difficulty of entering it was very great. She had not sufficient fortune to vie with women who every year spent hundreds on their dress and on their dinner. She was handsome, but she was middle-aged. She had few friends of sufficient dis- tinction to push her forward. And she was a wise woman. She thought it better to live where she enjoyed a good deal of popularity and consideration ; where she could en- tertain in a modest way, where her husband had been well known, and she could glow with the reflected light that came to her from his shining abilities. These reasons were patent to the world : she really made no secret of them. But there was another reason, not quite so patent to the world, for her living quietly in Russell Square, and this reason she kept strictly to herself. Mrs. Romaine had been a widow for three years. Her husband had been a very learned man — Professor of nume- rous Oriental languages at University College for some years, afterwards a Judge in Calcutta; and as he had always lived in the West Central district during ,his Pro- fessorate, Mrs. Romaine declared that she loved it and could live nowhere else. The house in Russell Square was only partly hers. Her brother rented some of the rooms (shared the house with her, as Mrs. Romaine vaguely phrased it), and lightened the expense. But the two drawing-rooms, opening out of one another, were entirely at Mrs. Romaine's disposal, and she was generally to be found there between four and five o'clock in an after- noon — a fact of which it is to be presumed that Mr. Brooke was aware. " So you have come back to town ? " she said, rising to meet him, and extending both hands with a pretty air of appropriative friendship. 3 34 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, << And " Yes ; but I hardly expected to find you here so early." Mrs. Romaine shrugged her shoulders a little. "I found the country very dull," she said, you ? " " Oh, T went to Norway. I was well enoug i off. I rather enjoyed myself. Perhaps I required a little oracing up for the task that lies before me." He laughed as he spoke. Mrs. Romaine paused for a moment in her task of pour- ing out the tea. " You are resolved, then, to assume that responsibili- ty ? " she said, in a low voice. " My dear Rosalind ! it's in the bond," answered Caspar Brooke, very coolly. He took the cup from her hand, stirred its contents, and proceeded to drink them in a leisurely manner, glancing at his hostess meanwhile, with a quiet smile. Mrs. Romaine's dark eyes dropped before that glance. There was an inscrutable look upon her face, but it was a look that would have told another woman that Mrs. Ro- maine was disappointed by the news which she had just heard. Caspar Brooke, being a man, saw nothing. " I am sorry," Mrs. Romaine said presently, with an as- sumption of great candor. " I am afraid you will have an uncomfortable time." " Oh, no," he answered, with indifference. " I shall not be uncomlortable, because it will not affect me in the least. When Ispokeofbracingmyself forthe task, I was in jest." Mrs. Romaine did not believe this statement. *' I shall go my own way whether the girl is in the house or not." " Why, then, did you insist on this arrangement ? " " It is only right to give the girl a chance," said Mr. Brooke. " If she has any grit in her the next twelve months will bring it out. Besides, it is simple justice. She ought to see and judge for herself. If she decides — as her mother did — that I am an ogre, she can go back to her aristocratic friends in the North. I shall not try to keep her." There was the suspicion of a giim sneer on his face as he spoke. " Do you know what she is like ? " " Yes : I saw her one day in Paris. She did not know, of course, that I was watching her. She is like her mother." BROOKES DAUGHTER. 35 And The tone was unpromising. But perhaps it would have been as well if Rosalind Romaine had not rriUrmured so pityingly— " My poor friend ! What you have suflFered — and oh, what you will suffer ! " Brooke looked at her in silence, and his eyes softened. Mrs. Romaine seemed to him at that moment the incar- nation of all that was sweet and womanly. She was slender, pale, graceful : she had velvety dark eyes and picturesque curling hair, cut short like a Florentine boy's. Her dress was harmonious in color and design ; her attitude was charming, her voice most musical. It crossed Mr. Brooke's mind, as it had crossed his mind before, that he might have been very happy if Providence had sent him a wife like Rosalind Romaine. *' I shall not suffer," he said, after a little silence, " because I will not suffer. My daughter will live for a year in my house, but she will not trouble my peace, I can assure you. She will go her own way, and I shall go mine." " I am afraid that she will not be so passive as you think," said Mrs. Romaine, with some hesitation. " She has been brought up in a very different school from any that you would recommend. A girl fresh from a French convent is not an easy person to deal with. Whatever may be the advantages of these convents, there are certain virtues which are not inculcated in them." "Such as " " Truth and honesty, Caspar, my friend. Your daugh- ter's accomplishments will not include candor, I fear." Mr. Brooke was silent for a moment, his face expressing more concern than he knew. Mrs. Romaine watched him furtively. " It may be so," he said at last in a rather heavy tone, " but it can't be helped. I had no hand in choosing a school for her, Rosalind " — his voice took a pleading tone — " you will do your best for her ? You will be her friend in spite of defects in her training ? " " I will do anything that I can. But you will forgive me for saying, Caspar, that it is hard for me to forget that she is the daughter of the woman wb ) — practically — wrecked your life." Brooke's face grew hard again. He uttered a short laugh, which had not a very agreeable sound. 36 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. " Wrecked my life ! " he repeated, disdainfully. " Excuse me, Rosalind. No woman ever had the power of wrecking my life. Indeed, I have been far more fortu- nate and prosperous since Lady Alice chose to leave me than before." Mrs. Romaine said nothing. She was an adept in the art of insinuating by a look, a turn of the head, a gesture, what she wished to convey. At this moment she in- dicated very clearly, though without speaking a word, that she sympathized deeply with her friend, Caspar Brooke, and was exceedingly indignant at the way in which he had been treated. Perhaps Mr. Brooke found the atmosphere enervating, for with a half smile and shake of the head, he rose up to go. Mrs. Romaine rose also. " She comes to-morrow evening," he said, before he took his leave. " To-morrow evening ? You will be out ! " " No, it is Wednesday : I can manage an evening at home. Perhaps you will kindly look in on Thursday after- noon ? " And this Mrs. Romaine undertook to do. Caspar Brooke continued his walk along the Eastern side of Russell Square and Woburn Place. His quick observant eyes took note of every incident in his way, of every man, woman, and child within their range of vision. He stopped once to rate a cabman, not too mildly, . for beating an over-worked horse — took down his number, and threatened to prosecute him for cruelty to animals. A ragged boy who asked him for money was brought to a standstill by some keenly-worded questions respecting his home, his name, his father's occupation, and the school which he attended. Of these Mr. Brooke also made a note, much to the boy's dismay ; but consolation followed in the shape of a shilling, although the donor muttered a maledic- tion on his own folly as he turned away. His last actions, before reaching his own house in Upper Woburn Place, were — first to ring the area-bell for a dog that was waiting at another man's gate (an office which the charitable are often called upon to perform in the streets of London for dogs and cats alike), and then to pick up a bony black kitten and take it on his arm to his own door, where he delivered it to a servant, with injunctions to feed and BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 37 comfort the starveling. From which facts it may be seen that Mr. Caspar Brooke, in spite of all his faults, was a lover of dumb animals, and of children, and must therefore have possessed a certain amount of kindliness of disposi- tion. , *Mr. Brooke dined at six o'clock, then smoked a cigar and had a cup of black coflee brought to him in the untidy little sanctum where he generally did his work. With the coffee came the black kitten, which sidled up to him on the table, purring, and rubbing her head against his arm as if she knew him for a friend. He stroked it occasion- ally as he read his evening papers, and stroked it in the caressing way which cats love, from -its forehead to the tip of its stumpy tail. It was while he was thus engaged- that a tap at the door was heard, and the tap was followed by the entrance of a young man, who looked as if he were quite at home. " Can I come in ? " he said, in a perfunctory sort of way ; and then, without waiting for any reply, went on — '* I've no engagement to-night, so I thought I would look in here first, and see whether you had started." *' All right. Where have you been ? " ** Special meeting — Church and State Union," said the young man with a smile. " I went partly in a medical capacity, partly because I was curious to know how they managed tc mite the two professions." " Couldn't your sister tell you ? " " Oh, I don't allow Ethel to attend such mixed gather- ings," said the visitor, seating himself on the edge of the library table, and beginning to play with the cat. " You are unusually particular," said Mr. Brooke, with an amused look. But Maurice Kenyon, as the visitor was named, continued to attract the kitten's notice, without the answering protest which Caspar Brooke had expected. Maurice Kenyon was nearly thirty, and had stepped by good fortune into the shoes of a medical uncle who had left him a large and increasing general practice in the West Central district. The young man's popularity was not entirely owing to his skill, although he had an exceed- ingly good repute among his brethren in medicine. Neither , was it attributable to good looks. He owed it rather to a sympathetic manner, to the cheerful candor of his dark grey eyes, to the mixture of firmness and delicate kindness 38 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. by which his treatment of liis patients was characterised. He was especially successful in his dealings with children; and he had therefore a good deal of adoration from grate- ful mothers to put up with. But of his skill and intellec- tual power there could be no doubt ; and these qualities, coupled with his winning manner, bade fair to raise him to a very high place in his profession. There was one little ch^^ck, and one only^ to the flow of Mr. Kenyon's prosperity. Careful mothers occasionally objected that he was not married, and that his sister was an actress. Why did he let his sister go on the stage ? And why, if she was an actress, did he allow her to live in his house? It did hot seem quite respectable in the eyes of some worthy people that these things should be. But Mr. Kenyon only laughed when reports of these sayings reached him, and went on his way unmoved, as his sister Ethel went on hers. And in London, the question of a doctor's relations, his sisters, his cousins, his aunts, and what they do for a living, is not so important as it is in the country. Maurice Kenyon's care of his sister, and her devotion to him, were well known by all their friends ; and as he sometimes said, it mattered very little to him what all the rest of the world might think. "Talking of your sister, Kenyon," said Mr. Brooke, somewhat abruptly, " I suppose you know that my daugh- ter comes to me to-morrov/ ? " The connection of ideas was not, perhaps, very obvious, but Maurice Kenyon nodded as if he understood. I suppose she will want a companion. Would Ethel to call "on her ? " She will do all she can for Miss Brooke, I am sure." " I have been speaking to Mrs. Romaine, too." ^'' Have you?" Kenyon raised his eyebrows a very little, but Mr. Brooke did not seem to notice the change of expression. " — And she promises to do what she can ; but a woman like Mrs. Romaine is not likely to find many subjects in common with a girl fresh from a convent." " I suppose not " — in the driest of tones. " Mrs. Romaine," said Brooke, in a more decided tone, cultivated woman who has made a mark in litera- te be so kind as " Certainly. i ' BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 39 " In literature ? " queried the doctor. " She has written a novel or two. She writes for various papers — well and smartly, I believe. She is a thorough woman of the world. Naturally, a girl brought up as Lesley has been will- «. -Will fiud her detestable," said Kenyon, briskly, " as I and Ethel do. You'll excuse this expression of opinion ; you've heard it before." For a moment Caspar Brooke's face was overcast ; then he broke into uneasy laughter, and rose from his chair, shaking himself a little as a big dog sometimes does when it comes out of the water. " You are incorrigible," he said. " A veritable heretic on the matter of my friend, Mrs. Romaine. By the by, I must remind you, Kenyon, that Mrs. Romaine is a very old friend of mine." His manner changed slightly as he spoke. There was a little touch of quiet hauteur in his look and tone, as if he wished to repel unsolicited criticism. Maurice understood the man too well to be offended, and merely changed the subject. But when, after half an hour's chat, the young doctor left the house, his mind 'everted to' the topic which Mr. Brooke had broached. " Mrs. Romaine, indeed ! Why, the man's mad — to introduce her as a friend to his daughter ! Does not all the world know that Mrs. Romaine caused the separation between him and his wife ? And will the poor girl know ? or has she been kept in the dark completely as to the state of affairs ? Upon my word I'm sorry for her. It strikes me that she will have a hard row to hoe, if Mrs. Romaine is at her father's ear." a very change 40 BROOKES DA UGHTER. CHAPTER V. OLIVER. Mr. Brooke had not long quitted Mrs. Roniaine's draw- ing-room when it was entered by another man, whose personal resemblance to Mrs. Romaine herself was so striking that there could be little doubt as to their close relationship to one another. It was one of those curious likenesses that exist and thrive upon difference. Rosalind was not tall, and she was undeniably plump ; while her younger brother, Oliver Trent, was above middle height, and of a spare habit. The creamy white of Mrs. Ro- maine's complexion had turned to deadly pallor in Oliver's thin, hairless face : and her most striking features were accentuated, and even exaggerated in his. Her arched and mobile eyebrows, her dark eyes, her broad nostrils, curved mouth, and finely-shaped chin, were all to be found, with a subtle unlikeness, in Oliver's face, and the jetty hair, short as it was on the man's head, grew low down on the brow and the nape of the neck exactly as hers did — al- though this resemblance was obscured by the fact that Rosalind wore a fringe, and carefully curled all the short hairs at the back of her head. The greatest difference of all lay in the expression of the two faces. Mrs. Romaine had certainly no frankness in her countenance, but she had plenty of smiling pleasant- ness and play of emotion. Oliver's face was like a sullen mask : it was motionless, stolid even, and unamiable. There were people who raved about his beauty, and nick- named him Antinous and Adonis. But these were not physiognomists. Mrs. Romaine had two brothers, both some years younger than herself. Oliver, the youngest and her favor- ite, was about thirty, and called himself a barrister. As he had no briefs, however, it was currently reported that he lived by means of light literature, play, and judicious sponging upon his sister. The elder brother, Francis, was ■* ne'er-do-weel, and seldom appeared upon the scene. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. When he did appear, it was always a sign of trouble and want of cash. " So you have had Brooke here again ? " Oliver inquired. " How did you know, Noll ? " She turned her dark eyes upon him rather anxiously. Oliver's views and opinions were of consequence to her. ** I saw hira come in. I was coming up, but I turned round again and went away. Had a smoke in the Square till I saw him come out. Didn't want to spoil your little game, whatever it was." He spoke with a kind of soft drawl, not unpleasing to the ear at first, but irritating if too long continued. It seemed to irritate his sister now. She tapped impatiently on the floor with her toe as she replied — " How vulgar you are sometimes, Oliver ! But all society is vulgar now-a-days, and I suppose one ought not to complain. I have no * little game,' as you express it, and there was not the slightest need for you to have stayed away." Oliver was sitting on a sofa, with his elbows on his knees and the tips of his long white fingers meeting each other. When Mrs. Romaine ended her petulant little speech he turned his dark eyes upon her and smiled. He said nothing, however, and his silence offended his sister even more than his speech. " It is easy to see that you do not believe me," she said, " and I think it is very rude of you to be so sceptical. If you have any remarks to make on the subject pray make them at once." " My dear Rosy, I have no remarks to make at all," said Oliver, easily. " Take your own way and I shall take mine. You are good enough to give me plenty of rope, and I should be uncivil indeed if I commented on the length of yours." Mrs. Romaine had been moving restlessly to and fro : she now stood still, on the hearthrug, her hands clasped before her, her face turned attentively towards her brother. Evidently she was struck by his words. " If you would speak out," she said at last, her smooth voice vibrating as if he had touched some chord of passion which was usually hushed to silence, *' I should know better what you mean. You deal too much in hints and insinuations. You have said things of this sort before. I must know what you mean." 49 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, " Come, Rosy," said Oliver, rising from his low seat and confronting her, " don't be so tragic — so intense. Plump little women like you shouldn't go in for tragedy. Smile, Rosy j it is your mitier to smile. You have won a good many games by smiling. You must smile on now — to the bitter end." He smiled himself as he looked at her — an unpleasant smile, with thin lips drawn back from white sharp looking teeth, which gave him the air of a snarling dog. Mrs. Romaine's face belied his words. It was tragic enough, intense enough, for a woman who had known mortal agony ; the suggestion of placidity usually given by her smiling lips and rounded unwrinkled cheeks had disap- peared ; she might have stood for an impersonation of sorrow and despair. Oliver's mocking voice recalled her to herself. " A very good pose, Rosalind. The Tragic Muse in- deed. Are you going to rival Ethel Kenyon? I am afraid it is rather late for you to go on the stage, that's all. Let me see : you have touched forty, have you not ? I would acknowledge only thirty-nine if I were you. There is more than a year's difference between thirty-nine and forty." The strained muscles of her face relaxed : she made a a little impatient gesture with her hands, then turned to the fireplace, and with one arm upon the mantelpiece, looked down into the fire. " You drive me nearly mad sometimes, Oliver," she said, in a low, passionate voice, " by your habit of saying only half a thing at a time. I know well enough that you are remonstrating with me now : that you disapprove of some- thing — and will not tell me what. By and by, if I am in trouble or perplexity, you will turn round upon me and say that you warned me — told me that you disapproved — or something of that sort. You always do it, and it is not fair. Innuendoes are not warnings." " My dear Rosalind," said her brother, coolly, " I hope I know my place. I'm ten years younger than you are, and have been at various times much indebted to your generosity. It does not become me to take exception at anything that girls may like to do." He had the exasperating habit of treating kindness to himself with an w of gpodescewsioii, as if he conferred a BROOKE *S DAUGHTER. 43 fator by accepting benefits. His smile of superiority hurt Mrs. Romaine. '* When you adopt that tone, Oliver, I hate you \ she cried. " You are very impulsive, Rosy — in spite of your years," said Oliver, with his usual quietness. " I assure you I do not wish to interfere ; and you must set it down to brotherly affection if I sometimes feel inclined to wonder v. hat you mean to do." " To do ? " she queried, looking round at him. " Yes, to do. I don't understand you, that is all. Of course, ii is not necessary that I should understand." Mrs. Romaine did not often change color, but she flushed scarlet now, and was glad for a moment that the room was almost dark. Yet, as her brother stood close to her, and the fire was sending up fitful flashes of ruddy light, she felt certain, on reflection, that he had seen that blush. This certainly imparted some humility to her voice as she spoke again. " You know, Oliver, that I always like you to approve of what I am doing. I like you to understand. Of course, whatever I do, it is partly for your sake." " Is it ? " said Oliver, with a laugh. " I shouldn't have thought it. As far as I can judge, you have been very careful to please yourself all through." There was a little silence. Then she said, in a low tone, " How have I pleased myself, I should like to know ? '' "Do you want a plain statement of facts? Well, my dear, you know them as well as I do, though perhaps you do not know the light in which they present themselves to me. We three, you and Francis and I, were left to earn our own living at a somewhat early age. Francis became a banker's clerk, and you took to literature and governess- ing and general popularity. By a very clever stroke you managed to induce Professor Romaine to marry you. He was fifty and you were twenty-four. You did very well for yourself — twisted him round your little finger, and got him to leave you all his money ; but really I do not see how this could be said to be for my sake." " Then you are very ungrateful, Oliver. You were a boy of fourteen when I married, and what would you have done but for Mr. Romaine and myself? " '• You forget, my dear," said Oliver, smoothly, " that I was never exactly dependent on you for a livelihood. I 44 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, took scholarships at school and college, and there was a certain sum of money invested in the Funds for my other expenses. It was perhaps not a large sum, but it was enough. I have to thank you for some very pleasant weeks at your house during the holidays ; but there was really no necessity for you to marry Peter Romaine in order to provide for my holidays." She winced under his tone of banter, but did not speak. She seemed resoUed to let him say what he liked. Rosa- lind Romaine might not be perfect in all relations of life, but she was certainly a good sister. '* When a few years had elapsed," her brother went on, in a light narrative tone, " I'll grant that Romaine was of considerable service to us. He got Francis out of several scrapes, and he shoved me into a Government office, where tiie duties are not particularly onerous. Oh, yes, I owe some thanks to Romaine." ** And none to me for marrying him ? " Oliver laughed. " My dear Rosy," he said, " I have mentioned before that I consider you married him to please yourself." She shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing more. " Romaine became useful to me, of course," said Oliver, reflectively ; " and then came the first extraordinary hitch. We met the Brookes — how many years ago — nea. ly twelve, I suppose ; and you formed a gushing friendship with Lady Alice Brooke and her husband, especially with her husband." " Why do you rake up these old stories ? " " Because I want to understand your position. You amazed me then, and you seem more than ever disposed to amaze me now. You were attracted by Caspar Brooke — heaven knows why ! and you made no secret of the fact. You iiked the man, and he liked you. I don't know how far the friendship went " " There was nothing in it but the most ordinary, inno- cent acquaintanceship ! " " Lady Alice did not think so. Lady Alice made a devil of a row about it, as far as I understand. Everyone who knows the story blames you, Rosalind, for the quarrel and separation between husband and wife." " It was not my fault." " Oh, was it not ? Well, perhaps not. At any rate, the husband and wife separated quietly, twelve years ago. I BROOKE 'S DA UCrfTER. 45 I don't know whether you hoped that Brooke would give his wife any justification for her suspicions " '* Oliver, you are brutal ! You insult me ! I have never given you reason to think so ill of nie." " I think of you," said Oliver, slowly, ** only as I think of all women. I don't suppose you are better or worse than the rest. As it happened the whole thing seemed to die down after that separation. Romaine whisked you off to Calcutta with him. Then he fell ill, and you had to nurse him : you and your friend Brooke did not often meet. Then your husband died, after a long illness, and you came here again three years ago — for what object ? " " I had no object but that of living in a part of London which was familiar to me — and of being amongst friends. You have no right at all to caU me to account in this way." " So I said a few minutes ago. But you remarked that you wished me to understand and approve of your pro- ceedings. I am only trying to get at your motives — if you have any." Mrs. Romaine was tempted to say that she had no mo- tives. But she did not think that Oliver would believe her. " Here you are," he went on, in his soft, slow voice, " in friendly — I might say familiar — relations with this man again. His wife is still living, and as bitter against him as ever, but not likely to give him any pretext for a divorce. You cannot marry him. Why do you provoke people to say ill-natured things about you by continuing so aimless a friendship ? " " I don't think that any one would take the trouble of saying ill-natured things about me, Oliver," said Mrs. Ro- maine, forcing a smile. ** We are too conventional, too advanced, now-a-days, for that kind of thing. Friendship between a man and woman is by no means the abnormal and unheard-of thing that it used to be." " You are not so free as you think you are. You are still good-looking — still young. You cannot afford to defy the world. And I cannot afford to defy it either. I don't mind a reasonable amount of laxity, but I do not want my sister to be the heroine of a scandal." " I think you might trust me to take care of myself." " I would not say a word if Brooke were a widower. Although I don't like him, I acknowledge that he is the BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, sort of big blundering brute that suits some women. But there's no chance with him, so why should you make a fool of yourself? " Mrs. Romaine turned round with a fierce little gesture of contradiction, but restrained herself,, and did not speak for a minute or two. ** What do you want me to do ? " ' she said at last, in rather a breathless kind of way. * Well, my dear Rosy, since you ask me, I should say that it would be far wiser to drop Brooke's acquaintance." "That is impossible." " And why impossible ? " " Hi*? daughter is coming to him for a year : he has been here to-night to ask me to call on her — to chaperone her sometimes." " Is the man a fool ? " said Oliver. " I think," Mrs. Romaine answered, somewhat un- steadily, " that Mr. Brooke never knew — exactly — that his wife was jealous of me." " Oh, that's too much to say. He must have known." '* I am pretty sure that he did not. From things that he has said to me, I feel certain that he attributed only a passing irritation to her on my account. You do not be- lieve me, Oliver ; but I think that he is perfectly ignorant of the real cause of her leaving him." " And you know it ? " " I know it, and Lady Alice knows it : no one else." " What was it, then ? You mean more than simple jealousy, I see." " Yes, but — I am not obliged to tell you what it was." " Oh, no. Keep your own counsel, by all means. But you are placing yourself in a very risky position. Lady Alice Brooke knows something that would, I suppose, compromise you in the world's eyes, if it were generally known. Her daughter is coming to Brooke's house. You mean — you seriously mean — to go to his house and visit this girl? thereby offending her mother (who is sure to hear of the visit) and bringing down the ill-will of all the Courtleroys upon your head ? Have you no regard for your character and your position in the world ? You are risking botli, and you have nothing to gain." «' Yes, I have." "What is it?" BROOKE 'S DA UGIITER, 47 " I cannot tell you." " You mean you will not tell me ? " " Perhaps so." Oliver Trent deliberately took a match-box from the mantelpiece, struck a match, and lighted a wax candle. " I should like to see your face," he said. Rosalind looked at him fully and steadily for a few seconds ; then her eyelids fell, and for the second time that evening the color mounted in her ])alc cheeks. " I think that I know the truth,'' said her brother, com- posedly, after a careful study of her face. " You are mad, Rosalind, and you will live to rue that madness." " I don't know what you mean," she said, turning away from the light of the candle. " You speak in riddles." " I will speak in riddles, then, no longer. I will be very plain with you. Rosalind, you are in love with Caspar Brooke." She sank down on a low chair as if her limbs would support her no longer, andrer.ted her face upon her hands. " No," she said, in a low voic , ** you are wrong : I do not love Caspar Brooke." " What other motive can you have ? " She waited for a moment, and then said, still softly — " I suppose I may as well tell you. 1 loved him once. In those first days of our acquaintance — when he was disappointed in his wife and seeking for sympathy else- where — I thought that he cared for me. I was mistaken. Oliver, can you keep my secret? No other soul in the world knows of this from me but you. I told him my love. I wrote to him — a wild, mad letter — offering to fly to the ends of the earth with him if he would go." Oliver stared at her as if he could not believe his ear!>. " And what answer did he make ? " " He made none — because he never saw it. That letter fell into Lady Alice's hands. She did not know that it was the first that had been written : she took it to be one of a series. She wrote a short note to me about it ; and the next thing I heard was that she had gone. But I know that he never saw that letter of mine." " All this," said Oliver, in a hard contemptuous voice, " does not explain your present line of conduct." She lifted her face from her hands. " Yes, it does," she said quickly, " If you were a woman you. would under- 48 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. Stand ! Do you think I want her to come back to him ? No, if he cannot make me happy, he shall not be happy at her side. I shall never forgive her for the words she wrote to me ! If her daughter comes, Oliver, it is all the more reason why I should be here, ready to nip any notion of reconciliation in the bud. It is hate, not love, that dominates me : it is in my hatred for Caspar Brooke's wife that you must seek the explanation of my actions. Now, do you understand ? " " I understand enough," said Oliver, drily. " And you will not interfere ? " " For the present I will not interfere. But I will not bind myself. I must see more of what you are doing be- fore I make any promises. Whatever you do, you must not compromise yourself or me." " Hate ! " he repeated to himself scornfully as he left the house at a somewhat later hour in the evening. " It is all very well to put it down to her hate for Lady Alice. She is still in love with Brooke ; and that is the beginning and the end of it." And Oliver was not far wrong. BROOKE 'S DA UGUTER, 49 CHAPTER VI. LESLEY COMES HOME. Caspar Brooke was a busy man, and he was quite deter- mined that his daughter's arrival should make no difference in his habits. In this determination he was less selfish than stern : he had reason to believe that his wife's treat- ment of him proceeded from folly and fickleness, and that his daughter had inherited her foibles. It was not worth while, he said to himself, to make any radical change in his way of life : Lesley must accommodate herself, if she could, to his habits ; and if she could not, she must go back to her mother. He was not prepared, he told himself, to alter his hours, or his friendships, or his peculiarities one whit for Lesley's sake. Lesley arrived an hour later than the time at which she had been expected. It was nearly eight o'clock when her cab stopped at the door of the house in Upper Woburn Place, and the evening was foggy and cold. To Lesley, fresh from the clear skies and air of a P'rench city, street, house, and atmosphere alike seemed depressing. The chimes of St. Pancras' church, w:oefully out of tune, fell on her ear, and made her shiver as she mounted the steps that led to the front door. How dear they were to grow to her in time she did not then suspect, nor would have easily believed ! At present their discordance was part of the general discordance of all things, and increased the weight of dejection which lay upon her. Her mother's maid had orders to deliver her over to Mr. Brooke and then to come away : she was not to spend an hour in the house, nor to partake of food within its wails. She had strict orders from Lady Alice on this point. The house was a very good house, as London dwellings go; but to Lesley's eyes it looked strangely mean and narrow. It was very tall, and the front was painted a chocolate brown. The double front doors, which opened to admit Lesley's boxes, showed an ordinary London hall, so BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. narrow, crowded with an oaken chest, an umbrella and hat stand, and lighted by a flaring gas lamp. At these doors two persons showed themselves ; a neat but hard-featured maid-servant, and a lady of uncertain age, whom Lesley correctly guessed to be his sister and housekeeper, Miss Brooke. There was no sign of her father. "Is this Mr. Brooke's house?" inquired Dayman, for- mally. She used to know Mr. Brooke by sight, for she had lived with Lady Alice for many years. " Yes, this is the house, and this is his daughter, I sup- pose?" said Miss Brooke, coming forward, and taking Lesley's limp hand in hers. Miss Brooke had a keen, clever, honest face, but she was undeniably plain, and Lesley was not in a condition to a])preciate the kindness of her glance. " I must see Mr. Brooke himself before I leave my young lady," Dayman announced. " Run and fetch your master, Sarah," said Miss Brooke, quickly. " He cannot have heard the cab." The white-aproned servant disappeared into the back premises, and thence, in a moment or two, issued Mr. Caspar Brooke himself, at the sight of whom Miss Brooke involuntarily frowned and bit her lip. She saw at one glance that Caspar was in his ** study-coat," that his hair was dishevelled, and that he had just laid down his pipe. These were small details in themselves, but they meant a good deal. They meant that Caspar Brooke would not do a single thing, would not go a single step out of his way, to conciliate the affections of Lady Alice's daughter. He had never in his life looked more of a Bohemian than he did just then. And Miss Brooke sus- pected him of wilful perversity. The lights swam before Lesley's eyes. The vision of a big, brown-bearded man, bigger and broader, it seemed to her, than any man she had ever spoken to before, took away her senses. As he came up to her she involuntarily shrank back ; and when he stooped to kiss her, the novel sensation of his bristly beard against her face, the strong scent of tobacco, and the sense that she was unwelcome, all contributed towards complete self-betrayal. Dizzy from her voyage ; faint, sick, and unhinged, she almost pushed him away from her and sank down on a hall-chair with a t)urst ot sobbing which she could not control. She was BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, St terribly ashamed of herself next moment ; but the next moment was too late. She had made as bad a beginning as she h&d it iii her power to make, and no after-apology could alter what was done. For a moment a dead silence fell on the little group. Miss Brooke heard her brother mutter something beneath his breath in a very angry tone. She wondered whether his daughter heard it too. The faithful and officious Day- man immediately pressed forward with soothing words and offers of help. " There, there, my dear young lady, don't take on so. It won't be for long, remember ; and I'll come for you again to take you back to your mamma " '* You had better leave her alone, Dayman," said Mr. Brooke, coldly. " She will probably be more reasonable by and bye." Lesley was on her feet again in a moment. " I am not unreasonable," she said distinctly, but with a little catch in her voice ; " it is only that I am tired and upset with the journey — and the sudden light was too much for me. Give mamma my love. Dayman, and say that I am very well." " Are the boxes all in ? " asked Mr. Brooke. " We need not detain you, Mrs. Dayman." Dayman turned and dropped him a mocking curtsey. " I have my orders from my mistress, sir. Having seen the young lady safe into your hands, I will go back to my lady at the railway station, where she now is, and tell her how she was received." Miss Brooke, glancing anxiously at her brother, saw him bite his lip and frown. He did not speak, but he pointed to the door in a manner which Dayman did not see fit to disobey. " Good-bye, Miss Lesley — and I'll look forward to the day when I see you back again," said the maid, in a tone of profound commiseration. " Good-bye, Dayman, give my love to mamma," said Lesley. She would dearly have liked to add, " Don't tell her that I cried ; " but with that circle of unsympathetic faces round her, she did not dare. She pressed her lips together, dashed the tears from her eyes, and managed to smile, however, as Dayman took her departure. Meanwhile, Miss Brooke had quietly sent the maid for a glass of wine, which she administered to the girl without Sa BROOKE 'S DA VGHTRR. further ado. Lesley drank it obediently, and felt reinvi- gorated : but although her courage rose, her spirit remained sadly low as she looked at her father's face, and saw that it wore an uncompromising frown. '* You had better have these boxes carried upstairs as soon as possible," he remarked to his sister. " I will say good-night now : I have to go out." He turned away rather brusquely, and went back into his study, which was situated behind the dining-room, on the ground-floor. Lesley looked after him helplessly, with a mingled feeling of offence and relief. She did not see him again, but was conveyed to her room by Miss Brooke, who spoke to her kindly indeed, but with a matter-of-fact directness which seemed hard and cold to the convent-bred girl, whose teachers and guardians had vied with one another in sugared sweetness and a tutored amiability of demeanor. Lesley was taken up two flights of stairs to a room which seemed close and stuffy to her, although in English eyes it might be deemed comfortable and even luxurious. But padded arm-chairs and couch, eider-down silken-covered quilts, cushions, curtains, and carpets, were things of which she had as yet no great appreciation. The room seemed to her altogether too full of furniture, and she longed to run to the window for a breath of fresh air. Miss Brooke, observing how white she looked, asked her if she felt faint. " No, thank you ; I am only tired," said Lesley. " You would like some tea, perhaps ? " "Thank you," said the girl, rather hesitatingly. No- body drank tea at the convent, and in her visits to Lady Alice she had not cultivated a taste for it. " I think I would rather go to bed." *' You must have something to eat before you go," said Miss Brooke, drily. " Here, let me feel your pulse. Yes, you need food, and I'll send you up a 'toothing draught as well. You need not look so astonished, my dear : don't you know that I'm a doctor ? " " A doctor ! You /" Lesley looked round the room as if seeking for some place in which to hide from such a monstrosity. " Yes, a doctor — a lady doctor," said Miss Brooke, with grim but not unmirthful emphasis. " You never saw me BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. S3 before, did you? Well, I'm not in general practice just now ; my health would not stand it, so I am keeping my brother's house instead ; but I am fully qualified, my dear, I assure you, and can prescribe for you if you are ill as well as any physician in the land." She laughed as she spoke, and there was a humorous twinkle in her shrewd, kindly eyes, which Lesley did not understand. As a matter of fact, her innocent horror and amaze tickled Miss Brooke immensely. It was evident that this girl, with her foreign, aristocratic, and Catholic training knew nothing at all of the strides that have of late been made in the direction of female emancipation ; and her ignorance was amusing to Miss Brooke, who was one of the foremost champions of the woman's cause. Miss Sophia Brooke, whose name was on every committee under the sun, who spoke at meetings and wrote half a dozen letters after her name, to have a niece who had never met a lady doctor in her life before, and probably did not know anything at all about women's franchise ! It was quite too funny, and Miss Brooke — or Doctor Brooke, as she liked better to be called — was genuinely amused. But it was not an amusing matter to Lesley, who felt as if the foundations of the solid world were shaking underneath her. If she had heard of women doctors at all it was in terms of bitterest reprobation : she had been told that they were not persons of respectability, that they were " without the pale," and she had believed all she was told. And here she was, shut up for a year with a woman of the very class that she had been taught to reprobate — a woman, too, who, although no longer young, had a face which was pleasant to look upon, because it expressed refinement and kindli- ness as well as intellectual power, and whose dress, though plain, was severely neat, well-fitting, and of rich material. In fact, Miss Brooke was so unlike anything in the shape of womankind that Lesley had ever encountered, that the girl could only gaze at her in speechless amazement, and wonder whether she was expected to develop into some- thing of the same sort ! She could not deny, however, that her aunt was very good-natured. Miss Brooke helped her to undress, put her to bed, unpacked her boxes in about half the time that a maid would have taken to do the work ; then she brought BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. her something to eat and drink, and waited on her with the care of a woman with a truly kindly heart. Lesley be- gan to take courage and to ask questions. " I suppose I shall see my father again to-morrow morn- ing," she said. " About mid-day you may see him," Miss Brooke an- swered, cheerfully. " He will be out till two or three in the morning, you know ; and of course he can't be dis- turbed very early. You must remember that we keep the house very quiet until eleven or twelve, when he generally comes down. He breakfasts then, and goes out." Lesley was mystified. Why did her father keep such extraordinary hours? She had not the slightest notion that these were the usual arrangements of a journalist's life. She thought that he must be very thoughtless, very self-indulgent, even very wicked. Surely her mother had been more than justified in leaving him. She laid her head upon the pillow, feeling rather inclined to cry. Miss Brooke had not much of a clue to her emotions ; but she was trying hard to fathom what was passing in the girl's mind, and she came very near the mark. She stooped down and kissed her affectionately. " I daresay you feel lonely and strange, my dear," she said ; " but you must remember that you have come to your own home, and that we belong to you, and you to us. So you must put up with us for a time, and you may — eventually — come to like us, you know. Stranger things than that have happened before now." Lesley put one arm round her aunt's neck, undeterred by Miss Brooke's laugh and the little struggle she made to get away. " Thank you," she said, " for being so kind. I am sorry I cried when I came in." "You were hysterical and overwrought. I shall tell your father so." " You think he was vexed ? " " I suppose," said Miss Brooke, " that a man hardly likes to see his daughter burst out crying and shrink away when she first looks at him." ** Oh, I was very stupid ! " cried Lesley, remorsefully. " It must have looked so bad, and I did not mean any- thing—at least, I meant only " " I understand all about it," said her aunt, *| and I shall tell your father what I 'hink if he alludes to the matter. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 55 In the meantime you had better go to sleep, and wake up fresh and bright in the morning. C od-night, ray dear." And Lesley was left to her own reflections. Although she went early to bed she did not sleep soon or soundly. There was not much traffic along the street in which her father lived, but the bells of St. Pancrasrang out the hours and the quarters with painful tunelessness, and an occasional rumble of wheels would startle her into wakeful terror. At half-past two in the morning she heard the opening and shutting of the front door, and her father's footsteps on the stairs as he came up to bed. There seemed to her something uncanny in these nocturnal habits. The life of a journalist, of a literary man, of anybody who did any definite work in the world at all, was quite unknown to her. She came down to breakfast at nine o'clock, feeling weary and depressed. Miss Brooke was kind but preoc- cupied ; she had a committee at twelve, she said, and an- other at four, so she would be obliged to leave Lesley for the greater part of the day. " But you will have your own little arrangements to make you know," she said, " and Sarah will show you or tell you anything you want. You might as well fall into our ways as soon as you can." " Oh, yes," said Lesley. " I only want to be no trouble." " You'll be no trouble to anybody," said Miss Brooke, cheerfully, " so long as you find something to do, and do it. There's a good library of books in the house, and a piano in the drawing-room ; and you ought to go out for an hour or two every day. I daresay you will be able to occupy yourself." " Is there any one to go out with me ? " queried Lesley, timidly. She had never been out alone in the whole course of her life. " Go out with you ? " repeated Miss Brooke, rather rudely, though with kind intent. " An able-bodied young woman of eighteen or nineteen surely can take care of her- self ! You are not in Paris now, my dear, you are in Lon- don ; and girls in London have to be independent and courageous." Lesley felt that she was being somewhat unjustly judged, but she did not like to reply. And her aunt, conscious oif having spoken sharply, became immediately more gentle in manner, and told her certain details about the arrange- 56 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. ments of the house, which it behoved Lesley to know, with considerable thoughtfulness and kind feeling. Mr. Brooke usually rang for his coffee about half-past ten, and came down at half-past eleven. He then had breakfast served to him in the dining-room, and did not join his sister at luncheon at all. In the afternoon he walked out, or wrote, or saw friends ; dined at six, and went down to the office of his paper at eight. From the office he did not usually return until the small hours of the morning; and then, as Miss Brooke explained, he often sat up writing or reading for an hour or two longer. " Why does he work so late ? " asked Lesley, innocent- ly. " I should have thought the day-time was pleasanter." Miss Brooke gave a short, explosive laugh, fixed a pair of eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose, and looked at Les- ley as if she were a natural curiosity. " Have you yet to learn," she said, " that we don't do what is pleasant in this life, but what we must V^ Then she got up and went away from the breakfast-table, leaving Lesley ashamed and confounded. The girl leaned her elbows upon the white cloth, and furtively wiped a tear away from her eyes. She found herself in a new atmos- phere, and it did not seem to her a very congenial one. She was bewildered ; it did not appear possible that she could live for a year in a home of this very peculiar kind. To her uncultivated imagination, Mr. Brooke and his sis- ter looked to her like barbarians. She did not understand their ways at all. She spent the morning in unpacking her things, and arranging them, with rather a sad heart, in her room. She did not like to go downstairs until the luncheon-bell rang; and then she found that she was to lunch alone. Miss Brooke was out ; Mr. Brooke was in his study. The white-capped and severe-visaged middle-aged ser- vant, who was known as Sarah, came to Lesley after the meal with a message. " Mr. Brooke says. Miss, that he would like to see you in his study, if you can spare him a few minutes." Lesley flushed hotly as she was shown into the smoky, little den. It was a scene of confusion, such as she had never beheld before. The table was heaped high with papers : books and maps strewed every chair : even the floor was littered with bulky tomes and piles of manuscript. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER^ 57 At a knee-hole table Caspar Brooke was sitting, writing hard, as if for dear life, his loose hair falling heavily over his big forehead, his left hand grasping his thick brown beard. He looked up as Lesley entered, and gave her a nod. " Good-morning," he said. " Wait a minute : I must finish this and send it off by the quarter to three post. I have just done." He went on writing, and Lesley stood motionless beside the table, with a feeling of dire offence in her proud young heart. Why had he sent for her if he did not want her ? She was half inclined to walk away without another word. Only a sense of filial duty restrained her. She thought to herself that she had never been treated so unceremoniously — even in her earliest days at school. And she was sur- prised to find that so small a thing could ruffle her so much. She had hardly known at the convent, or while visiting her mother, that she had such a thing as a " temper." It sud- denly occurrred to her now that her temper was very bad indeed. And in truth she had a hot, strong temper — very like her father's, if she had but known it — and a will that was prone to dominate, not to submit itself to others. These were facts that she had yet to learn. " Well, Lesley," said Caspar Brooke, laying down his pen, " I have finished my work at last. Now we can talk." BROOKE 'S DA UGIITER, CHAPTER VII. FRIENDS AND FOES. Something in the slightly mutinous expression of Lesley's face seemed to strike her father. He looked at her fixedly for a minute or two, then smiled a little, arid began to busy himself amongst his papers. " You are very like your mother," he said. Lesley felt a thrill of strong indignation. How uared he speak of her mother to her without shame and grief and repentance? She flushed to her temples and cast down her eyes, for she was resolved to say nothing that she might afterwards regret. " Won't you sit down?" said Mr. Brooke, indifferently. "You must make yourself at home, you know. If you don't, I'm afraid you will be uncomfortable. You will have to look after yourself." Lesley made no answer. She was thinking that it would be very disagreeable to look after herself. She did not know how clearly her face expressed her sentiments. " You don't much like the prospect, apparently ? " said her father. " Well " — for he was becoming a little pro- voked by her silence — " what would you like ? Do you want a maid ? " "Oh, no, thank you," said Lesley, startled into speech. " You can have one if you like, you know. Speak to your aunt about it. I suppose you have not been accus- tomed to wait upon yourself. Can you do your own hair?" He spoke with a smile, half-indulgent, half-contemptuous. Lesley remembered, with intuitive comprehension of his mood, that her mother was singularly helpless, and never dressed without Dayman's help, or brushed the soft tresses that were still so luxuriant and so fair. She rebelled at once against the unspoken criticism. " I can do everything for 'myself," she said ; " I can do my own hair and mend my dresses and everythinjg, because BROOKE'!: DAUGHTER. 59 I am a schoolgirl ; but of course when I am older I expect to have my own maid, as every lady does." Mr. Brooke's short, hard laugh was distinctly unpleasing to her ear. " I think you will find, when you are older," he said, with an emphasis on the words, " that a great many ladies have to do without maids — and very much better for them that they should — but as I do not wish to stint you in anything, nor to oppose any fairly reasonable desire of yours, I will tell your aunt to get you a maid as soon as possible." " Oh, no, please ! " cried Lesley, more alarmed than pleased by the prospect. ** I really do not wish for one ; I do not wish you to have the trouble — the ex " She stopped short : she did not quite like to speak of the ** expense." " It will not be much trouble to me if Sophia finds you a maid," said her father drily ; "and as to the expense, which is what I suppose you were going to allude to, I am quite well able to afford it. Otherwise I should not have proposed such a thing." Lesley felt herself snubbed, and did not like it, but again kept silence. " I cannot promise you much amusement while you stay here," Mr. Brooke went on, " but anything that you like to see or hear when you are in town can he easily provided for. I mean in the way of picture galleries, concerts, theatres — things of that kind. Your Aunt Sophia will probably be too much occupied to take you to such places ; but if you have a maid you will be pretty independent. I wonder she did not think of it herself. Of course a maid can go about with you, and so relieve her mind." " I am sorry to be troublesome," said Lesley, stiffly. He cast an amused glance at her. " You won't trouble mgy my dear. And Mrs. Romaine says that she will call and make your acquaintance. I dare say you will find her a help to you." " Is she — a friend of yours ? " " A very old friend," said Caspar Brooke, with decision. " Then there are the Kenyons, who live opposite. Ethel Kenyon is a clever girl — a great favorite of mine. Her brother is a doctor." " And she lives with hira and keeps his house ? " snid Lesley, growing interested. BROOKE \S DA UGHTER, '* Well, she lives with him. I don't know that she does much in the way of keeping his house. I hope I shall not shock your prejudices " — how did he know that she had any prejudices ? — " if I tell you that she is an actress." " An actress 1 " — Lesley fluyhed with surprise, even with a little horror, though at the same moment she was con- scious of a movement of pleasant curiosity and a desire to know what an actress was like in private life. ** I thought you would be horrified," said her father, looking at her with something very like satisfaction. *' How could you be anything else? How long have you lived in a French convent ? Eight or ten years, is it not ? Ah, well, I can't be surprised if you have imbibed the conventional idea of what you would call, I sui)pose, your class." He gave a little shrug to his broad shoulders. *' It can't be helped now. You must make yourself as happy as you can, my poor child, as long as you are here, and console yourself with visions of your happy future at the Courtleroys'." It was exactly what Lesley intended to do, and yet she felt hurt by the slightly contemptuous pity of his tone. *• I have no doubt that I shall be very happy," she said, steadying her voice as well as she could ; '* and I hope that you will not concern yourself about me." " I should not have time to do so if I wished," he answered coolly. " I never concern myself about anything but my proper business, which is not to look after girls ol eighteen " " Then why did you send for me here ? " she asked, with lightning rapidity. The question seemed to surprise him. He raised his eyebrows as he looked at her. **That was a family arrangement made many years ago," he answered at last deliberately. " And I think it was a wise one. There is no reason why you should grow up in utter ignoranre of your father. And I prefer you to come when you have arrived at something like a reasonable age, rather than when you were quite a child. As you are at a reasonable age, Lesley," with a lightening of his tones, " I suppose you have some tastes, some inclinations, of your own ? What are they ? " It must have b>:;en obstinacy that prompted Lesley's answer. '•! have no taste," she said, looking down. "N« inclinations." BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. tfl " Art ? young The " Are you not fond of music ? " " I play a little— a very little." **0h." The tone was one of disappointment. Drawing — carving — modelling — any of the fads ladies are so fond of now-a-days ? " " No." " Do you read much ? " " No." What do you do, then ? " I can embroider a little," said Lesley, calmly, nuns taught me. And 1 can dance." She raised her eyes and studied the stormy expressions that flitied one after another across her father's face. She knew that she had taken a delight in provoking him, and she wondered whether he was not go'iig to retaliate by an angry word. But after a few moments' pause he only said — " Would you like any lessons in singing or drawing now that you are in town ? " The ofTer was a temptPtion to Lesley. Yes, she would dearly have liked some good singing lessons ; her mother even had suggested that she should take them while she was in London. She was the fortunate possessor of a voice that was worth cultivating, and she longed to make the best of her time. But she had come with the notion that her father was poor, and that she must not be an unnecessary expense to him ; and this idea had not been counteracted by any appearance of luxury or lavish expenditure in her London home. The furniture, except in her own room, was heavy, old-fashioned, and decidedly shabby. Her father seemed to work very hard. He had already promised her a maid ; and Lesley could not bear to ask him for anything else. So she answered — " No, I think not, thank you." There might be generosity, but there was also some resentment and hot tempei at the bottom of Lesley's reply. This was a fact, however, that her father did not discern. He merely paused for a moment, nodded his head once or twice, and seemed slightly disconcerted. Then he said — " Very well ; do just as you like. Your aunt has a Mudie subscription, I believe " — what this meant Lesley had not the faintest idea — " and you will find books in the library, and a piano in the drawing-room. You must ask 63 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. for anything you want." As if that was likely, Lesley thought ! " I hope you will make friends and be com- fortable. And — a — " he paused, and hesitated in his speech as he went on — " a — I hope — your mother — Lady Alice- was well when you left her ? " ** Pretty well," Lesley answered, dropping her eyes. " Was she going to Scotland for the winter ? " " I think so." " Oh." He seemed satisfied with the answer. " By the way, Lesley, are you Catholic or Protestant ? " " Protestant. Mamma would not allow the Sisters to talk to me about religion. I always drove to the English Church on Sundays." " Oh, very well. Do as you please. There are plenty of churches near us. But you need not bring more clergy than you can help to the house," said Brooke, with a peculiar smile, " 1 am not very fond of the Blacks. I am more of a Red myself, you know." " A Red ? " Lesley asked, helplessly. " A Red Republican — Radical — Socialist — anything you like," said Brooke, laughing outright. " You didn't read the papers in your convent, I suppose. You had better begin to study them straight away. It ^■•ill be a pleasant change from the Lives of the Saints. And now, if we have finished all that we have to say — I am rather busy, and " " Oh, I beg your pardon : I will go," said Lesley, rising at once. " I had no wish to intrude upon you," she added, with an attempt to be dignified and womanly, which she felt to be a miserable failure. Her father simply nodded in reply, took up his pen, and allowed her to leave the room. But when she had gone, he put the pen down and sat back in his chair, musing. Lesley had surprised him a little. She had more force and fire in her composition than he had expected to find. S'le w-.s, as he had said, very like her mother in face and T.^ure ; and the minute differences of line and contour that showed Lesley to be strong where Lady Alice had been weak, original where Lady Alice had been most conventional, intellectual where Lady Alice had been only intelligent, were not perceptible at first sight even to a practised observer of men and women like Caspar Brooke. But the flash of her brown BROOKE'S DAUGH7'ER. 63 if we busy, eyes, so like his own, ami an occasional intonation in her voice, had told him scjineiliiiig. She was in arms against him, so much he felt ; and she had more individuality than her mother, in spite of licr ignorance. It was a pity that her education had been so nnicii neglected ! Manlike, Caspar Brooke took li;(r;iil.' every word that she had uttered ; and reproached himiiclf for having allowed his foolish, frivolous wife to bring up his daughter in a place where she had been tauglit nothing but embroidery and dancing, " It is a pity," he reflected ; " but we cannot alter the matter now. The poor girl will feel herself sadly out of place in this house, I fear ; but perhaps it won't do her any harm. She may be a better woman all her life — the idle, selfish, self-indulgent life that she is bound by all her traditions and her upbringing to lead — for having seen for a few months what honest work is like. She is too hand- some not to marry well : let us only hope that Alice won't secure a duke for lier. She will if she can ; and I — well, I haven't much opinion of dukes." And so with a laugh and a shrug, Caspar Brooke returned to his work. Lesley went upstairs to the drawing-room with bu""''' cheeks and a lump in her throat. She was offen c her father's manner towards her, although she could .. ^t but acknowledge that in essentials he had seemed wishful to be kind. And she knew that she had seemed ungracious and had felt resentful. But the resentment, she assured herself, was all on her mother's account. If he had treated Lady Alice as he had treated Lady Alice's daughter — with hardly concealed contempt, with the scornful indifference of one looking down from a superior height — Lesley did not wonder that her mother had left him. It was a manner which had never been displayed to her before, and she .said to herself that it was horribly discourteous. And the worst of it was that it did not seem to be directed to her- self alone : it included her friends the nuns, her mother, her mother's family, and all the circle of aristocratic relations to which she belonged. She was despised as part of the class which he despised ; and it was difficult for her to understand the situation. It would have been easier if she could have set her father down as a mere boor, without refinement or intelli- gence j but there was one item in her impression of him f to deepen it just then. She went on more lightly : " I am a w idow, you know, and I live in Russell Square. I hope that you will come and see me sometimes. Drop in whenever you like, and if there is anything that I can do for you count on me. You will want to go shopping or making calls sometimes when Miss Brooke is too busy to take you ; then you must come to me. And how was dear Lady Alice when you saw her last ? " Lesley did not hke these effusive expressions of affection. But she answered, gently — you." Which answer was quite well, thank Mrs. Romaine all the information that she " Mamma did not give desired. " I have been looking at a pretty poodle dog over the way," she went on, conscious of some desire to change the subject. '' Its mistress has been putting it through all sorts of tricks — ah, there it is again ! " "The Kenyons' dog?" said Mrs. Romaine, smiling, as she looked at the little group which had once more formed itself upon the balcony. " Oh, I see. That is young Mr. Kenyon, the doctor, a great friend of your father's ; and that is his sister, Ethel Kenyon, the actress." " My father spoke about her," said Lesley. " Oh, yes, he admires her very much. He wrote a long article about her in the Tribune once. Do you see the Tribune regularly? Your dear father writes a great deal BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. «7 for it, and I am sure you must appreciate his exquisite writing." " Do you know Miss Kenyon too ? " " Oh, yes, I know her very well. And I expect to know her better very soon, because I suppose we shall be con- nections before long." Lesley looked a smiling inquiry. " I have a younger brother — my brother Oliver," said Mrs. Romaine, with a little laugh ; " and younger brothers, dear, have a knack of falling in love. He has fallen in love with Ethel, who is really a nice girl, as well as a pretty and a clever girl, and I believe they will be married by and by." Lesley could not have said why, but somehow at that moment she was distinctly glad of the fact. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. CHAPTER VIII. OLIVER'S INTENTIONS. " Well, what is she like ? " Oliver Trent asked, lightly, of his sister Rosalind, when they mettha^ evening at dinner. " Lesley Brooke ? She is a handsome girl," said Mrs. Ro- maine, with some reserve of manner. " Nothing more ? " His sister waited until the servant had left the room before she replied. " I wish you would be discreet, Oliver. My servants are often at the Brookes' with messages. I should not like them to repeat what you were saying." Oliver shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man to whom women's caprices are incomprehensible. But he was silent until dessert was placed upon the table, and Mrs. Romaine's neat parlor-maid had disappeared. " Now," he said, " you can disburthen your mind in peace." " Oliver," said Mrs. Romaine, abruptly. " I want you to make Miss Brooke's acquaintance as soon as you can. I don't understand her, and I think that you can help me." ♦ " As how ! " " Oh, don't be silly. You always get on with girls, and you can tell me What you think of her." Oliver raised his eyebrows, took a peach from the dish before him, and began to peel it with great deliberation. " Handsome, you say ? " « Very." " Like Lady Alice ? I remember her ^ a willowy, sha- dowy creature, with a sort of ethereal loveliness which appealed very strongly to my imagination when I was a boy." Mrs. Romaine flushed a little. It occurred to her that she had never been called shadowy or ethereal-looking. " She is much more substantial than Lady Alice," she said, drily. " I should say that she had more individr.ality ^^.... BROOKE* S DAUGHTER. 69 about her. She looks to me like a girl of character and intellect." " In which case your task will be the more difficult, you mean ? " " I don't know what you mean by a task. I have not Bet myself to do anything definite." " No ? Then you are very unlike your sex, Rosalind. I generally find women much too definite— damnably so." " Well, then, I must be an exception. You are always trying to entrap me into damaging admissions, Oliver, and I won't put up with it. All that I want is to be sure that Lady Alice shall not return to her husband. But there is nothing definite in that." " Oh, nothing at all," said Oliver, satirically. " All that you have got to do is to prejudice father and daughter against each other as much as possible, make Brooke be- lieve that the girl has been set against him by her mother, and persuade Miss Brooke that her father is not the sort of man that Lady Alice can return to. Nothing definite in that, is there ? " ** Oliver, you are quite too bad. I never made any plans of the kind." But there was a distinctly guilty lock in Mrs. Romaine's soft eyes. " Besides, that is a piece of work which hardly needs doing. Father and daughter are too much alike to get on." " Alike, are they ? " ** Yes, m a sense. The girl is very like, her mother, too — she has Lady Alice's features and figure, but the expres- sion of her face is her father's. And her eyes and her brow are her father's. And she is like her father — I think — ^in disposition." " You have found out so much that I think you scarcely need me to interview her in order to tell you more. What do you vi'ant me t6 do? " " I want to find out more about Lady Alice. Could you not get Ethel Kenyon to ask her about her mother, and then persuade Ethel to tell you ? " " Can't take Ethel into our confidence," said Oliver with a disparaging emphasis upon the name. " She is such a little fool." And then he began to roll a cigarette for himsd^ 70 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, Mrs. Romaine watched him thoughtfully for a minute or two. " Noll," she said at length, " I thought you were really fond of Ethel ? " Oliver's eyes were fixed upon the cigarette that he was now lighting, and, perhaps, that was the reason why he did not answer for a minute or two. At last, he said, in his soft, drawling way— - ** I am very " nd of ^ hel. And especially of the twenty thousand pounc >■• ler uncle left her." '* Ethel Keny H\ ,4 ; ndsome enough to be loved for something beside :vio.ie^'." ** Handsome ? Oh, she'o ;_, id-looking enough : but she's not exactly to my taste. A little too showy, too abrupt for me. Personally I like a softer, quieter woman ; but as a rule the women that T really admire haven't got twenty thousand pounds." " I know who would suit you," said Mrs. Romaine, leaning forward and speaking in a very low voice — " Lesley Brooke." " What is her fortune ? If it's a case of her face is her fortune, she really won't do for me, Rosy, however suitable she might be in other respects." " But," said Mrs. Romaine, eagerly, " she is sure to have plenty of money. Her father is well off — better off than people know — and would ])robably settle a considerable sum upon her ; then think of the Courtleroys — there is a fair amount of wealth in that family, surely " " Which they would be so very likely to give her if she married me," said her brother, with irony. " Moonshine, my dear. Do you think that Lady Alice would allow her daughter to marry your brother? — knowing what she does, and hating you as she does, would she like to be connected with you by marriage ? " " That is exactly why I wish that you would marry her," said Mrs. Romaine, almost below her breath. " Think of the triumph for me ! " Her eyes glowed, and she breathed more quicKiy as she spoke. " That woman scorned me — gloated over my sor- row and my love," she said ; " she dared to reproach me for what she called my want of modesty — my want of womanly feeling, and — oh, I cannot tell you what she said ! But this I know, that if I could reach her through her daughter or her husband, and stab her to the heart as she BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 71 oilce stabbed me, the clearest wish of my life would be ful- filled ! " " Women are always vindictive," said Oliver, i)hiIosophic- ally. " The fact is, you want to revenge yourself on Lady Alice through me, and yet you don't consider me in the very least. If I married this Lesley Brooke, Lady Alice and all the Courtleroys would no doubt get into an awful rage with her and you and me and everybody ; and what would be the upshot? Why, they would cut her off with a shilling and we should be next door to penniless. Then Brooke — well, he may be fairly prosperous, but he has only what he makes, you know ; and I doubt if he could settle very much upon his daughter, even if he wanted to. And he does not like me. I doubt whether tvtw you, my dear Rosy, could dispose him to look favorably on my advances." Mrs. Romaine was perhaps convinced, but she did not like to own herself mistaken. She was silent for a minute or two, and then said with a sigh and a smile — ** You may be right. But it would have been splendid if you could have married Lesley Brooke. We should have been thorns in Lady Alice's side ever afterwards." " You are one already, aren't you? " asked Oliver. He got up from the table and approached the mantelpiece as if to show that the discussion was ended. " No, my dear Rosalind," he said, " I'm booked. I am going to woo and wed Miss Ethel Kenyon and her twenty thousand pounds. She \y\\\ be sick of her fad for the stage in twelve months. And then we shall live very comfortably. But I'll tell you what I will do to please you. I'll flirt with this Lesley girl, nineteen to the dozen. I'll make love to her: I'll win her young affections, and do my best to break her heart, if you like. How would that suit you ? " He spoke with a smile, but Rosalind knew that there was a ring of serious earnest in his voice. " It sounds a very cold-blooded sort of thing to do," she said. " Please yourself. I won't do it, then." " Oh, Oliver " " Yes, I know you would like to see Lady Alice's daugh- ter pining away for love of me." said Oliver, with a little laugh. " It is not a bad idea. The difficulty will be to manage both girls, — seriously, Rosalind, Ethel Kenyon is the girl I mean to marry." 72 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. " You are clever enough for anything if you like." "Thank you. Well, I'll see how far I can go." " I must tell you, first, however," said Mrs. Romaine, with some hesitation, " that I told Lesley Brooke this afternoon that you were in love" with Ethel. I had not thought of this plan, you see, Oliver." '* Ah, that complicates matters. Still, I think that we can manage — after a little reflection," said her brother, quietly. ** Leave me to think it over, and I'll let you know what to do. And now I'm going out." "Where? " " Why should you ask? Do I generally tell you where I am going ? Well, if you particularly want to know, I am going to the Novelty Theatre." '* To see Ethel act ? " " No — her part will be over by the time I get there. I shall probably see her home." Mrs. Romaine made no remonstrance. If she thought her brother's conduct a trifle heartless, she did not venture to say so. She was sometimes considerably in awe of Oliver, although he was only a younger brother. She went into the drawing-room rather slowly, watching him as he put on his hat and overcoat in the hall. " There is one thing I meant to tell you to-night, but I forgot it until now," she said, pausing at the drawing-room door. " I am nearly sure that I saw Francis in the Square to-day." Oliver turned round quickly. " The deuce you did ! Did he see you ? — did he try to speak to you ? " " No, but I think that he is lying in wait. You made me promise to tell you when I saw him next." " Yes, indeed. I won't have him bothering you for money. If he wants money he had better come to me," " Have you so much, Noll ? " He frowned and turned away. " At any rate he is not to annoy j' hair. Hie color- lessness had degenerated, however, into ar unhealthy pallor, and the stubbly beard which covered his cheeks and chin did not improve his appearance. Besides he was terribly out at elbows ; liis coat was green with age, his boots were broken, and his cuffs frayed and soiled. His hat was unnaturally shiny, and dented in two or three places. Altogether he looked as unlike a brother of the immaculate Oliver and the exquisitely-dressed Rosalind as could possibly have been found for either in the world of London. Oliver surveyed him with polite disgust, and waved him back a little. " You have been drinking coarse brandy, Francis," he said, coolly ; *' and you have been smoking bad tobacco. I wish you would consult my susceptibilities on those points when you come to interview me. You would really find it pleasanter in the end." " Where am I to find the money to consult your suscep- tibilities with ? " asked the man, with a burst of what seemed like very genuine feeling. *' Will you provide me with it ? If you don't, what remains for me but to brink British brandy and smoke strong shag? I must drink something — I must smoke something. Will you pay the piper if I go to more expense ? " " Not if you talk so loudly as to attract the attention of every passiuf; policeman," said Oliver, dryly. " If you *"*'•'''■ "^"-'f- •TTIIIITBW BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. n want to talk to me, as you say you do, keep quiet please." Francis Trent growled something like an imprecation on his brother below his breath, and then went on in a lowered tone. " It's easy for you to talk. You are not saddled by a wife and a lot of debts. You haven't to keep out of the way for fear you should be wanted by the police — al- though you have not been very particular about keeping your hands clean after all. But you've been the lucky dog and I the unlucky one, and this is the result." " If you are going to be abusive, my good friend," said Oliver, calmly, " I shall turn round and go home again. If you will keep a civil tongue in your head I don't mind listening to you for five minutes. What have you got to say?" The man was evidently in a state of only half-repressed irritation. His brows twitched, he gnawed savagely at his beard, he looked at Oliver with furtive hate from under his heavy dark brows. But the younger man's cool tones seemed to possess the power of keeping him in check. He made a visible effort to calm himself as he replied, " You needn't be so down on me, Oliver. You must allow for a fellow's feeling a little out of sorts when he's kept waiting about here for hours. I am convinced that Rosalind saw me this afternoon ; I'm certain that you saw me to-night. If I had not caught you now I would have gone to the front door and hammered at it till one of you came out." *' And you think that you would have advanced your cause thereby ? " *' Why, hang it all, Oliver, one would think that I was not your own flesh and blood ! Have you no natural affection left ? " " Not much. Natural affection is a mistake. You need not count on that with me." " You always were a cold-blooded, half-hearted sort of a fellow. Not one to help a friend, or even a brother," said Francis, sullenly. " Suppose you come to the point," remarked Oliver. '* It is getting on to eleven o'clock. I really can't stand here all night." " It is nothing to you that I have stood here for hours already." 1 ii"" :ir ' to BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. " No, it is not." There was a touch of sharpness in his tone. " I am in no mood for sentiment. Say ..what you have to say and get done with it, or I shall leave you." " Well," said Francis, after a pause, in which he was perhaps estimating his own powers of persuasion against his brother's powers of resistance, and coming to the con- clusion that :i was not worth his while to contend with him any longer, "I have come to say this. I am hard up— devilirh hard up. But that's not all. It is not enough to offer me a five-pound note or a ten-pound note and tell me to spend it as i please. I want something definite. You seem to have plenty of money : I have none. I want an allowance, or else a sum of money down, sufficient to take Mary and myself to the Colonies. I don't think that is much to ask." " Don't you ? " The icy tone which Oliver assumed exasperated his brother. '* No, be hanged if I think it is ! " he said vehemently, though still in lowered tones. " I want two hundred a year — it's little enough : or two or three thousand on the nail. Give me that, and I'll not trouble you or Rosy a ly more." " And whcve do you suppose th?.t I'm to get two or three thousa^id po .ids, or two huncied a year.?" " I don't care where you get it, oo long as you band it over to me." " Very sorry I can't oblige you," '^.A.ld Oliver, noncha- lantly ; " but as your proposition is u p feci impossibility, I don't see my way to Sc ing any "'■ '^ else." " You think I don't mean it, do you ? " growled his brother. " I tell you that I will have it. And if I don't have it I'll not hold my tongue any longer. I'll ruin you." " Don't talk in that melodramatic way," said Oliver, qui«^t]y. But his lip twitched a little as if something had touched him unpleasantly. "You know very well that you have no more power of ruining me than you have of flying to yonder moon. You can't substantiate any of your stories. You can blacken me in the eyes of a few persons who know me, perhaps ; but really I doubt your power of doing that. People wouldn't believe you, you i:*\<)\\ , and they would believe me. There is so much nr oral power in a good hat and patent leather boots." m mjamttimiMmitiiammmKm BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. Si tsperated his *' Do you dare to trifle with me " the man was be- ginning, furiously, but Oliver cliccked him with a slight pressure on his arm, and went on suavely. "All this threatening sort of business is out of date, as you ought to know. One would think that you had been to the Surrey-side ThiUtres, 1 uuly, or the Porte St. Martin, and taken lessons of a stage villain. 'Beware! I will be revenged,' and all that sort of tiling. It doesn't go down now, you know. The fact is this — you can't do me any harm, you can only harm yourself; and I think you had better be advised by me and hold your tongue." Francis was silent for a minute or two. He was evi- dently impressed by Oliver's manner. " You're right in one way," he said, in a much more subdued tone. " People wouldn't listen to me because I am so badly dressed — I look so poor. But that could be remedied. A new suit of clothes might make all the differ- ence, Oliver. And then we could see whether som^ people would believe me or not ! " "And what difference will it make to me if people did believe you ? " said Oliver, slowly. The man stared at him open-mouthed. Oliver was tak- ing a view of things which was unknown to Francis. " Well," he answered, " considering that you and most of mv relations and friends have cut me for the last ten years because I got into trouble over a few accounts at the bank — and considering the sorry figure I cut now in consequence — I don't know why you should be so careless of the possibility of partaking my downfall ! I should say that it would be rather worse for you than it has been for me ; and it hasn't been very nice for me^ I can assure you ! " Oliver's face grew a trifle paler, but his voice was as smooth as ever when he began to speak. " Now, look here, Francis," he said, '' I'll be open and plain with you. Of course, I know what you are alluding to ; it would be weakness to pretend that I did not. But I assure you that you are on the wrong track. In your case yo'i were found to have embezzled money, falsified accounts, and played the devil with old Lawson's affairs generally. You were prosecuted for it, and the whole case was in the papers. You got off on some technical point, but everybody knew that you were guilty, and everybody 6 fi^mm 82 BliOOKE'S DAUGHTER. cut you dead — except, you will remember, your brother and sister, who continued to give you money, and were exceedingly kind to you. You were publicly disgraced, and there was no way of hushing the matter up at all. I am sorry to be obliged to put things so disagreeably " " Go on ! You needn't apologize," said Francis, with a rather husky laugh. " I know it all as well as you do. Goon." " I wish to point out the difference between our posi- tions," said Oliver, calmly. " I did something a little shady myself, when I was a lad of twenty — at your insti- gation, mind ; I signed old Romaine's name in the wrong place, didn't I ? Old Romaine found it out, kept the thing quiet, and said that he had given me the money. I ex- pressed my regret, and the matter blew over. What can you make out of that story ? " He spoke very quietly, but there was a watchfulness in his eye, a slight twitching of his nostril, which ])roved him to be not entirely at his ease. His elder brother laughed aloud. *' If that were all ! " he said. '* But you forget how base the action would seem if all the circumstances were known ! how black the treachery a.-i ingratitude to a man who w s, after all, your benefactor. Rosalind never knew of that littiC episode, I believe ? And she has a good deal of respect for her husband's memory. I should like lo see what she would say about it." ** She would not believe you, my dear boy." " But if I could prove it ? If I had in my possession a full confession signed by younself — the confession that Romaine insisted on, you will remember? What effect would that have upon her mind ? And there was that other business, you know, about Mary's sister, whom you lured away from her home and ruined. She is dead, but Mary is alive and can bear witness against you. How would you lik*. these facts blazoned abroad and brought home to the rauKi of the pretty girl whom I saw you kiss- ing a htd^ while .t(TO on the steps of a horse in Upper Woburn Place ? She is a Miss Kenyon, I know : an actress I have and bh doctor ; right," " Y'.'udo seei with a sneer. heard all about her. Her brother is a has iv'.'enly thousand pounds in her own , indeed, to know everything," said Oliver, BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 83 " I make it my business to know everything about you. You've been so confoundedly mean of late that I had be- gun to understand that I must put the screw on you. And I warn you, if you don't give me what I ask, or promise to do so within a reasonable time, I shall first go to Rosa- lind, and then to these Kenyon people, and Caspar Brooke, and all these other friends of yours, and see what they will give me for your secrets." " They'll kick you out of the house, and you'll be called a fool for your pains," said the younger man, furiously. " No, I don't think so. Not if I play my game pro- perly. You are engaged to Miss Kenyon, are you not ? " Oliver stood silent. " I tell you that she shall never marry you in ignorance of your past unless you shut my mouth first. And you are the best judge of whether she will marry you at all or not, when she knows what we know." Then the two brothers were both silent for a little while. Oliver stood frowning, tracing a pattern on the pavement with the toe of his polished boot, and gazing at it. He was evidently considering the situation. Francis stood with his back to the railings, his eyes fixed, with a some- what crafty look, upon his brother's face. He was not yet sure that his long-cherished scheme for extracting money from Oliver would succeed. Ke believed that it would ; but there was never any counting upon Oliver. Astute as Francis considered himself (in spite of his failure in the world), Oliver was astuter still. Presently Oliver looked up and met Francis' fixed gaze. He started a little, and made an odd grimace, intended to conceal a nervous twitch of the muscles of his face. Then he spoke. "You think yourself very clever, no doubt. Well, perhaps you are. I'll acknowledge that, in a certain sense, you might spoil my game for me. Not quite in the way you think, you know ; but up to a certain point. As I don't want to have my game spoilt, I am willing to make a bargain with you — is that plain ? " *' Fair sailing, so far," said Francis, doggedly. " Go on. What will you give ? " " Nothing just now. The sum you named on the day when I marry Ethel Kenyon, on condition that you give me back that confession you talk about, swear not to men- tion your wife's sister, and take yourself off to Australia." BIfOO/CK'S DA I CI I / ER, I I " \\\\\ ! " said 1' nincis considering. " So I have brought you to terms, have 1 ? " So mucli the better for you — and perhaps for me. Are you engaged to Miss Kenyon? " " I asked her to-night to nuury me, and she consented." " You ahvays were a hicky dog, OHver," said Francis, with almost a wistful expression on his crafty face. " I never could see how you managed it, for my part. If that pretty girl " — with a laugh — " knew all that I knew " " Exactly. I don't want her to know all you do. Are you going to agree to my terms or not ? " " I should have said they were my terms," said the elder brother, " but we won't haggle about names. Say two thousand five hundred pounds down." "No, two thousand," said Oliver, boldly. ♦* That will suit me better than two hundred a year." ** Ah, you want to get rid of me, don't you ? How soon js it likely to be ? " " Oh, that I can't tell you. As soon as she fixes the day." *' I swear by all that I hold sacred," said Francis, with sudden energy, " that I won't wait more than six months, and then I'll take two thousand." *' Six ? Make it twelve. The girl may want a year's freedom." " I won't wait twelve. I swear I won't. I'm tired of this life. I can't get any work to do, though I've tried over i; 1 d over again. And I'm always unlucky at play. There's Mary threatening to go out to work again. If we were in another country, with a clear start, she should not have to do that." Oliver meditated. It did not seem to him likely that Ethel would refuse to marry him in six months' time, but of course it was possible. Still he was pretty sure that he could get the money advanced as soon as his engagement was noised abroad. It was rather a pity that !ie would have to publish it so soon — especially when his projects respecting Lesley Brooke had not been carried out — but it could not be helped. The prospect of ridding himself of his brother Francis was most welcome to him. And — if he could quiet him by promises, it might perhaps not be necessary to pay him the money after all. " Well," he said, at last, " I promise it within six months, Francis. On the conditions I named, of course." BROOKE'S DAUGHrr.K. »s "And you will keep your word? " said Francis, looking suspiciously into his brother's smooth, pale face. " If not," answered Oliver, airily, "you have the remedy in your own hands, you know. You can easily bring me to book. And now that this interesting conversation is ended, perhaps you will kindly allow me to go home? The night is fine, but I am a good deal chilled with stand- ing " And what am I, then ? I've been waiting for you, off and on, for hours. And I haven't got a shilling in my pocket, either. Haven't you got a pound or two to spare, Oliver? For the sake of old limes, you know." Some men would have found it pitiful to hear poor Francis Trent, with his broken-down, cringing, crafty look, thus sueing for a sovereign. For he had the air of a ruined gentleman, not of an ordinary beggar, and the signs of refinement in his face and bearing made his state of abase- ment and destitution more ai)parent. liut Oliver was not touched by any such sentimental considerations. He looked at first as if he were about to refuse his brother's request; but policy dictated another course. He must not drive to desperation the man in whose hands lay his char- acter and perhaps his future fortune. He put his hand into his pocket, brought out a couple of sovereigns, and dropped then, into Francis' greedily outstretched palm. Then he crossed the road towards his sister's house, while the elder brother slunk away with an air of anything but triumph. It was sad to see him so depressed, so broken- spirited, so hopeless. For he had been meant for better things. But his will was weak, his principles had never been settled, and with his first lapse from honesty all self- respect seemed to leave him. Thenceforth he went down hill, and would long ago have reached the bottom but for the one helping hand that had been held out to stay him in his mad career. That hand belonged to none of his kith and kin, however. It was seamed and roughened and reddened by honest toil ; but the toil had at least been honest and the toiler's love for the fine gentleman for whom she worked was loving and sincere. To cut a long story short, Francis Trent had married a dressmaker of the lower grade, and a dressmaker, moreover, who had once been a ladies'-maid. While he slouched away to his poverty-stricken home, and Oliver solaced himself with a novel and a cigar, and BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, Miss Ethel Kenyon sank to sleep in spite of a tumult of innocent delight which would have kept a person of less healthy mind and body wide awake for hours, Lesley Brooke, who was to imiuence the fate of all these three, lay upon her bed bemoaning her loneliness of heart, and saying to herself that she should never be happy in her father's house. It was not that she had met with any positive unkindness : she could accuse nobody of wishing to be rude or cold, but the atmosphere was not one to which she was accustomed, and it gave her considerable discomfort. Even the Mrs. Romaine of whom her father spoke as if she would be a friend, was not very congenial to her. Rosalind's eyes remained cold, despite their soft- ness, and Lesley was vaguely conscious of a repulsion — such as we sometimes feel on touching a toad or a snake — when Mrs. Romaine put her hand on the girl's listless fingers. No, what it was Lesley could not tell, but she was sure of this, that she could never like Mrs. Romaine. And she cried herself to sleep, and dreamed of the con- vent and the sunny skies of France. BKOOKE'S DAUnUTER, CHAPTER X. KNIGHT-EKRANTRV. Lesley found that she had unintentionally given great offence to Sarah, who was a supreme authority in her father's house, and possibly to her aunt as well, by the arrangement with her father that she would have a maid of her own. In vain she protested that she did not need one, and had not really asked for one ; the impression remained upon Miss Brooke's mind and Sarah's mind that she had in some way complained of the treatment which she had received, and they were a little prejudiced against her in consequence. Miss Brooke was a good woman, and, to some extent, a just woman ; but it was scarcely possible for her to judge Lesley correctly. All Miss Brooke's traditions favored the cult of the woman who worked : and Lesley, like her mother before her, had the look of a tall, fair lily — one of those who toil not, neither do they spin. Miss Brooke was quite too liberal-minded to have any great pre- judice against a girl because she had been educated in a French convent, though naturally she thought it the worst place of training that could have been secured for her ; and she had made up her mind at once, when she saw Lesley, that although there might be " no great harm " in the poor child, she was probably as frivolous, as shallow-hearted, and as ignorant as the ordinary French school-girl was supposed to be. With Sarah the case was different. Sarah was an ardent Protestant, of a strict Calvinist type, and she had taken up the impression that Miss Lesley must needs be a Roman- ist. Now this was not the case, for Lesley had always been allowed to go to her own church, see her own clergy- man, and hold aloof from the devotional exercises pre- scribed for the other girls. But Sarah believed firmly that she belonged to the Church of Rome, and she did not feel at all easy in her mind at staying unaer the same roof with m 71 / 7 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I litut. ■ 1.8 11-25 111.4 11.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation /, {./ ^ .'^ V w^.. .'< .^ i^ r .V tf A fA 23 WIST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 (716) 872-4S03 ■ss BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. her. She made this remark to Miss Brooke on the thwtf day after Lesley's arrival, and was offended at the burst of laughter with which Miss Brooke received it. " Do you think the house will fall in, Sarah ? or that you will be corrupted ? " ** I think I may hold myself safe, ma'am," said Sarah, with dignity. " But I'm not so sure about the house." She stood with her arms folded, grimly surveying her mistress, who, if the truth must be told, was lying on a sofa in her bedroom, smoking a cigarette. Sarah knew her mistress' tastes, and had grown generally tolerant of them, but she still looked on the cigarettes with disap- proval. Miss Brooke was discreet enough to smoke only in her own room or in her brother's study — a fact which had mollified Sarah a little when her mistress first began the practice. " The minute you smoke one o' them nasty things in the street, ma'am, I shall give notice," she had said. And Miss Brooke had quietly answered : " Very well, Sarah, we'll wait till then." It must be added, for the benefit of all who are. shocked by Miss Brooke's practice, that she had begun it by order of a doctor as a cure for neuralgia. She continued it be- cause she liked it. Lesley was only just beginning to sus- pect her aunt of the habit, and was inexpressibly startled and alarmed at the thought of such a thing. That her aunt, who was indisputably kind, clever, benevolent, re- spectable in every way, should smoke cigarettes, seemed to Lesley to justify all that she had heard against her father's Bohemian household. She could not get over it. Sarah had got over this outrage on conventionality, but she was not yet prepared to forgive Lesley for having lived in a French convent. '* Oh, you're not sure about the house," said Miss Brooke. " Well, I'm sorry for you, Sarah. I'll send in a plumber if you think that would be any good." " No, ma'am, don't ; but if it will not ill-convenience you I should like to put a few tracts in Miss Lesley's room, so that she may look at them sometimes instead of the little book of Popish prayers that she has brought with her." Miss Brooke wondered for a moment what the book of Popish prayers could be ; and then remembered a little BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 99 rah? or that Russia-bound book — the well-known " Imitation of Christ " which she had noticed in Lesley's room, and which Sarah had doubtless- mistaken for a book of prayer. It would not have been at all like Miss Brooke to clear up the mis- take. She generally let mistakes clear themselves. She only gave one of her short, clear, rather hard laughs, and told Sarah to put as many tracts as she pleased in Lesley's room. Whereon, Lesley shortly afterwards found a bundle of these publications in her room, and, as she rather dis- liked their tone and tendency, she requested Sarah to take them away. " They were put there for you to read," said Sarah, with stolid displeasure. *' By my aunt ? " "Your aunt knew that I was going to put them there. And it would be better for you to sit and read them rather than them rubbishy books you gets out of master's libery. Your poor, perishing soul ought to be looked after as well as your body." " Take them away, please," said Lesley, wearily. " I do not want to read them : I am not accustomed to that sort of book.*' Then, the innate sweetness of her nature gain- ing the day, she added, " Please do not be angry with' me, •Sarah. I would read them if I thought that they would do me any good, but I am afraid they will not." "Just like your mother," Sarah said, sharply. "She wouldn't touch 'em with the tips of her fingers, neither. And a maid, and all that nonsense. And dresses from France. Deary me, this is a ^ad upsetting for poor master." " I don't interfere with your master," said Lesley, some- what bitterly. "He does not trouble about me — and I don't see why I should trouble about him." She said it almost below her breath, not thinking that Sarah would hear or understand ; but Siarah — after floun- cing out of the room with an indignant " Well, I'm sure 1 " — went straight to Miss Brooke and repeated every word, with a few embellishments of her own. Miss Brooke came to the conclusion that Lesley was, first of all, very indis- creet to take servants so much into her confidence, and, secondly, that she was inclined to rebel against her father's authority. And it seemed good to her to take counsel with Mrs. Romaine in this emergency ; and Mrs. Romaine soon found an opportunity of pouring a sugared, poiponed version of what she had heard into Caspar Brooke's too 9& BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. credulous ears. So that he became colder than ever in his manner to Lesley, and Lesley wondered vainly how she could have offended him. The sole comfort tluit she gleaned at this time came from the Kenyons. Ethel called on her, and won her heart at once by a peculiarly caressing winsomeness that reminded one of some tropical bird — all dainty coquetries and shy, sweet playfulness. Not that Ethel was in the least bit shy, in reality ; but she had a very tiny touch of the stage habit oi posing, and with strangers she invariably posed as being a little shy. But in spite of this innocent little affectation, and in spite of a very fashionable style of dress and demean- nor, Ethel was true-hearted and affectionate, and Lesley's own heart warmed to the tenderness of Ethel's nature before she had been in her company half an hour. " You know you are not a bit like what I expected you to be," Ethel said sagely, when the two girls \. -"d talked together for some little time. " What did you expect ? " said Lesley, her face aglow " I hardly know — something more French, I think — a girl with airs and graces," said Ethel, who had herself more airs and graces than Lesley had ever donned in all her life ; " nothing so Puritan as you are ! " " Puritan, after so many years of a French convent ? " . " Yes, Puritan : no word suits you half so well ! There is a sort of restrained life and gladness about you, and it is the restraint that gives it its attraction ! Oh, forgive me for speaking so frankly ; but when I see you I forget that I have not known you for years and years ! I feel somehow as if we had been friends all our life ! " " And so do I," said Lesley, surrendering herself to the spell, and letting Ethel take both her hands and look into her face. " But you are not at all like the English girls I expect ed to meet ! I thought they were all cold and stiff! " " Have you never seen an English girl before, dear ? " " Yes, but I have had no English girl friend. I never talked to an English girl before as I am talking to you." " Oh, how charming ! " said Ethel. " And I never before talked to a girl who had lived in a convent I We are each a new experience to the oth^r 1 What a basis for friend- ship!" " Do you think so ? " said Lesley. *' I should have thought the opposite — that what is old and well-tried and established is the best to found a friendship upon." BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. %% She spoke half sadly, with a memory of her parents and her own relations with her father in her mind. Ethel gave her a shrewd glance, but made no direct reply. She was a young woman of marvellously quick intuitions, and she saw at once that Lesley's training had not fitted her to take up her position in the Brooke household very easily. When she went home she turned this matter over in her mind a good many times ; and was so absorbed in her reflections that her brother had to ask her twice what she was thinking about before she answered him. " I was thinking about Lesley Brooke," she answered promptly. " A lively subject. I never saw a girl with a more mc lancholy expression." " Well, of course, as yet she hates everything," said Ethel, comprehensively. " Hates everything ! That's a large order," said the young doctor. They were at dinner — they dined at six every day on account of Ethel's professional engagements ; and it was not often that Maurice was at home. When he was at home Ethel knew that he liked to talk to her, so she aban- doned her brown studies. * *•' Well, she hates the fog and the darkness, and the ugly buildings and the solid furniture of Mr. Brooke's house, which dates back to the Georgian era at the very least. I'm sure she hates Sarah. And I shouldn't like to say that she hates Doctor Sophy " — Ethel always called Miss Brooke Doctor Sophy — " but she doesn't like her very much. She is awfully shocked because Doctor Sophy smokes cigarettes." " Quite right of Miss Lesley Brooke to be shocked," said Maurice, laughing. " However, she need not despair, there is always old Caspar to fall back upon." Ethel pursued up her lips, looked at her brother very hard, and shook her curly head significantly. "Do you mean to say," cried the doctor, **that she doesn't appreciate her father ? " " I don't think she understands him. And how can she appreciate him if she doesn't understand? " Maurice laid down his knife and fork, and simply glared at his sister. He was an excitable young man, and had a way of expressing himself sometimes in reprehensibly strong language. On this occasion, he said — 9« BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, " Do you mean to tell me that that girl is such a born idiot and fool that she can't see what a grand man her father is?" Ethel nodded. But her eyes brimmed over with mirth. " Then she deserves to be shut up for life in the convent she came from I " said the doctor. " I wouldn't have be- lieved it 1 Is she blind? Doesn't she ^^i^what an intellect that man has ? Can't she understand that his abilities are equal to those of any man in Europe ? " " We all know your admiration for Mr. Brooke, dear," said Ethel, saucily. " You had better go and expound your views to Lesley. Perhaps she and her father would get on better then." Maurice was silent. He sat and looked aghast at the notion thus presented to him. That Caspar Brooke — his friend, his mentor, almost his hero — should not have been able to live with his wife was bad enough 1 That his daughter should not admire him seemed to Maurice a sort of profanation ! Heavens, what did the girl mean ? The mother might have been an aristocratic fool; but the girl? — she looked intelligent enough ! There must be a misap- prehension somewhere ; and it occurred to Maurice that it might be his duty to remove it. Maurice Kenyon was a born knight-errant. When he said that a thing wanted doing, his heart ached until he could do it. A Celtic strain of blood in him showed itself in the heat of his belief, the impetuosity of his actions. In Ethel this strain had taken an artistic turn ; but the same nature that urged her to dramatic representation urged her brother to set to work vehemently on righting anything that he thought was wrong. There never was a man who hated more than he to leave a matter in statu quo. Although Ethel said no more concerning Lesley's misun- derstanding of her father, Maurice was haunted by the echo of her remarks. He could not conceive how a girl possessed of ordinary faculties could possibly misprize her father's gifts. Either she was a girl of extraordinary stupidity, or she was wilfully blind. Perhaps there was no one to point out to her Caspar Brooke's many virtues. But they (thought Maurice) lay on the surface, and could nOv possi- bly be overlooked. The girl must have been spoiled by her residence in a French convent : she must be either stupid, frivolous, or base. Then how could Ethel care for BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 93 father would her? Surely she could not be stupid : she could not be base — she might be frivolous: Maurice could not go so far as to think that his sister Ethel would like her the worse for being a little frivolous. Yes, that must be it : she was frivolous — a soulless butterfly, who pined for the gaieties of Paris. How awfully hard for a man like Caspar Brooke to have a daughter who was merely frivolous. The more he thought of it — and he thought a good deal of it — the more Mr. Kenyon was concerned. No. doubt it was no business of his, he said to hi.mself, and he was a fool to worry himself. But then Brooke was his friend, in spite of the disparity of their years; and he did not like to think that his friend had such a heavy burden to bear. For, of course, it was a heavy burden to a man like Brooke. No doubt Brooke did not show that it was a burden : strong men did not cry out when their strength was tried. But a man with his power of affection, his tenderness, his depth of feeling (as Maurice thought), must be troubled when he found that his daughter neither loved nor compre- hended him ! Maurice reflected that he had seen this extraordinary girl once. She had been standing at the window one day when he and Ethel were feeding that pampered poodle of Ethel's, Scaramouch, and he had been struck by thegrace of her figure, the queenly pose of her head. He had not observed her face particularly, but he believed that it was rather pretty. Her dress — for his practised memory began to furnish him with details — her dress was gr^y, and if he could judge aright, fashionably made. Yes, a little French fashion-plate — a doll, powdered, p'jrhaps, and painted, laced up, and perfumed and clothed in dainty raiment, to come and make discord in her father's home ! It was into- lerable. Why did not Brooke leave this pestilent creature in her own abode, with the insolent, aristocratic friends who had done their best already to spoil his life 1 Thus he worked himself up to a high pitch of passionate excitement on his friend's behalf. It never occurred to him that Caspar Brooke might not at all be in need of it. It did not seem possible to him that a father could feel indif* ferent to the opinion of his child. And perhaps he was right, and Caspar Brooke not quite so indiflerent as he seemed. It must be the girl's fault, Maurice thought to himself. Could nothing be done ? Could he set Ethel to talk to 94 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. her ? But no : Ethel was not serious enough in her ap* preciation of Caspar Brooke. Mrs. Romaine? She would praise Mr. Brooke, no doubt ; but Kenyon had a troubled doubt of Mrs. Romaine's motives. Doctor Sophy? Well, he liked Doctor Sophy im- mensely, especially since she had given up her practice : he liked her because she was so frank, so sensible, so practi- cal in her dealings. But she was not a very sympathetic sort of person : not the kind of person, he acknowledged to himself, who would be likely to inspire a young girl with enthusiasm for another. If there was nobody else to perform a needed office, it was your plain duty to perform it yourself. That had been Maurice Kenyon's motto for many years. It recurred to him now with rather disagreeable force. Why, of course, he could not go and tell Brooke's daugh- ter that she was a frivolous fool I What was his conscience driving at, he wondered. How could he, who did not know her in the least, commit such an act of impertinence as tell her how much he disapproved of her ? It would be the act of a prig, not of a gentleman. Of course he could not do it. And then he began at the beginning again, and condoled with Brooke in his own heart, and vituperated Brooke's daughter, and wondered whether she was really incapable of being reclaimed to the paths of filial reverence, and whether he ought not to make an attempt in his friend's favor. All of which proves that if any man deserved the name of a Don Quixote, that man was Maurice Kenyon, M.R.C.S. Ethel unconsciously gave him the chance he secretlj desired. He wanted above all things to make Lesley's acquaintance, and to talk to her — for her good — about her father. And one afternoon his sister begged him, as a great favor to her, to go over to Mr. Brooke's house with a message and a parcel for Lesley. He had been intro- duced to her one day in the street, therefore there could be nothing strange in his going in and asking for her, Ethel said. And would he please go about four o'clock, so as to catch Miss Lesley Brooke at afternoon tea. Maurice told himself that it would be an impertinent thing to speak to her about her family affairs, and that he would only stay three minutes. At four o'clock he knocked at the door of Mr. Brooke's chocolate-brown house, and inquired solemnly for Miss Brooke. r o'clock, so as BROOKF^S DAUGHTER. 9S Miss Brooke was not at home. " Miss Lesley Brooke then ? " Miss Lesley Brooke was in the drawing-room. Maurice went upstairs. an impertinent rs, and that he BROOKE'S DAUGI/TEJi, CHAPTER XI. Brooke's disciple. Lesley was sitting in a low chair near a small wood fire, which the chillness of the October day made fully accept- able. She had a book on her lap, but she did not look as if she were reading : her chin was supported by her hand, and her brown eyes were gazing out of the wmdow, with, as Maurice Kenyon could not fail to see, a slightly blank and saddened look. The girl had been now a fortnight in London, and her face had paled and thinned since her arrival ; there was an anxious fold between her brows, and her mouth drooped at the corners. If her old friends — Sister Rose of the convent, for instance — had seen her, they could hardly have recognized this spiritless, brooding maiden for the joyous " Lisa " of their thoughts. Mr. Kenyon had only one moment in which to note the significance of her attitude, for Lesley changed it as soon as she heard his name. He gave her Ethel's message at once and P^thel's parcel, and then stood, a little confused and unready for she had risen and was looking as if, when his errand was accomplished, he ought to go. Fortunately, Doctor Sophy came in and invited him cordially to sit down ; rang for tea and scolded him roundly for not coming oftener ; then suddenly remembered that one of her everlasting committees was at that moment sitting in a neighboring house, and started off at once to join her fellows, calling out to Lesley as she went to give Mr. Kenyon some tea, and tell her father, who was in the library. " My father is out : Aunt Sophy does not know thing to oblige your father, you know — and when they don't come, he sings himself. He really has a very good bass voice." " Ladies don't sing, I suppose." said Lesley, after a little pause. "Oh, yes, they do. He nearly always has a lady to sing. Why don't you go down on a Sunday afternoon ? The club is open to friends of the founder, if not of the members, on Sunday afternoons. Don't Mr. Brooke and Miss Brooke always go ? " " I suppose they do — I never asked where they went," said Lesley, with burning cheeks. She remembered that they always did disappear on Sunday afternoons. No, she had not asked ; she had not hitherto felt any curiosity as to their doings ; and they had not asked her to accompany them. She began to resent their lack of readiness to invite her to the club. " You might go down on Sunday afternoon," said Oliver, lazily. " I'm going : they have asked me to sing. Though you mayn't know it, Miss Brooke, I have a very decent tenor voice. Ethel is going with me. Won't you come ? " BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 117 " I don't know," said Lesley, nervously. She bethought herself that she could not easily i)ropose to accompany her father, and that Ethel and Oliver Trent would not want her. Slie would be one too many in either party. She could not go. But Oliver read the reason of her scruples. " If you will allow me," he said, " I will ask my sister to come too. Then we shall be a compact little party of four, and we can start off without telling Mr. Brooke anything about it." Lesley hesitated a little, but finally consented. She had a great desire to see what ^vas going on in Macclesfield Buildings. But Oliver, it may be feared, believed in his heart that she went because he was going. And he resolved to bestow his society on her rather than on Ethel and Mrs. Romaine on Sunday. It was decidedly more amusing to waken that still sweet face to animation than to engage in a war of wit with Ethel. Lesley thought of Oliver very little. Once or twice he had startled her by an assumption of intimacy, a softening of his voice, and a look of tenderness in his eyes, which made her shrink into herself with an instinctive emotion of dislike. But she had then proceeded to scold herself for foolish shyness and prudeiy — the prudery of a French- school girl, who was not accustomed to the ways of men. She had begun to feel herself very ignorant of the world since she came to her father's house. It would never do to offend one of her father's friends by seeming afraid of him. So she tried to smile and looked pleased when Oliver drew near, and she was all the more gracious to him be- cause she had already quarrelled with Maurice Kenyon, who was even more her father's friend than Oliver himself. But what could she do? Mr. Kenyon had insulted her — the hot blood rose to her cheeks as she thought of some of the things that he had said. Insulted her by assuming that she could not appreciate her father because she was too careless, too frivolous, too foolish to do so. That she was ignorant, Lesley was ready to acknowledge ; but not that she was incapable of learning. Oliver had no difficulty in persuading his sister to make one of the party on Sunday afternoon. Indeed, Mrs. Ro- maine made t!ie expedition easier by inviting Lesley to lunch with her beforehand. lis BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. " I asked Maurice and Ethel Kenyon, too," she said to Lesley, " but they would not come. Mr. Kenyon had his patients to attend to ; and Ethel would not leave him to lunch alone." Lesley did not answer, but privately reflected that if the Kenyons had accepted the invitation she would have lunched at home. She went to church by herself on Sunday morning, for Mr. Brooke was not up, and Doctor Sophy frequented some assembly of eclectic souls, of which Lesley had never heard before. So she went demurely to that ugliest of all Pro- testant temples, St. Pnncras' Church, and was not very much surprised when she perceived tliat Oliver Trent was in the seat behind her, and that he sat so that he could see her face. " I did not know that you went to St. Pancras','' she said, innocently, as they stood on the steps together out- side when the service was over. " Nor do I," he answered her. " It is the most hideous church I ever saw. But there was an attraction this morning." Lesley looked as if she did not understand. And indeed she did not. " You are coming to lunch with us, are you not ? Will you let me escort you ? " " Thank you, Mr. Trent. But — do you mind ? — I shall have to call at my father's house on my way. Just to leave my prayer-book. It will not take me a minute.'' Oliver could not object, although he was not altogethei pleased. For Mr. Brooke's house was immediately opposite the Kenyons', and Miss Ethel v/as as likely as not to be sitting at the drawing-room window. Her sharp eyes would espy him from afar, and she might ask Lesley if he had been to church with her. Not a very great difficulty, but Oliver had a far-seeing mind, and one question might lead to others of a more serious kind. However, there was no help for it. He paused on the steps of number fifty, while Lesley rang the bell. She had been formally presented with a latch-key, out the use of it was so new to her, and the fear of losing it so great, that she usually left it on her dressing-table, A maid opened the door and said something to Lesley in an under tone. Oliver wfts looking acr«sf the street ai S( BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 119 she Will and neither heard the words nor saw the woman's face. But Lesley turned to him hastily. " Oh, Mr. Trent, I am so sorry to keep you waiting, but I must run up to my aunt for a moment." She disappeared into the house, and then Oliver turned and met the eyes of Lesley's waiting-maid. And at the same moment he was aware — as one is sometimes aware of what goes on behind one's back — that Ethel, in her pretty autumn dress of fawn-color and deep brown, had come out upon the balcony of her house and was observing him. " You, Mary ? " said Oliver, in a stifled whisper. The woman looked at him with hard, defiant eyes. " Yes, me," she said. " You ought to know that I couldn't do anything else." He stood looking at her with a frown. " This is the last place where you ought to have come," he said. " Because they are friends of yours? " she asked. " I can't help that. I didn't know it when I came, but I know it now." " Then leave," said Oliver, still in the lowest possible tone, but also with all possible intensity. " Leave as soon as you can. I'll find you another place. It is the worst thing you can do for your own interest to remain liere, where you may be recognized." " I can take care of that," said Mary Kingston, icily. " I'll think over it." , Oliver put his hand into his pocket as if in search of a coin. But Kingston suddenly shook her head. " No," she said, quickly, " I don't want it. Not from you." And then Lesley's foot was heard upon the stairs. Oliver looked up to Ethel's balcony. Yes, she was there, her hand upon the railing, her eyes fixed on him with what was evidently a puzzled stare. Oliver smiled and raised his hat. Ethel nodded and smiled in return. But he fan- cied — though, of course, at that distance he could not be sure — that she still looked puzzled as she returned his bow and smile. He walked on with Lesley. But his good-humor was gone : the usual suavity of his manner was a little ruffled. His recognition of Mary Kingston had evidently been dis- pleasing as well AS embarrassing to him. I20 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. CHAPTER XIV. "home, sweet home." Mrs. Romaine and Oliver Trent attributed Lesley's desire to see Macclesfield Buildings to a young girl's curiosity, and, perhaps, to a desire for Oliver's company. They had no conception of the new fancies and feelings, aims and interests, which were developing in her soul. Only so much of these were visible as to lead Oliver to say to his sister before they sallied forth that afternoon — " I fancy she is getting up an enthusiasm for her father. Won't that be awkward for you ? " Mrs. Romaine was silent for a moment. Then she an- swered, with perfect quietness — " I think it will be more awkward for Lady Alice. It may be rather convenient for us." And Oliver noticed that for the rest of the afternoon she took every opportunity of indirectly and directly praising Mr. Brooke, his works and ways. But he could not see that Lesley looked pleased — perhaps Mrs. Romaine's words had rather an artificial ring. Somehow, it seemed to Lesley as if she hated the expe- dition on which she came. Was it not a little too like spying upon her father's work? He had never invited her to Macclesfield Buildings. And he would never know the spirit in which she came : it would seem to him as though she had been brought in Mrs. Romaine's train, perhaps against her will, to laugh, to stare, to criticize. She would rather have crept in humbly, and tried to under- stand, by herself, what he was trying to do. What would he think of her when he saw her there that afternoon ? She was morbidly afraid of him and of his opinion. Caspar Brooke would have been as much hurt as astonished if he knew in what ogre-like light she regarded him. Ethel joined them before they started for Macclesfield Buildings, and as rain was beginning to fall, Oliver insisted BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 131 It that tiiey should take a cab. It was for his own sake, as Rosalind reminded him, rather than for theirs. He had a profound dislike of dirty streets, dirty people, unpleasant sights and sounds. And there were plenty of these to be encountered in the North London district to which they were bound that afternoon. The three Londoners — for such they virtually were — could hardly refrain from laughing when they saw Lesley's horrified face as the cab drove up to the block of buildings in which the club was situated. " But this is a prison — a workhouse — a lunatic asylum ! " she exclaimed. " People do not live here — do they — in this dreary place ? " Ah, me, and a dreary place it was ! Three lofty blocks of building, all of the same drab hue, with iron-railed bal- conies outside the narrow windows, and a great court-yard in which a number of children romped and howled and shrieked in play : it was perhaps the most depressingly ugly bit of architecture that Lesley had ever seen. In vain her friends told her of the superior sanitary arrangements, the ventilation, the drainage, the pure water " laid on : " all she could do was to clasp her hand, and say, with positive tears in her bright eyes, " But a//y could it hot all have been made more beautiful?" And indeed it is hard to say why not. " Now we are going down into a coal hole," said Oliver, as he helped the ladies to aliglit. " At least it was once a coal-hole. Yes, it was. These four rooms were used as storehouses for coals and vegetables until your father rented them : you will see what they look like now." ** Lesley is horrified," said Ethel, with a little laugh. " Not at the coal-hole," Lesley answered, trying also to be merry, ** but at the ugliness of it all. Don't you think this kind of ugliness almost wicked ? " " Oliver thinks all ugliness wicked," said Mrs. Romaine, maliciously. " Then we ought to be very good," said Ethel. But Oliver did not answer : he was looking at Lesley, whose face had grown pale. "Are you tired? — are you ill?" he asked her, in the gentlest undertones. They were still picking their way over the muddy stones of the court-yards, and rough children ran up to them now and then, and clamored for a penny. " Is the sight of this place too much for you ? " laa BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, " Oh, no," said Lesley, with a sudden, inexplicable flush of color: " It is not lh?.t — it is ugly, of course ; but I do not mind it at all." Oliver glanced round suspiciously, as if to discover why she had blushed. All that he could see was the tall figure of Maurice Kenyon, who was standing in a doorway talk- ing to somebody on ihe stairs. Even if Lesley had seen him, she surely v/onld not blush for that ! What chance had Kenyon had of becoming acquainted with her ? Oliver forgot that other sisters besides his own might send their brothers on messages. Down a flight of stone steps, through a low doorway, and into a dark little corridor, was Lesley conducted. She noticed that Mrs. Romaine and Ethel were quite accustomed to the place. " We have often been before, you know," Ethel explained. " It's your father's hobby, you know ; his doll's house, or Noah's Ark, or whatever you like to call it — his pet toy. I always call it his Noah's Ark my- self. The animals walk in two by two. The men may bring their wives on Sundays. Oh, by the bye, Lesley, I hope you don't mind smoke. The men have their pipes, you know." And then Lesley, dazzled and confounded by her sur- Foundings, found herself in a brilliantly lighted room of considerable size— really two ordinary rooms thrown into one. Immediately the squalor and ugliness of the outer world were thrown into the background. The walls of the room were distempered — Indian red below, warm grey above ; and on the grey walls were hung fine photographs of well-known foreign buildings or of celebrated paintings. In one part of the room stood a magnificent billiard-table, now neatly covered with a cloth. A neat little piano was placed at the other end of the room, near a large table covered with a scarlet cloth, strewn with magazines, papers, and books, and decorated with flowers. The chairs were of solid make, seated with red leather ornamented with brass nails. In fact, the whole place was not only com- fortable, but cheery and pleasant to the eye. Lesley was told that there was also a library, beside a kitchen and pantry, whence visitors could get tea or coffee, " temper- ance drinks," and rolls or cakes. A few women in their " Sunday best " were looking at the books and periodicals, or gossiping together, but they i BROCKETS DAUGHTER. "3 were not so numerous as the men — respectable working- men for the most part ; some of them smoking, some read- ing or talking, without their pipes. In one little group Lesley recognized, with a start, that her father was the centre of attraction. He was sitting, as the other men were, and he was talking : the musical notes of his culti- vated voice rose clearly above the hum of rougher and huskier voices. Lesley gathered that some proposition had been made which he was combating. ♦* No," he said, ** I won't have it. Look here — did you open this club, or did I ? " ** You did, guv'nor," said one of the len. " Then I'll have my say in the management. Some of you want the women turned out, do you? It's the curse of modern life, the curse of English and all other society, that you do want the women turned out, you men, where- ever you go. And the reason is that women are better than you are. They are purer, nobler, more conscientious than you, and therefore you don't want them with you when you take your pleasures. Eh ? " There was a melodious geniality about the last monosyl- lable which made the men smile in spite of themselves. ** 'T'aint that," said one of them, awkwardly. ** It's because they're apt to neglect their 'omes if they come out of an afternoon or an evening like we do." " Not they ! " said Mr. Brooke. ** To come out now and then is to make them love their homes, man. 'J'hey'll put more heart into their work, if they have a little rest and enjoyment now and then, as you do. Besides — you've got hold of a wrong principle. The women are not your slaves and servants ; they ought not to be. They are your com- panions, your helpers. The more they are in sympathy with you, the better they will help you. Don't keep your wives out of the brighter moments of your lives, else they will forget how to feel with you, and help you when darker moments come !" There was a pause ; and then a man, with rather a sullen face — evidently one of the malcontents — said, with a growl, " Fine talk, gov'nor. It'll end in our wives leaving us, like they sa) yours done." There was an instant hiss and groan of disapproval. So marked, indeed, that the man rose to shoulder his way to the door. Evidently he was not a popular character. «"4 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. " We'll pay him out, if you like, sir," said a youth ; and some of the older men half rose as if to execute the threat. •' Sit down : let him alone," said Mr. Brooke, sharply. " He's a poor fool, and he knows it. Every man's a fool that does not reverence women. And if women would try to be worthy of that reverence, the world would be better than it is." He rose as he spoke, with apparent carelessness, but those who knew him best saw that the taunt had stung him. And as he moved, he caught Lesley's eye. He had not known that she was to be there ; and by something in her expression — by her heightened color, perhaps, or her startled eye — he saw at once that she had heard the man's rude speech and his reply. He stopped short, grasped at his beard as his manner was, especially when he was perplexed or embarrassed ; then crossed over towards her, laid his hand on her arm, and spoke in a tone of unusual tenderness. " Yju here, my child ? " Lesley thrilled all over witn the novel pleasure of what seemed to her like commendation. But she could not answer suitably. " Mrs. Romaine brought me," she said. " Ah ! Mrs. Romaine? " — in quite a different tone " Very kind of Mrs. Romaine, By the bye, Maurice " — to Mr. Kenyon, who had just appeared upon the scene, and was looking with curiously anxious eyes at Lesley — *' the music ought to begin now. Is Trent ready? And will Ethel recite something ? That's all right — I suppose Miss Bellot will be here presently. And leaving Lesley without another glance, he went to the piano and opened it. The audience settled itself in its place, and gave a little sigh of expectation. Mr. Brooke's Sunday afternoon '' recitals," from four to five, always gave great satisfaction. Oliver sang first, then Ethel recited something ; then Mr. Brooke sang, and then Oliver ])layed — he was a very useful young man in his way — and then there came a little pause. "A certain Miss Bellot promised to come and sing, but she has not appeared," Ethel explained to h^r friend. '* Lesley, you can sing : I know you can, for I saw a lot of songs in your portfolio the other day. Won't you give them something ? " BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. las then ♦• Oh, no, I couldn't I " " It's not a critical audience," said Oliver, on her other side. " You might try. The people are growing impatient, and your father will be disappomted if things do not go well " Lesley flushed deeply. A week ago she would have thought — What is it to me if my father is disappointed ? But she could not think so to-night. " I have no music here. And I cannot sing properly when I play my own accompaniments." " Tell me something you know and let me see whether I can play it," said Oliver. She paused for a moment, then, with a smile in her eyes, she mentioned a name which made him laugh and elevate his eyebrows. " Do you know that?" she sa".d. " Rather I Is it not a trifle hackneyed ? Ah, well, not for this audience, perhaps. Yes, I will play." And then, just as Caspar Brooke, with a slight gesture of annoyance, turned to explain to the people that a singer whom he expected had not come, Oliver touched him on the arm. " Miss Brooke is going to sing, please," he said. " Will you announce her ? " Mr. Brooke stared hard for a moment, then bowed his head. " My daughter will now sing to yo' ," he said, curtly, and sat down again, grasping his brown beard with one hand. " Can she sing ? " Mrs. Romaine said in his ear, with an accent of veiled surprise. " I do not know in the least. I hope it will be English, at any rate. These good people don't care for French and Italian things." Mrs. Romaine saw that he looked undoubtedly nervous, and just then Oliver began the prelude to Lesley's song. It was certainly English enough. It was " Home, Sweet Home." Every one looked up at the sound of the familiar air. " Hackneyed " as Oliver had declared it to be, it is a song which every audience loves to hear. And Lesley made a pretty picture for the eyes to rest upon while she sang. She was dressed from top to toe in a delicate shade of grey, which suited her fair skin admirably : the grey was relieved by some broad white ribbons and a vest of soft 116 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, white silk folds, according to the prevailing fashion. A wide-brimmed grey hat, trimmed with drooping grey ostrich feathers, also became her extremely well. Mrs. Romaine noticed that Caspar Brooke looked at her hard for a minute or two, and then sat with his eyes fixed on the ground, his right hand forming a pillow for his left elLow, and his left hand engaged in stroking his big browrl beard. What she did not notice was, that Maurice Kenyon had withdrawn himself to a post behind Mr. Brooke's chair, where he could see and not be seen ; and that his eyes were riveted upon the fair singer with an expression which betokened more perplexity than admiration. As Lesley's pure, sweet notes floated out upon the air, there was an instant stir of approbation and interest among the listeners. If the girl had been less intent lipon her singing, the unmoved and unmoving stare of these men and women might have made her a little nervous. It was their way of showing attention. The m-"n had even put down their pipes. But Lesley did not see them. She had chosen her song at haphazard, as one which these people were likely to understand ; but its painful appropriateness to her own case, perhaps to her mother's case as well, only came home to her as she continued it. " 'Mid pleasures and palaces — though I may roam- Be it never so humble, there's no place like home. A charm from the heart seems to hallow it there, Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.** If Lesley's voice ^altered a little while singing words with which she herself fe. *"orced to disagree, and to which her mother had given the lie by running away from the home Caspar Brooke had provided for her, tlie hesitation and tremulousness were set down by the hearers as a very pretty bit of artistic skill, which they were not at all slow to appreciate. Mrs. Romaine put up her eye-glass and looked narrowly at the girl during the last few notes. '* How well she sings ! " she murmured in Mr. Brooke's ear. " Positively, as if she felt it ! " Caspar Brooke gave a little start, left off handling his beard, and sat up shrugging his shoulders " A good deal of dramatic talent, I fancy," he observed. But he could say no more, for tne people were clapping their hands and stamping with Iheir feet, in their eagerness for another BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. I a; song; and he was obliged to be silent until the tumult abated. *• You must sing again ? " said Oliver. ••Must I? Really? But — shall I sing what English people call a sacred piece ? A .Sunday piece, you know^ ♦Angels ever bright and fair ' — can you play that?" Oliver could play that. And Lesley sang it with great applause. But, being a keenly observant young person, and also in a very sensitive state, she noticed that her father held aloof and did not look quite well i)leased. And she, remember- ing her refusal to take singing lessons, felt," naturally, a little guilty. She had not time, however, to dwell upon her own feel- ings. The assembly began to disperse, for Mr. Brooke did not let the hours of his '• meeting " encroach on church hours, and it was time to go. But almost every man, and certainly every woman, insisted on shaking hands with Lesley, most of them saying, with a friendly nod, that they hoped she'd come again. ••You're Mr. Brooke'., daughter, ain't you, miss ? " said a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, with honest eyes and a pleasant smile, which Lesley liked. " Yes, I am." " I hope you'll give us a bit of your singing another Sunday. 'Tis a treat to hear you, it is." " Yes, I shall be glad to come again," said Lesley. " That's like your father's daughter," said the man, heartily. ^' Meaning no disrespect to you, miss. But Mr. Brooke's the life and soul of this place : he's splendid-— just splendid ; and we can't think too high of him. So it's right and fitting that his daughter should take after him." Lesley stood confused, but pleased. And then the man lowered his voice and spoke confidentially. " There was a bit of a breeze this afternoon, just after you came in, I think ; but you mustn't suppose that we have trouble o' that sort every Sunday, or week-day either. It was just one low, blackguardly fellow that got in and wanted to make a disturbance. But he won't do it again, for we'll have a meeting, and turn nim out to-morrow. I would just like you to understand, miss, that a good few of us in this here club would pretty nigh lay down our lives for Mr. Brooke if he wanted them— for myself I laS BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, wouldn't even say ' pretty nigh,' for I'd do it in a jiffy. He's helped to save some of us from worse than death, miss, and that's why." " Come, Jim Gregson," said a cheery voice behind him, " you get along home to your tea. Time for shutting up just now. Good-bye." And Caspar Brooke held out his hand for the workman to shake. He had only ji'st come up, and could not there- fore have heard what Greg son was saying ; but Lesley pre- ferred to turn away without meeting his eye. For in truth her own were full of tears. She broke away from the little group, and went into the library, as if she wanted to inspect the books. But in reality she wanted a moment's silence and loneliness in which to get rid of the swelling in her throat, the tears in her eyes. These were caused partly by excitement, partly by an expression of feeling brought to her by the earnest- ness of Gregson's words, partly by penitence. And it was before she had well got rid of them that Maurice Kenyon put his head into the room and found her there. " We are going now, Miss Brooke," he said. " Will you come ? I — I hope I'm not disturbing you — I " '■*■ I am just coming," said Lesley, dashing the tears from her face. " I am quite ready." " There is no hurry. You can let them go on first, if you like," said Maurice, partly closing the door. Then, in the short pause that followed, he advanced a little way into the room. " Miss Brooke," he said, " I hope you will not mind my speaking to you again ; but I want to say that I wish- most humbly and with all my heart — to beg your pardon. Will you forgive me ? *' BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 109 CHAPTER XV. MAURICE KENYON'S APOLOGY. Lesley stood irresolute. In the other room she heard the sound of voices calling her own name. " We are just going, Lesley," she heard Mrs. Romaine say. She made a hurried step towards the door. " I can't stop," she said. '* They will go without me." " What if they do ? " asked Mr. Kenyon. " I'll see you home." Lesley looked amazed, as well she might, at this master- ful way of settling the question. And while she hesitated Maurice acted, as he usually did. He strode to the door and spoke to Miss Brooke. " I am just showing your niece some of the books : I'll follow in a minute or two with her if you'll kindly walk on. It won't take me more than a minute." "Then we may as well wait," said Oliver's voice. Lesley would have been very angry if she had known what happened then. Mr. Kenyon, by means of energetic pantomime, conveyed to the quick perceptions of Doctor Sophy a knowledge of the fact that Lesley was a little agi- tated and overcome, and that he was soothing her. And that the departure of the rest of the party would be a blessed relief. Aunt Sophy was good-natured, and she had complete trust in Maurice Kenyon. " Don't stay more than a minute or two," she said. " We'll just walk on then — Caspar and I. Mr. Trent is, of course, escorting your sister. Mrs. Romaine will come with us, and you'll follow ? " " I am quite ready," said Lesley. " All right," answered Maurice, easily, " I show you this book." Then he returned and she heard the soun^r'r. of retreating steps and voices as her father and his party left the building. must first to the library, 130 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. " You have no book to show me — you had better come at once," Lesley said, severely. But Mr. Kenyon arrested her. " I assure you I have. Look here : the men clubbed together a little while ago and presented your father's works to the library, all bound, you see, in vellum. I need not mention that he had not thought it worth while to give his own books to the club." He showed her the volumes with pride, as if the presen- tation had been made to a member of his own family. Lesley touched the books with gentle fingers and reverent eyes. " I have been reading * The Unexplored,' " she said. *' I knew you would ! And I knew you would like it ! — I am not wrong ? " " I like it very much. But it is all new to me — so new — I feel like lone when she first heard of the miseries of England — I have lived in an enchanted world, where every- thing of that sort was kept from me ; so — hovo could I understand ? " " I know" ! I know ! — You make me doubly ashamed of myself. I have lived, metaphorically, in dust and ashes ever since we had that talk together. Miss Brooke, I must have seemed to you the most intolerable prig I Can you ever forgive me for what I said ? " " But," said Lesley, looking straight into his face with her clear brown eyes, "if what you said was true? " ** I had no right to say it." " That is true," Lesley answered, coldly ; and she turned about as though she did not wish to pursue the subject. " But can you not forgive me for it ? I was unjustifiably angry I confess; but since 1 confess it " " Mr. Kenyon, we ought to be going home. I see the woman is waiting to put the lights out." " We will go home if you like — certainly," said Maurice, in a tone of vexed disappointment. *' Take care of the step — yes, here is the door. I am afraid we cannot get a cab in this neighborhood ; bat as soon as we reach a more civilized locality, I will do my best to find one for you." By this time they were in the yard. Night had already fallen on the city, whether it had done so in the country or not. The lamps were lighted in the streets ; a murky fog had settled like a pall upon the roads \ and in the Sun* u. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 131 day silence the church bells rang out with a mournful cadence which affected Lesley's spirits. " London is a terrible place," she said, with a little shiver. " Can you say that," he asked, looking at her curiously, " after seeing the good work that is being done here? I "it is a terrible place, it is also a very noble and inspiring one." " I know I am ignorant," said Lesley, heavily. " It seems terrible to me." They were silent for a minute or two, for they were pass- ing out of the yard belonging to the " model dwellings," as Macclesfield Buildings were called, into the squalid street beyond ; and in avoiding the group of loafers smok- ing the pipe of idleness, and enjoying the comfortable repose of sloth, Lesley and Mr. Kenyon were so far sepa- rated that conversation became impossible. "You had better take my arm," said Maurice, shortly, almost sternly. " You must, indeed : the place is not fit for you. I ought to have gone out and got a cab." " Indeed, I do not need it. I can walk quite well. What other people do, I suppose I can do as well. " " Miss Brooke, you have not forgiven me." Lesley was silent. " What can I say ? I have no justification. I simply let my tongue and my temper run away with me. I am cursed with a hot temper : I do not think before I speak ; but I never intended to hurt you. Miss Brooke, I am sure of that." '* No," said Lesley, very quietly, " T understand you. If you had not thought me so stupid as not to see your meaning, or so callous as not to care if I did, you would not have spoken in that way. I don't know that your ex- cuse makes matters much better, Mr. Kenyon. But I am not offended : you need not concern yourself." " Then you ought to be offended," said Kenyon, doggedly. "And I don't believe you." "You don't believe me." " No, indeed I don't." Lesley's offence was so great now, whatever it had been before, that it deprived her of the power of speech. Her stately head went up : her mouth set itself in straight, hard lines. Maurice saw these tokens, and interpreted them aright. " Don't be angry with me again. I mean that you could not fail to despise me, to look down on me, for my want 133 BROOKES DAUGHTER. of tact and sense. I thought that you did not understand your father — I was vexed at that, because I have such a respect, such an admiration for him — but I know now that I was mistaken. You ought to be angry with me, for I acknowledge that I spoke impertinently ; but having been angry, you can now be merciful and forgive. I apologize from the bottom of my heart." " How do you know that I understand my father ? Why have you changed your opinion ? " said Lesley, coldly. " YcM have nothing to go upon — ^just as in the other case you had nothing to go upon. You rushed to one conclu- sion, if you will excuse me for saying so, and now you rush to another — with no better reason." " You are very severe. Miss Brooke," said Maurice. " But you are perfectly right, and I must not complain. Only — if I may make a representation " " Ch, certainly ! " -I might point out that when I spoke to you first i( you had not read your father's book, you had not, I believe, even heard of it ; that you knew nothing about the Mac- clesfield Club, and that when I spoke to you about his work amongst the poor you were very much inclined to murmur, ' Can any good come out of Nazareth ? ' " " Mr. Kenyon " " I beg your pardon. Miss Brooke, but isn't that substan- tially true ? If you can honestly say that it is a misap- prehension on my part, I won't say another word. But isn't it all true ? " He turned his eager face and bright blue eyes towards her, and read in her pale, troubled face a little of the con- flict that was going on between her candor and her pride. " Now, what will she say ? " he thought, with what would have seemed to Lesley incomprehensible anxiety. *' On her answer depends my opinion of her, now and for ever." And this appeared to Maurice quite an important mat- ter, though possibly Lesley might not have thought it so. .She turned to him at last with a frank, decisive gesture. ** It is true," she said. ** I knew nothing about his books or his works, and so how could I appreciate them? I *^:;d never heard of * The Unexplored ' before. You are right, and I had no business to be so angry. But how do you know that I am different now ? " *• Oh, I know you are," said Maurice, confidently. " You have com<^ to the club for one thing, you see ; and you BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. »33 sang to the people and looked at them — well, as if you cared. And you have read ' The Unexplored ' now f" " Yes. I have," sard Lesley, hesitatingly. " And you like it ? " " Yes — I like it." The girl looked awdiy, and went on nervously, hesitatingly. " It is very well done," she said, " It is very clever." ** Oh, if that is all you can find to say about it ! " *■* But isn't it a great deal ? — Mr. Kenyon, I don't know what to say about it. You see I can't be sure whether it is all — true." " True ? The story ? But, of course——" " Of course the story is not true. I am not such a goose as that. But is the meaning of it true ? the moral, so to speak ? Is there so much wickedness in .:he world as my father says ? So niuch vice and wealth and selfishness on the one side : so much misery and poverty and crime on the other ? You are a doctor, and you must have seen a great deal of London life : you ought to know. Is it an exaggeration, or is it true ? " There was such intensity and such pathos in her tones that Kenyon was silent for a minute or two, startled by the vivid reality which she had attached to her father's views and ideas. He could not have answered her lightly, even if it had been in his nature to do so. " Before God," he said, solemnly, " it is all true — every word of it." " Then what can we do," said Lesley, gently, " but go down into the midst of it and help. ? " Mr. Maurice Kenyon, being a man of ardent tempera- ment, always vows that he lost his heart to Lesley there and then. It is possible that if she had not been a very pretty girl, the most noble of sentiments might have fallen unheeded from her lips ; but as she was " so young, so sweet, so delicately fair," Kenyon could not hear his own opinions reciprocated without an answering thrill. How delightful would it be to walk through life with a woman of this kind by one's side ! a woman, whose face was a picture, whose every movement a poem, whose soul was as finely touched to fine issues as that of an angel or a saint ! All these reflections rushed through his mind in an instant, and it was almost a wonder that he did not blurt some of them out at once. But Lesley went on speaking in a quiet, pensive way. \ 1 »34 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, " I wonder v/hether I can do anything — while I am here. I shall not have so very long a time, but I might try." " Not so long a time, Miss Brooke ? I thought you had come home for gpod." " Only for a year," said Lesley, coloring hotly. " Then I go back to mamma." Maurice said nothmg at first. He felt the hand that rested on his arm tremble slightly, and he knew that he ought to make no more inquiries. But he could not refrain from adding, almost jealously — " You will be glad of that ? " " Oh, yes ! You do not know my mother ? " said Les- ley, half shyly, half boldly. " No, I never saw her." " It is very hard to be so long away froin her. She is so sweet and good." " But you have your father ? You are learning to know him now." " Oh, yes, but I want them both,^' said Lesley, with an indescribably gentle and tender intonation. And as they reached Euston Road and were obliged to leave off talking while they threaded their way through the intricacies of vehicular traffic, Mr. Kenyon was revolving in his mind a new idea, namely, the possibility of a reconciliation between Brooke and his wife. He had never thought much about Lady Alice before : she seemed to him to have passed out of Caspar Brooke's life entirely ; and if it were not for this link between the two — this sweet and noble-spirited and lovely girl — she would not have been likely to come back into it. But Lesley might perhaps reunite the two, and Maurice's heart began to burn within him with fear for his hero's happiness. Why should any Lady Alice trouble the peace of a worker for mankind like Caspar Brooke ? They did not talk very much more on their way to Upper Woburn Place. They found Ethel and Oliver standing on the steps of Mr. Brooke's house, evidently waiting for the truants. It struck Lesley as she came up that Oliver Trent's brow was ominously dark, and that Ethel's pretty, saucy face wore an expression of something like anxiety or distress. *' We are almost tired of waiting for you, good people," she began merrily. " Fortunately it is fine and warm, or we should have gone and left you to your own devices, as Mr. Brooke and Rosalind have done.'' BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 135 ** Where have they gone ? " asked Maurice. " Walked off to her house. Miss Brooke is at home. Lesley, you are an imposition ! Think of having a voice like that, and keeping it dark all this time." " We shall requisition Miss Brooke for the club very often, I know that," said Maurice. " You'll come in with us, Lesley ? " Ethel asked. " No, thank you, Ethel. Not to-day. Thanks." She wondered a little nervously why Oliver was looking so vexed and — yes, so miserable, too ! He seemed terribly out of spirits. Had he and Ethel quarrelled ? The thought gave a. look of tender inquiry to her eyes as she held out her hand to him. And on meeting that sweet glance, Oliver's .face brightened. He had been feeling an unrea- sonable annoyance with her for walking home with Maurice Kenyon, and had even in his heart called ^er " a little French flirt." Though why it should matter to him that she was a flirt, did not exactly appear. They said good-bye to each other, and separated. Mau- rice went off to see a patient ; Oliver accompanied Ethel to her own house ; Lesley entered her own home. She was alone for an hour or two, and, to tell the truth, she felt rather dull. Miss Brooke went away to her circle of select souls, and her father, as she knew, had gone to Mrs. Romaine's. She took out her much-prized volume of " The Unexplored," and began to read it again ; wishing that she could talk to her mother about it, and explain to her how really great and good a man her father was. For — she had got as far as this — she was sure that her mother did not understand him. It would have been impossible for him to do a mean, a cruel, a dishonorable action. There had been a misunderstanding somewhere ; and Lesley wished, with her whole soul, that she could clear it up. The sound of the opening and closing of the front door did not arouse her from her dreams. She read on, holding the little paper-covered volume on her lap, deep in deepest though ,, until the door of the drawing-room opened rather suddenly, and her father walked in. It was an unusual hour at which to see him in the drawing-room, and Lesley looked up in surprise. Then, half unconsciously, half timidly, she drew her filmy embroidered handkerchief over the book in her lap. She had a shy dislike to letting her father see what she was reading. ■3« BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. He did not seem, however, to take any notice of her occupation. He walked straight to an arn)*chair on the opposite side of the hearth, sat down, stretching out his long legs, and placing his elbows on the arms of the chair. The unruly lock of hair, which no hairdresser could tame, had fallen right across his broad brow, and heightened the effect of a very undeniable frown. Mr. Caspar Brooke was in anything but an amiable temper. It was with a laudable attempt, however, to keep the displeasure out of his voice that he said at length — " I thought I understood you to say, Lesley, that you were not musical ! " The color flushed Lesley's face to the very roots of her hair. " I do not think I am — very musical," she said, trying to answer bfavely. " I play the piano very little." " Of course you must know that that is a quibble," said Mr. Brooke, dryly. ** A talent for music does not confine itself solely to the piano. I presume that you have been told that you have a good voice ? " ** Yes, I have been told so." " And you have had lessons ? " " Yes, a few." " Then may I ask what was your motive for declining to take lessons in London when I asked to do so ? You even went so far as to make use of a subterfuge : you gave me to understand that you had no musical power at all, and that you knew nothing and could do nothing ? " He paused as if he expected a reply ; but Lesley did not say a word. " I cannot understand it," Mr. Brooke went on ; " but," — after a pause — " I suppose there is no reason why I should. I did not come to say anything much about that part of the business. I came rather to suggest that as you have a good voice, it is wrong not to cultivate it. And your lessons will give you something to do. It seems to me rather a pity, my dear, that you should do nothing but sit round and read novels — which, your aunt tells me, is your principal occupation. Suppose you try to find some- thing more useful to do ? " He spoke with a smile now and in a softer voice ; but Lesley was much too hurt and depressed to say a word. He looked at her steadfastly for a minute or two, and decided that she was sullen. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. «1» ning to a u even ive me 11, and lid not 1 i 'but," §c ivhy I 2 tthat B IS you «1 And ll tns to F^fl gbut I ne, is ■ ome- 1 ; but J ^ord. ^ and ■ " I will see about the lessons for you," he said, getting up and speaking decidedly, "and I hope you will make the most of your opportunities. ,.v much time have you been in the habit of devoting to your singing every day ? " ** An hour and a half," said Lesley, in a very low voice. '* And you left off practising as soon as you came here ? That was a great pity ; and you must allow me to say, Les- ley, very silly into the bargain. Surely your own con- science tells you that it was wrong ? A voice like yours is not meant to be hidden." Lesley wished that at that moment she could find any voice at all. She sat like a statue, conscious only of an effort to repress her tears. And Mr. Brooke, having said all that he wanted to say, took up a book, and thought how difficult it was to manage women who met remonstrances in silence. Lesley got up in a few moments and walked quietly out of the room. But she forgot her book It fell noiselessly on the soft fur rug, and lay there, with leaves flattened and back bent outwards. Caspar Brooke was one of the peo- ple who cannot bear to see a book treated with anything less than reverence. He picked it upi, straightened the leaves, and looked casually at the title. It was " The Unex- plored." He held it for a minute, gazing before him with wide eyes as if he were troubled or perplexed. Then he shook his head, sighed, smiled, and put it down upon the nearest table. '• Poor little girl 1 " he said. " I wonder if I fright- ened her at all ] " \ \ «3« BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. CHAPTER XVI. AT MRS. ROMAINE S. I The reason why Caspar Brooke spoke somewhat sharply to Lesley was not far to seek. He had been to Mrs. Ro- maine's house to tea. The sequence of cause and effect can easily be conjectured. " How charmingly your daughter sang ! " Mrs. Romaine began, when she had got Mr. Brooke into his favorite cor- ner, and given him a cup of her best China tea. " Yes, she sang very well," said Brooke, carelessly. •* I had no idea that she «>«/*i BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. «4V CHAPTER XVII. THE WIFE OF FRANCIS TRENT. Far away from the eminently respectable quarter of Lon- don, adorned by the habitation of families like the Brookes, the Kenyons, and the Romaines, you may find an unsavory district in Whitechapel which is known as Truefit Row. It is a street of tall and mean-looking houses, which seem to be toppling to their fall ; and the pavement is strewn with garbage which is seldom cleared away. Many of the windows of the houses are broken ; many of the doors hang ajar, for the floors are let out in flats, and there is a common stair for at least five and twenty families. It is a dreary-looking place, and the dwellers therein look as dreary as their own abode. In one of these houses Mr. Francis Trent had found a resting-place for the sole of his foot. It was not a fashion- able lodging, not even a particularly clean one ; but he had come down in the world, and did not very much care where he lived, so long as he had plenty to drink, and a little money in his pockets. But these commodities were not as plentiful as he wanted them to be. Therefore he passed a good deal of his time in a state of chronic brood- ing and discontent. He had one room on the th.'rd storey. The woodwork of this apartment was so engrained with grime that scarcely any amount of washing would have made it look clean ; but it had certainly been washed within a comparatively recent date. The wall paper, which had peeled off" in cer- tain places, had also been repaired by a careful hand ; and the curtains which shaded the unbroken window were almost spotlessly clean. By several other indications it was quite plain that a woman's hand had lately been busy in the room ; and compared with many other rooms in the same building, it was quite a palace of cleanliness and comfort. But Francis Trent did not think so. He sat over his small and smouldering fire one dark November afternoon. I4S BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. \ i and shivered, partly from cold and partly from disgust. He had no coals left, and no money wherewith to buy them : a few sticks and some coke and cinders were the materials out of which he was trying to make a fire, and naturally the result was not very inspiriting. The kettle, which was standing on the dull embers, showed not the slightest inclination to " sing." Francis Trent, outstretched on a basket-chair (the only comfortable article of furniture that the room contained), gave the fire an occasional stir with his foot, and bestowed upon it a deal of invective. " It will be out directly," he said at last, sitting up and looking dismally about him ; " and it's nearly five o'clock. She said she would be here at four. Ugh ! how cold it is 1 If she doesn't come in five minutes I shall go to the Spot- ted Dog. There's always a fire there, thank goodness, and they'll stand me a glass of sonething hot, I daresay." He rose and walked about the room by way of relieving the monotony of existence, and causing his blood to cir- culate a little faster. But this mode of activity did not long please him, and he threw himself back in his chair at last, and uttered an exclamation of disgust. *• Confound it ! I shall go out," he said to himself. But just at that moment a hand fumbled at the latch. He called out " Come in," an unnecessary call, because the door was half open before he spoke, and a woman entered the room, shutting the door behind her. She was slight, trim, not very tall : she had a pale face and dark eyes, dark, glossy hair, and delicate features. If Lesley had been there, she would have recognized in this woman the ladies' maid who called herself Mary Kingston. But in this part of the world she was known as Mrs. Trent. ' Francis did not give her a w^arm welcome, and yet his weak, worn face lighted up a little at the sight of her. ** I thought you were never coming," he said, grumblingly, and his eyes fell greedily to the basket that she carried on her arm. " What have you get there? " ** Just a few little things for your tea," said Mary, depo- siting the basket on the table. " And, oh — what a wretched fire ! Have you no coals ? " " Neither coals nor food nor drink," he answered, sul- lenly, " nor money in my pocket either." The woman stood and looked at him. " You had two pounds the day before yesterday," she said. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 149 "Billiards," he answered, laconically. But he turned away so as not to see her face. She gave a short, sharp exclamation. " You promised to be careful ! " "The luck was against me," he said. "I thought I should Win, but my hand's taken to shaking so much that I couldn't play. I don't see why you should blame me — I've precious few amusements." She did not answer, but began to take the parcels, one by one, from her basket, and place them on the table. Her own hands shook a little as she did so. Francis turned again to watch her operations. She took out some tea, bread, butter, eggs, and bacon. There was a bottle of brandy and a bundle of cigars. Francis Trent's eyes glis- tened at the sight. He stole closer to his wife, and put his arm around her. " You're a good soul, Mary. You'll forgive me, won't you ? Upon my honor, I never meant to lose the money.", " I have to work hard enough for it," she said dryly. " I know you have J It's a shame — a d d shame 1 If I had my way, you should be dressed in satin, and sit all day with your hands before you, and ride in your own carriage — you know you should ! " " I don't know that I should particularly care about that kind of life," said Mary, still coldly, but with a perceptible softening of her e^e and relaxation of the stiff upper lip. " I would rather live on a farm in the country, and do farm- work. It's healthier, yes, and it's happier — to my think- ing." ** So it is ; and that's the life we'll lead by and by, when Oliver pays us what he has promised," said Francis, eager- ly. ** We will have some land of our own, and get far away from the temptation of the city. Then you will see what a different fellow I'll be, Mary. You shan't have reason to complain of me then." " Well, I hope so, Francis," she said, but not too hope- fully. Perhaps she noticed that his hand and eye both strayed, as if involuntarily, towards the bottle of spirits on the table. And at that moment, the last flicker of light from the fire went out. " Have you no candles ? " she asked, abruptly. " Not one." " I'll go out and fetch them, and some coal too. Sit down quietly, and wait. I won't be long. And as I 1 \ A ISO BROOKE* S DAUGHTER. haven't a corkscrew, I'll take the bottle with m^ , and get it opened downstairs." Francis dared not object, but his wife's course of action made him sulky. He did not see why she should not have left him the bottle during her absence : he could have broken its neck on the fender. But he knew very well that she could not trust him to drink only in moderation if he were left alone with the bottle ; and, like a wise woman, she therefore took it with her. She was back again in a few minutes, bringing with her fuel and lights. Francis was lying in his bed, his face turned sullenly to the wall. Mary poured a little brandy into a glass, and brought it to him to drink. " You will feel better when you have had that," she said, *' and you shall have some more in your tea if you want it. Now, I'm jgoing to light up the fire." So well did she perform her task that in a very short time the flames were leaping up the chimney, the shadows dancing cheertully over the ceiling, the kettle hissing and puffing on the fire. The sight and sound drew Francis once more from his bed to the basket chair, where he sat and lazily watched his wife as she cut bread, made tea, fried bacon and eggs, with the ease and celerity of a woman to whom domestic offices are familiar. When at last the tea-table was arranged, he drew up his chair to it with a sigh of positive pleasure. " How homelike and comfortable it looks : Why don't you always stay with me, Mary, and keep me straight ? " " You want so much keeping straight, Francis," she said, but a slight smile flickered about the corners of her lips. It was characteristic of the pair that he allowed her to wait on him, hand and foot : he let her cut the bread, pour out the tea, carry his plate backwards and forwards, and pour the brandy into his cup, without a word of remon- strance. Only when he had been well supplied and was not likely to want anything more just then, did he say to her " Sit down, Mary, and get yourself a cup of tea." Mary did not seem to resent the condescending nature of this invitation. She thanked him simply, and sat down ; pouring out for herself the dregs of the tea, and eating a piece of dry bread with it. Francis had the grace to re- movstrate with her on the poverty of her fare. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. »5« " It doesn't matter what I eat now," she said. " I have the best of everything where I'm living, and I don't feel hungry." " I hope you're comfortable where you are," said Mr, Trent, politely. " Yes, I'm very comfortable, thank you, Francis. Though," said Mrs. Trent, deliberately, *' I think I should be more comfortable if I wasn't in a house where Mr. Oliver visited." " Oliver ! Do you mean my brother Oliver? Why do you call him Mr. Oliver ? It is so absurd to keep up these class-distinctions." "So I think," said Mary, "but when o^her people keep them up it's not much use for me to be the first to cast them over board. Your brother Oliver comes to the house where I'm living much oftener than I think he ought." " What house is it? You never told me." " It's Mr. Brooke's. Mr. Caspar Brooke — him as wrote ' The Unexplored.' I brought it to you to read, I remem- ber — a good long time ago." ** Awful rot it was too ! " said Francis, contemptuously. " However, I suppose it paid. What are you doing there ? Wasn't it his wife who ran away from him ? I remember the row some years ago — before I went under. Is she dead?" " No, she's living with her father, Lord Courtleroy. It's her daughter I've come to wait on : Miss Lesley Brooke." " Brooke's daughter ! " said Francis, thoughtfully. " I remember Brooke. Not half a bad fellow. Lent me ten pounds once, and never asked for it again. So it's Brooke's daughter you — hm —live with. Sort of companion, you are, eh, Mary ? " " Maid," said Mary, stolidly. " Ladies' maid. And Miss Lesley's the sweetest young lady I ever come across." Francis shrugged his shoulders. " Your employment is causing you to relapse into the manner — and grammar — of your original station, Mary. May I suggest * came * in- stead of ' come ' ? " Mrs. Trent looked at him with a still disdain. " Suggest what you like," she said, " and think what you like of me. I never took myself to be your equal in edu- cation and all that. I may be your equal in sense and II I i$a BROOKE *S DAUGHTER. heart and morals ; but of course that goes for nothing with such as you." ** Don't be savage, Mary," said Francis, in a concih'atory tone. " I only want you to improve yourself a little, when you can. You're tlie best woman in the world — nobody knows it better than I do — and you should not take offense at a trifle. So you like Brooke's daughter, eh ? " *' Yes, I like her. But I don't like your brother Oli- ver." " I know that. What is he doing at Brooke's house ? Let me see — he isn't engaged to that girl? It's the actress he's going to marry, isn't it ? " He had finished his meal by this time, and was smoking one of the cigars that his wife had brought him. She, meanwhile, turned up her sleeves, and made ready to wash the cups and plates. " Tell me all about it," said Francis, who was now in high good humor. " It sounds quite like the beginning of a romance." ** There's no romance about it that I can see," said Mrs. Trent, grimly. " Your brother is engaged to Miss Ken- yon — a nice, pretty young lady : rich, too, I hear." " Yes, indeed 1 As you and I are going to find out by and by, old lady," and he chuckled to himself at the thought of his prospective wealth. " And he ought to be content with that. Instead of which, he's never out of our place ; and when he's there he never seems to take his eyes off Miss Lesley. Playing the piano while she sings, reading to her, whispering, sit- ting into her pocket, so to speak. I can't think what he's about, nor other people neither." " What does Miss Kenyon say ? " asked Francis, with sudden sharpness. For it occurred to him that if that match were broken off he would not get his two thousand pounds on Oliver's wedding-day. " She doesn't seem to notice much. Once or twice lately I've seen her look at them in a thoughtful, puzzled kind of way, as if something had set her thinking. She looks at Miss Lesley as if she could not quite make her out — though the two have been friends ever since Miss Lesley came home from school." ** And the girl herself? " said Francis, with considerable and increasing interest. '' What does she do? " BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. IS3 "She looks troubled and puzzled, but I don't think she understands. She's as innocent as a baby," said Mrs. Trent, with compassion in her tone. " I wonder what he's doing it for," soliloquized Francis. " He can't marry her." Mary Trent paused for a moment in her housewifely occupations. " Why can he not ? " " Because well, I may as well tell you as not. I've never mentioned it — ^I don't know why exactly — but I'll tell you now, Mary. A few weeks ago, when we were so down on our luck, you know — ^just before you began to work again — I met Oliver in Russell Square, and told him what I wanted and what I thought of him. I brought him to terms, I can tell you ! He had just got himself en- gaged to Miss Kenyon ; and she has twenty thousand pounds besides her profession ; and he promised me two thousand down on his wedding-day. What do you say to that ? And within six moi.lhs, too ! And if Ije doesn't keep his word, I shall not hold my tongue about the one or two little secrets of his that I possess — do you see ? " " Perhaps," said Mrs. Trent, slowly, <* he thinks he could manage to pay you the money even if he married Miss Brooke ? So long as you get the two thousand, I suppose you don't mind which girl it is ? " " Not a bit," answered her husband frankly. " All I want is the money. Then we'll go off to America, old girl, and have the farm you talk about. But Brooke's daughter won't have two thousand pounds, so if he marries her instead of Miss Kenyon, he'll have to look out." Mrs. Trent had finished her work by this time. As she stood by the table drying her hands there was a look of fixed determination on her features which Francis recog- nized with some uneasiness. " What do you think about it ? What are you going to do ? " he asked, almost timidly. " I am not going to see Miss Lesley badly treated, at any rate." •' How can you prevent it ? " " I don't know, but I shall prevent it, please God, if necessary. Your brother Oliver is engaged to one girl, and making love to another, that's the plain English of it ; and sooner than see him break Miss Lesley's heart, I'd up and tell everybody what I ki.ow of him, and get him turned out of the house." ' i! «$4 BROOKE* S DAUGHTER. *' And sjJOii my game ? " cried Francis, rising to his feet His faced had turned white with anger, and his eyes were aflame. She looked at him consideringly, as if she were measuring his strength against her own. •* Well— no," she said at length, " I won't spoil your game if I can help it — and I think I can get my own way without doing that. I want you to win your game, Fran- cis. For you know " — with a weary smile — " that if you win, I win too." " Her husband's face relaxed. " You're not a bad sort, Polly : I always said so," he remarked. " Come and give me a kiss. You wouldn't do anything rash, would you ? Choke Oliver off at Brooke's as much as you like ; but don't endanger his relations with Ethel Kenyon. His marriage with her is our only chance of getting out of this accursed bog we seem to have stuck fast in." •' I'll be careful," said Mrs. Trent, drily. Francis* still eyed her with apprehension. "You won't try to stop that marriage, will you ? " " No, why should I? Miss Kenyon's nothing to me." Francis laughed. " I didn't know where your sympa- thien might be carrying you," he said. ** Brooke's daugh- ter is no more to you than the other girl." " I suppose not. But I feel different to her. You can't explain these things," said Mrs. Trent, philosophically, " but it's certain sure that you take a liking to one person and a hate to another, without knowing why. I liked Miss Lesley ever since I entered that house. She's kind, and talks to me as if I was a woman — not a machine. And I wouldn't like to see any harm happen to her." "Oh, you may indulge your romantic fondness for Miss Brooke as long as you like, if you don't let it interfere with Oliver's marriage," said Francis, with a rather disagreeable laugh. " It's lucky that you did not go to live with Miss Kenyon instead of the fair Lesley. You might have 'felt tempted to tell her your little story." " Ay, so I might," said the woman, slowly. " For she's a woman, after all. And a nice life she'll have of it with Oliver Trent. I'm not sure " She stopped, and a sombre light came into her deep-set eyes. ** Oh, for goodness' sake, don't get on that old griev- ance," said Francis, hastily, almost rudely. " Don't think \^^ BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, »55 about it — don't mention it tome. It's all very well, Polly, for you to take on so much about your sister ; and, indeed, I'm very sorry for her, and I think that Oliver behaved abominably — I do, indeed ; but, my dear girl, it's no good crying over spilt milk, and Oliver's my brother, after all " '• And he's going to pay you two thousand pounds on his wedding-day," said Mrs. Trent, with cruel curtness. " I know all about it. And I understand. Why should I be abcve making my profit out of him like other people? All right, Francis : I won't spoil your little game at present. And now I must be getting back." She took up her bonnet and shawl ana began to readjust them. Francis watched her hands : he saw that they trem- bled, and he knew that this was an ominous sign. It some- times betokened anger, and when she was angry he did not care to ask her to give him money. And he wanted money now. But she was not angry in the way that he thought. For after a moment's silence her hands grew steady again, and her face recovered its usual calm. " I've got three pounds here for you, Francis," she said. "And I hope you'll make it last as long as you can — you will, won't you ? For I shan't have any more for some little time to come." He nodded and took t'le sovereigns from her hand. A touch of compunction visited him as he did so. " Keep one, Polly," he said. " 1 don't want them nil." " Oh, yes, you do. And I have no need of money where I am. You'll not spend it all at billiards, or on brandy, will you ? " " No, Polly, I won't. I promise you." And he meant to keep his ])romise. But as matters fell out, he was blindly, madly drunk before the same night was out, and he had lost every penny that he possessed over a game at cards. And plunging recklessly across the street, in the darkness of the foggy nigiit, he was knocked down by a passing cab, and was carried insensible to the nearest hospital. Where let us leave him for a time in good and kindly hands. P ■HtM v\ «s« BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. CHAPTER XVIII. " HER EYES WILL SEND ME MAD." It was true, as Mrs. Trent had said, that Lesley's face often now wore a look of perplexity and trouble. This look had many differing causes ; but amongst them, not the least was the behavior of Oliver Trent. Oliver was betrothed to her friend, and she had so much faith in the honor and constancy of men, that it never occurred to her that he could prefer herself to Ethel, or that he should think of behaving as though Ethel were not the first person in the world to him. But as a matter of fact, he did not conduct himself to Ethel at all as a lover should have done. Assured of her love, he neglected her : he failed to appear at the Theatre in tims to escort her home, he forgot bis promises to visit her ; he let her notes lie unanswered in his pocket. And when she pouted and remonstrated, he frowned her into silence, which was not at all the way in which her lover ought to behave. Of course Lesley did noi know this, for Ethel had not taken her into her confidence on the subject. But she knew very well where Oliver sp.^nt his time. Early and late, on small excuse or on no excuse at all, he presented himself at Mr. Brooke's house, and made himself Lesley's companion. At first Lesley did not dislike it. She sup- posed that Ethel must be busy with her theatrical studies, or at rehearsal, and that Oliver was in want of something to do. It was pleasant to have the companionship of seme one younger and more congenial, perhaps, than her father or Miss Bfcoke ; and she gained a great deal of interesting infoir.uiion from Oliver during the long hours that he spent with her in the drawing-room or library. He told her a great deal about London society, about modern literature, and the fashions of the day ; and all this was as fascinating to Lesley as it was novel. He talked to her about plays and music and pictures ; and he read poetry BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. »57 to her. Modern poetry, of course : a little Browning, and a good deal of Rossetti and Swinburne. For amorous and passionate poetry pleased him best ; and he knew that it was likelier to serve his ends than verse of the more mascu- line and intellectual kind. Lesley rather preferred Brown- ing and Arnold to Oliver's favorites, but she was never certain of her own taste, and was always humbly afraid that she might be making some terrible mistake in her preferences. She certainly found Mr. Trent's aid very valuable in the matter of her singing. The best singing-mistress in London had been found for her, and she practised diligently every day ; but it was delightful to find somebody who could always play her accompaniments, and was ready with dis- criminating praise or almost more flattering criticism. Oliver had considerable musical knowledge, and he placed it at Lesley's service. She made a much quicker and more marked advance in her singing than she could possibly have done without his assistance. And for this she was grate- ful. At the same time she was uneasy. It was contrary to all her previous experience that a young man should be allowed to spend so much time with her. She did not think that her mother would approve of it. But she could not ask Lady Alice, because she had now no communication with her : a purely formal letter respecting her health and general welfare was all, she had been told, that she would be permitted to write. And sooner than write a letter of that kind Lesley had proudly resolved not to write at all. But she pined for womanly counsel and assistance in the matter. Miss Brooke was certainly not proving herself an effi- cient chaperon. Aunt Sophy had never risen to a clear view of her duty in the matter. She herself had never been chaperoned in her life ; but had gone about to lectures and dissecting rooms and hospitals with a fine indifference to sex. But then Doctor Sophy had never been a pretty woman ; and no young man had shown a wish to spend his spare hours in her drawing-room. She had a strong belief in the wisdom and goodness of women — young and old— and declared that they could always take care of themselves when they chose. And nothing would induce her to believe that her niece, Lesley Brooke, required protection or guar- ■1 !.i 158 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. dianship. She would have thought it an insult to her own family to suggest such a thing. So she treated Lesley's rather timidly worded suggestions on the subject with cheerful contempt, as the conventional notions of a convent-bred you' .g woman who had not yet realized the strides made in the progress of mankind — ^and especially of womankind. And Lesley soon felt quite sure that any complaint or protest of hers would be dealt with simply as a sign of weak-mindedness — a stigma which she could not endure. So she said nothing, and submitted to Oliver Trent's frequent visits with resignation. It must be said, however, tliat Aunt Sophy had not the least notion of the frequency of Oliver's visits. She was a busy woman, and a somewhat absent-minded one j and Mr. Trent often contrived to call when she was out or engaged. And when she asked, as she sometimes did ask of Sarah— ^ *' Any one called to-day ? " — and received the grim answer — "Only Mr. Trent, as usual" — she simply laughed at Sarah's sour visage, and did not calculate the number of these visits in tlie week. Mr. Brooke himself grew uncom- fortable about the matter, sooner than did Miss Brooke. " Sophy," he said, one day, when he happened to find her alone in the library, sitting at the very top of the library steps, with an immense volume of German science on her knees. " Sophy, have you noticed that young Trent has taken to coming here very often of late ? " " No," said Doctor Sophy, absently, " I haven't noticed." Then she went on reading. " My dear Sophy," said her brother, " will you do me the kindness to listen to me for a moment ? " " Why, Caspar, I am listening as hard as I can ! " ex- claimed Miss Brooke, with an injured air. " What do you want ? " " I wish to speak about Lesley." " Oh, I thought it was Mr. Trent." " Does it not strike you that he comes here to see Lesley a great deal too often ? " "Rubbish," cried Miss Brooke, pushing up her eye- glasses. " Why, he's engaged to Ethel Kenyon. " For all that," snid Mr. Brooke, and then he paused for a moment. " Did it never strike you that he was here very often ? " lult to her own SHOCKERS DAUGHTEtt, «59 n't noticed." " No," said Aunt Sophy, stolidly. ** Haren't noticed. I Suppose he comes to help Lesley with her singing. Good gracious, Caspar, the girl can take care of herself." " I dare say she can, but I don't want any trifling — or — or flirtation — to goon," said Brooke, rather sharply. " We are responsible for her, you know: we have to hand her over in good condition, mind and body, at the end of the twelve months. And if you can't look after her, I must get her a companion or something. I've been inclined to come up and play sheep-dog myself, sometimes, when I have heard them practising for an hour together just above my head." ♦* If they disturb you, Caspar," began Miss Brooke, with real solicitude ; but her brother did not allow her to finish her sentence. " No, no, they don't disturb me — in the way you mean. I confess I should feel more comfortable if I thought that somebody was with the two young people, to play propriety, and all that sort of thing." '* I thought you were above such conventionalism," said Miss Brooke, glaring at him through her glasses from her lofty height upon the steps. ••Not at all. Not where my daughter is concerned. Children teach their father very new and unexpected les- sons, I find ; and I don't look with equanimity on the pros- pect of Lesley's being made love to by Oliver Trent, or of her going back to her mother and telling her that she was left so much to her own devices. I am sure of one thing — that Lady Alice would not like it." " And am I to give up all my engagements for the sake of sitting with two silly young people ? " said Miss Brooke, the very hair of her head seeming to bristle with horror at the idea. *' By no means. I don't see that you need be always there ; but be there sometimes ; don't give occasion to th« enemy," said Mr. Brooke, turning to go. " Who is the e.iemy ? " said Doctor Sophy — a spiteful question, as she well knew. " The world," said Caspar Brooke, quite quietly : he did not choose to see the spitefulness. " Oh," said Miss Brooke. " I thought you meant your wife." But she did not dare to say this until lie was well out of the room, and the door firmly closed behind him. i! r,6o BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. But Miss Brooke was neither malicious nor unreasona- ble. On consideration she came to the conclusion that her brother was substantially right — as a matter of fact she always came to that conclusion — and prepared to carry out his views of the matter. Only she carried them out in her own way. She made a point of being present on the occa- sion of Mr. Trent's next two calls, and although she read a book all the time, she was virtuously conscious of the fact that her mere presence "made all the difference," But on the third occasion she wanted to go out. What was to be done? Miss Brooke's mind was fertile of resource, and she triumphantly surmounted the difficulty. " Kingston," she said to Lesley's maid, " I am obliged to go out, and I don't Hke leaving Miss Lesley so much alone. You may take your work down to the Ubrary and sit there, and don't go away if visitors come in. You can just draw the curtains, you know." " Am I to stay all the afternoon, ma'am ? " Kingston inquired, with surprise. " Yes. I'll speak to Miss Lesley about it. I think she ought to have some one at hand when I am out so much." So Kingston — alias Mary Trent — took her needlework, and seated herself by the library window, whence the half- drawn curtains between library and drawing-room afforded her a complete view of all visitors to Miss Lesley. Oliver Trent was distinctly annoyed by this proceeding, but Lesley, although puzzled, was equally well pleased. It was an arrangement all the more displeasing to Oliver because the waiting-woman who sat so demurely in the library, within earshot of all that he chose to say, was his brother's wife. He felt sure that she had contrived it all ; that she was there simply to act as a spy upon his actions. Francis wanted that money, and would not get it until he married Miss Kenyon ; and was evidently afraid — from in- formation conveyed to him by Kingston — that he was going to break off his engagement. Oliver flew into a si'^nt rage at the thought of this combination, which he was nev^."- theless powerless to prevent. He went away early that afternoon, and came again next day. Kingston was there also with her work. And though he sang and played the piano as usual with Lesley, although he chatted and laughed and had tea with her as usual, he felt Kingston's presence a restraint. And for the first time he asked himself, icriouBly, why this should be. RL:! EBSa BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. i6i " Why, of course," he said to himself, *• I promised Ro- salind to make love to her. And I can't make love to her when that woman's there. Curse her ! she spoils my plans." He had shut himself up in the luxurious little smoking- room which Mrs. Romaine had arranged for him. Shekneir the value of a room in wliicli a man feels himself at Hberty to do what he likes. She never came there without especial invitation : she always said that she preferred seeing her brother in her own drawing-room — that she was not like Miss Brooke, and did not smoke cigarettes. But that was one of the little ways in which RosaHnd used to emphasize the difference between herself and the women whom she did not love. At any rate, Oliver was alone. The curtains were drawn, the lamp was lighted, a bright fire burned in the grate. He had drawn up a softly-cushioned lounging chair to the fire, and was peacefully smoking a remarkably good cigar. But his frame of mind was anything but peaceful. He had been troubled for some days, and he did not know what troubled him. He was now beginning to find out. ** What are my plans, I wonder ? " he reflected. " To make Lesley fall in love with me ? — I wish I could ! She is as cold as ice ; as innocent as a child : and yet I think there is a tremendous capacity for passion in those dark eyes of hers, those mobile, sersitive lips ! What lips to kiss ! what eyes to flash back fire ;v'd feeling ! what a splendid woman to win and show the woild ! It would be like loving a goddess — as if Diana herself had stooped from Olympus to grace Endymion ! " And then he laughed aloud. " What a fool I am ! Poetizing like a boy ; and all about a girl who never can be my wife at all. That's the worst part of it. I am engaged — engaged ! unutterably ridicu- lous word ! — to marry little Ethel Kenyon, the pretty actress at the Novelty. The respectable, wealthy, well-connected actress, moreover — the product of modern civilization : the young woman of our day who aspires to purify the drama and vindicate the claims of histrionic art — what rubbish it all is ! If Ethel were a ballet-dancer, or had taken to opera bouffe, she would be much more entertaining ! But her en- thusiasms, and her belief in herself and her mission, along with that mignonne^ provoking, pretty, little face of hers, are altogether too incongruous ! No, Ethel bores hk, it 11 r I i6a BROOKE'S DAUGHTER^ must be confessed ; and I have got to marry her — all for a paltry twenty thousand pounds ! What .a fool I was to propose before I had seen Brooke's daughter. " If it weren't for Francis, I would break it off. But how else am I to pay that two thousand ? And what won't he do if I fail to pay it ? No, that would be ruin — unless I choke him off in some other way, and I don't see how I can do that. No, I must marry Ethel, I suppose, or go to the devil. And unless I could take bonny Lesley with me, that would not mend matters." He threw his cigar into the fire, and stood for some minutes looking down at it, with gloom imprinted upon his brow. " I must do something," he said at last. " It's getting too much for me : I shall have to stop going to Brooke's house. I suppose this is what people call falling in love! Well, I can honestly say I have never done it in this fashion before ! I have flirted, I have made love scores of times, but I never wanted a woman for my own as I want her I And I think I had better keep out of her way — for her eyes will send me mad ! " So he soliloquized : so he resolved ; but inclination was stronger than will or judgment. Day after day saw him at the Brookes' house ; and day after day saw the shadows deepen on Etliel's face, and the fold of perplexity grow more distinct between Lesley's tender brows. Kingston had been looking ill and uneasy for some days past, and one afternoon she begged leave to go out for an hour or two to see a friend. Miss Brooke let her go, and went out to a meeting with a perfectly contented mind. Even if Oliver Trent came to the house that afternoon it would not matter : it would be only "once in away." And Lesley secretly hoped that he would not come. But he came. A little later than usual — about four o'clock in the afternoon, when there was no light in the drawing-room but that of the ruddy blaze, and the tea-tray had not yet been brought up. When Lesley saw him she wished that she had sent down word that she was engaged, that she had a headache, or even that she was — conven- tionally — not at home. Anything rather than a tSte-a-tSte with Oliver Trent 1 And yet she would have been puzzled to say why. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 163 His quick eye told liim almost at once that she was alone. It told him also that she was decidedly nervous and ill-at- ease. " We must have lights," she said. " Then you can see my new song. I had a fresh one this morning." ** Never mind the lights : never mind your song," he said, his voice vibrating strangely. " If you are like me, you love this delightful twilight." •* I don't like it," said Lesley, with decision. " I will ring for the lamps, please." She moved a step, but by a dexterous movement he interposed himself between her and the mantelpiece, ^beside which hung the bell-handle. ** Shall I ring ? " he asked, coolly. It seemed to him that he wanted to gain time. And yet — time for what? He had nothing to get by gaining time. " Yes, if you please," Lesley said. She could not get past him without seeming rude. A slight tremor shook her frame ; she shrank away from him, towards the open piano and leaned against it as if for support. The flickering fire- light showed her that his face was very pale, the lips were tightly closed, the brows knitted above his fiercely flaming eye. He did not look like himself. " Lesley," he said, hoarsely, and stretching f rward, he put one hand upon her arm. But the touch gave the girl strength. She drew her arm away, as sharply as if a noxious animal had touched her. '* Mr. Trent, you forget yourself." " Rather say that I remember myself — that I found my- self when I found you ! Lesley, I love you 1 " " This is shameful — intolerable ! You are pledged to my friend — you have said all this to her before," cried Lesley, in bitter wrath and indignation. " I have said it, but I never knew the meaning of love till I knew you. Lesley, you love me in return I Let us leave the world together — you and I. Nothing can give me the happiness that your love would bring. Lesley, Lesley, my darling ! " He threw his arm round her, and tried to kiss her cold cheek, her averted, half-open lips. She would have pushed him from her if she had had the strength ; but it seemed as if her strength was failing her. Suddenly, with a half- smothered oath, he let her go— so suddenly, indeed, that i m iliii i.. ii 11 i«4 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. she almost fell against the piano near which she had been standing. For the door had opened, and the tall figure of Caspar Brooke stood on the threshold of the room. 1 1 I ! IXOOKE'S DAUGHTER, i<5 CHAPTER XIX. MAURICE KENYON S VIEWS. Mr. Brooke advanced quite quitely into the room. Per- haps he had not seen or heard so very much. Certainly he glanced very keenly — first at Lesley, -ho leaned half- fainting against the piano, and then at C .iv Trent, who had slunk backwards to the rug befon* the re ; but he said nothing, and for a minute or tv o an cinbarrassed silence prevailed in the room. Lesl«^ ht n raised herself up a little, and Oliver began to speak. " I was just going," he said, with ? nervous attempt at a laugh. " I haven't mnch time to-nij^ , and was just hur- rying away. I must come in another time." Mr. Brooke took up a commanding position on the rug, put his hands in his pockets, and surveyed the room in silence. Perhaps Oliver felt the silence to be ominous, for he did not try to shake hands or to utter any common- places, but took his leave with a hurried " Good-afternoon " that neither father nor daughter returned. The door shut behind him : they heard the sound of his footsteps on the stairs and the closing of the hall door. Then Lesley bestirred herself with the sensation of a wounded animal that wishes to hide its hurt : she wanted to get away and seek the dark- ness and solitude of her room upstairs. But before she reached the door Mr. Brooke's voice arrested her. " Lesley." She stopped short, and looked at him. Her heart beat so suffocatingly loud and fast that she could not speak. " I don't trust that young man, Lesley," was what her father said quite qu.^tly. Then there was a pause. Lesley was still tongue-tied, and Mr. Brooke did not seem to know what to do or say. He walked away from the fire and began to finger some papers on a table, although it was quite too dark to see any of these. Inwardly he was wondering how much or how little he ought to say. IM ^JiOOl^£>S DAUGHTHH, ^-- noeJ^To d^-.f. C ;!?:/£ '°-^l! "I shall h- ■ '"" ™o« against ." Oh-l: /tlu.^"'^'" ---^ Lesley, eageWv ' ness. ^ '^^^ ^^ '^ s^ie were withering Tn t^ ^^'^.^^^ " I don'f fK- 7 L ^ nothing- very low tone Th!.n' "^ ■? "^^'>^ ^^ come " she .^-^ don%'°htnk'rfo'i^:; tl'.r ^ -^ htied7i;^p,^^-^•^g say fV - •^"'''^'• <=°'"'' Pr"d cIL i, f "?' ^" ""^nown l» M. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 167 en, he remarked, ^f/t vvarmth. "Ked himi» faltering. 'lejicre day after ( ^'omen are in- i I can't profess \ 5'm to come, r doors against "agerjy. ii do it myself" »ne that aJways L'P to notliing- she said, in a • .to clear her- ;na burning • ,^ather,you aimost broke t struck dis- do not forget t^erhaps not ; ^'th a flash Jilt when she "^oV a match ran to light «;ayoffind- nt that he ^as tinged '^Jth which >vely. The admiration unknown >uid do or »vhen she Iknoiv WW whe- ther I am right or wrong here. And I havt no oa« to ask." " There is your Aunt Sophy.*' " It is almost impossible to ask Aunt Sophy ; she never sees where the difticulty lies. I know she is kind — but she d^es not understand what I want." Caspar nodded. " That is one reason why I spoke to you just now," he said, much more gently than usual. *' I knew that she was a little brusque sometimes ; and I sup- pose I am not much better. As a rule a father does not talk to his girls as I have been talking to you, I fancy. I am almost as ignorant of a father's duties to his daughter as you say you are of the habits of English bourgeois society — for I suppose that is what you mean ? " He smiled a little — the slight smile of a satire which Les- ley always dreaded ; and yet, she remembered, his voice had been very kind. It softened again into its gentlest and most musical tones, as he said — " You must take us as you find us, child : we shall not do you much harm, and it will not be for long." Lesley was emboldened by the gentle intonation to draw closer to him, and to lay an entreating hand upon his arm. • " Oh, father," she said, " if you would but let me write to mamma !'" And then she uttered a little sob, and the tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. As for Caspar Brooke, he stood like a man amazed, and repeated her words almost stupidly. ** Write to mamma ?" he said. " It would do me good : it would not do any harm," said Lesley, hurriedly, brokenly, and clasping his arm with both hands to enforce her plea. " I would not tell her anything that you did not like : I should never say anything but good about you ; but, oh, there are so many things that puzzle me, and that I should like to consult her about. You see, although I was not much with her, I used to write to her twice a week, and she wrote to me oftener, sometimes ; and I told her everything, and she used to advise me and help me 1 And I miss it so much — it is that that makes me unhappy ; it seems so hard never to write and never to hear from her ! I feel sometinies as if I could not bear it; as if I should have to run away to her again and tell her every- thing 1 Nobody is like her — nobody — and to be a year without her is terrible I " 1 1 168 '"OOJ^B'S DAUGUTE^, I'ossession if !f , 'V ^^^ speech and !!„ • *f ""'^ated , J remember som^fh- ^^>'- ofpre^itL ;°;V/h"^P^--«' ''S time /.pr'^-'hs It- Whv " V- ""^''' Of' not recenfl., Hr, '"'<' »n idea rise S 1,7 '•' "".«"'• "■«ing/a,a mL.^°''°<^>'">«"tioned -"your'J^^ P^-^^'yes himsf HoVave l^"«" °'''«» does ^euf;doTr.- ""«'" - '--' '.at^mtrz^edt r/T I suppose " iiniA T . " ^^e *"'^" nistinct that ■^P"ise her confi ,^ finite paJe .- he -e , J.steniW to Tast ''■"? ^ ^^^'e ^ast assiiniiated ^^'"ed his self " Well, but 'I* mother?" ^^d at him with nf/?" n^'ght "fjeJmg nj^n, ;'dea is this / •^'•seJfaJittle BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 169 r a«tejpiece, as if vexa- "g more. ^go— that ""'cation " 'e her say. ansH^ered, ' ^ did not ' the xxm^ ^ ^as not jrty-^the 1 an idea entioned en does e wroiiff Jf she bat my He flung himself round at that. ** Your mother must have given you a strange idea of me ! " he said, with a mixture of anger and mortification which it humiliated liim to sliow, even while he could not manage lo hide it. " One would have said I was an ogre — a maniac. But she mis- judged me all her life — it is useless to expeci anything else — of course she would try to bias you ! " " I never knew that you were even alive until the day that I left the convent," said Lesley. " My mother cer- tainly did not try to prejudice me before then : she simply kept silence." " Silence is the worst condemnation ? What had I done that I should be separated from my child so completely ? " said the man, the oitterness of years displaying itself in a way as unexpected to him as to his daughter. '* It is not my fault, I swear, that I have lived without a wife, with- out — well, well ! it is not you to whom I ought to say this. We will not refer to it again. About this letter writing — I might say, as perhaps I did say at the time the arrange- ment was made, that surely I had a right to claim you entirely for one year at least ; but I don't — I won't. If I did ever say so, Lesley, I regret the words exceedingly. Ever since you came lo me, I liave had no idea but that you were writing to her regularly and freely ; and I never — never in my right mind — wished it otherwise." " But mamma talked of an agreement " " That was years ago. I must have said something in my heat which the lawyers — the people who arranged things — interpreted wrongly. And your mother, as you say, did not care to ask me for anything. I can only say, Lesley, that I am sorry the mistake arose." His voice was grave and cold again, almost indifferent. He stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his hand sup- porting his head, his eyes averted from the girl. A close eye might have observed that the veins of his forehead were swollen, and the pulse at his temple was beating furiously : otherwise he had mastered all signs of agitation. Lesley hesitated a moment : then came up to him, and put her slim fingers into his hand. " Fiather," she said, softly, " if we have misjudged you— mamma and I — won't you forgive us ? " For answer he took her face between his two iiands, bent down and kissed it tenderly. >' !i IJO BROOKE ^S DAUGHTER, I j;£r.i„';'i;j,«»t„"g^,;»M„g on my t„e. When you late into words. Before 1 ?' S"""* " *«<=»" '" S 'h»>g like shame aTrf'lla^^^f'Sf'" "'« 'heX "eU sime! BuUt ":,"" ^"Phy '' "*™''' '» "«« "h« tea-tray", v«y r«l,?;,'^r„S°phy It ^^^^^^ ^. Why, Brooke, oM fellow' „" ?^" ">* '■''rary door, here at this hour ! " beSn M ^ " '* "<" <>'«" to be found < Brooke as a prophet a?d a S^n'h,-,?^ '°°'=«^ »'' C'Tar "cr before the wori^ ^ '" '^'s heart • hnf k;« _*^ n^s!ey>sp,:ceaT;h^te^*"''^.' ''' "^^^^^^^ Of tea With the manner of ,m^^^'*"<' Poured outacun «rv,„g himself. " hX ^"1^^°,''^' accustomed™? Thanks, I won't have a' fte^ I d'H^" "-"i ""m ° c-rin,^. "^'"' «- ^''^^-5^Uhri"sr,?e'rri' - "anilJ^S-, -if„ Ca.. ^ .and^^^^He « trhen you ciss from me >f nie then, w^ithanetr n conscious "Jt to trans- J 'JPly, the a daughter '"t to stand ndeed, the telt some- > n»eet the 1 with the for earlier in til Miss • Maurice And on e curtains ' door, be found ^n Caspar ^is man- frankest ^re never Towring rooke." tssocia- t doivn tacup ned to *eam." I your ras I He amen BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 171 always cry 1—and he did not want her t6 be distutbed. Although he had quarrelled with his wife, he understood feminine susceptibilities better than most men. " Oh, no. Only to ask her to sing at the Club on Sun- day. It's my turn to manage the music for that day, you know. Trent is going to sing too." " Ah," said Mr. Brooke. Then, after a pause : " I will ask her. But I don't think she will be able to sing on Sun- day. It strikes me she has an engagement." He could not say to Ethel's brother wiiat was in his mind, and yet he was troubled by the intensity of his conviction that she was throwing herself away upon " a cad." He must take some other method in the future of giving Maurice a hint about young Trent. Maurice thought, not untruly, that there was something odd in his tone. "Isn't she well?" he asked, with his usual straightfor- wardness. " I hope there is nothing wrong." " I did not say there was anything wrong, did I ? " demanded Caspar. Then, squaring his shoulders, and sitting well back in his chair, with his hands plunged into the pockets of his old study coat, and his eyes fixed on his visitor's face, he thus acquitted himself — "Maurice, my young friend, I am and have been a most confounded ass." 'Oh?" said Maurice, interrogatively. " I think it would relieve me — if I weren't out of practice —to swear. But I've preached against * langwidge ' so long at the club that I don't think I could get up the necef- 'iiry stock of expletives." " I'll supply you. I shouldn't have thought that there was a lack of them down in your printing offices about one or two o'clock every morning, from what I've heard. What is it, if I may ask ? Anything wrong with the Football Club?" " Football Club ! My dear fellow, I have a private life, unfortunately, as contradistinguished from your everlasting clubs and printing offices." " It is something about Miss Brooke, is it ? " said Maurice, with greater interest. " I was afraid there was something " "Why?" " Oh— -well, you must excuse me for mentioning it — ^but wasn't she — ^wasn't she crying as she went out of the room ? \r 1 172' ''"'Ofr^-s OAmHTEg. orTo.' '" '•"= ""' bee« l„oki„g „ell for ,. . •' r o., "'^ Jast month Vo:?— o. W. .,,. ,, ^^^^"—.o leave anything ? -' """^'^ ^^'''d you ? never complaineH " She brnl.. A "™Piained, or said an uniusfi'fioM ^ ° "^^ niother ' T «r , ^"^ ^o put expression of '"oim J''^ ^°°^^' ^^th a verv A\.. syn^pathy from Mr k/""'' ^"' ^^ d7d no ''°?''"^^^ " ^e]]." he said <^r >'''"• ^ '*'"*^^ ^'ve no doubt you Lvi k^^P^^^ you've yourself m ki oeen mistaken pretty BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. ■73 often. We all do. And there's one mistake that I think I can point out to you." Caspar looked at him hard for a moment from under his bushy eyebrows. " One subject, Kenyon," he said, seriously, '' I shall ask you to respect." " All right," said Maurice. " I am only speaking of your daughter. You must allow me to say that I think you have misjudged her, ever since she has been in your house for the last three months. I did just the same, at first. You see, she came here, as far as I can make out, puzzled, ignorant of the world, deprived of her mother's help and care, thrown on the tender mercies of a father wl cm she did not know " " And whom she took to be an ogre," said Brooke, with a bitter, little laugh. '* Brought into a world that she knew nothing ahout, and amongst a set of people who could not understand why she looked sad and lonely, poor child ! " " I say, Maurice, you are speaking of my daughter, remember." " Don't be touchy, old man. I speak and I think of her with every respect. We have all misjudged and mis- understood her : she is a young girl, little more than a child, and a child astray, pining uncomplainingly for her mother, doing her best to understand the new world she was thrown into, devouring your writings and trying as hard as she could to assimilate every good and noble idea that she came across — I say that she's a saint and a heroine," said Maurice, with sudden passion and enthusi- asm, " and we've forgotten that not a girl in a thousand could have come through a trying ordeal so well ! " " She hasn't come out of her ordeal at all, Maurice : the ordeal of living in the house of a brutal father, who, in her view, probably broke her mother's heart : all that has to be proceeded with for nine months longer ! " " It need not be an ordeal if she knows that you love her : if she writes to her mother and gets the sympathy and aid she needs. Upon my soul, Brooke, it seems to me that you are hard upon your daughter ! " " Do you think I need to be taught my duty by you, young man ? " said Caspar. He spoke with a smile, but his tone was undoubtedly sharp. His disciple was not so submissive as he had hitherto appeared to be. "i i\ «74 BROOKE ^S DAUGHTMX, appreciate hcr^ndundJ^SL "Because I dense at first as you are bu^ T ^ ^ ^""^ ^°" ^°"'*- "^as through loving her" ^' ^"' ^ ^"^^^ J^arnt better noVl ^ere.'KSt^or,:t'JT^ "may seem too :n,dden ^^ '*''^ ^'""^- ^^ 'sonJy because spoken before, and I diVi 1. """"^ '° ^^^ ^^at I haven't here this afte;noon But °L"?f ." '" ^? «o when I came and I veant her to be my v fe »' ^'^' '^*'"^'"«' ^ ^^ve Lesle^ Heavens and earth » " IL\a n madl« "*«^' said Caspar. " Is the man gone BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 175 CHAPTER XX. Lesley's letter. " Not a bit of it," said Maurice sturdily. " I speak the words of truth and soberness. I've thought about it for sonoie time." " A week ? " " I'm in earnest, Brooke. Do you consent ? " " My good man," said Caspar, slowly, ' you forget that I am probably the last person in the world whose consent is of any value." " Pooh ! " "You may say * pooh ' as much as you like, but the feet remains. When Lesley Leaves me, say next August or September, she goes to her mother and her grandfather, who's an earl, more's the pity. They have the guardian- ship, you understand." ** But you have it legally still." " Hum — no : we had a formal separation. I named the terms, certainly : I was angry at the time, and was in- clined to say that if I might not bring up the child in my own way, neither should its mother. That was why we compromised by sending her to school — but it was to be a school of Lady Alice's choice. The year with me after- wards was a suggestion of mine, of course But I can't alter what was agreed on then." " Naturally. But " " And as to money affairs," said Caspar, ruthlessly cut- ting him short, " I have been put all along into the most painful and ridiculous position that a man can well be in. I offered to settle a certain income on n wife and daugh- ter: Lady Alice and her father refused to accept any money from me. I have paid various sums into his b?nk for Lesley, but I have reason to believe that they have never touched a farthing of it. Yon see they've put me at a disadvantage all round. And what is to be done when she marries, unless she manies with their consent, I don't «7< BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, i \- J quite see. She won't like to .offend them or seem ungrate- ful when they have done so much for her ; and I — accord- ing to the account that they will give her — I have done nothing. So I don't suppose I shall be consulted about her marriage." " You are her father : you must be consulted." " Well, as a matter of form ! But I expect that she is destined to marry a duke, my dear fellow ; and I call it sheer folly on your part to have fallen in love with her." " But you don't object, Brooke ? " " I only hope that the destined duke will be half as decent a chap as you are. But I can't encourage you — Lesley will have to look out for squalls if she engages her- self to you." " May I not speak to her then ? " inquired Maurice rue- fully. " Not at once, perhaps, you know ; but if I think that I have a chance ? " *' Say what you like," said Brooke, with a genial smile ; for his ill-humor had vanished in spite of his apparent opposition to Maurice's suit. " I should like nothing better — for my own part; but we are both bound to con- sider Lesley. You know you are a shocking bad match for her. Oh, I know you are the descendant of kings and all that sort of bosh , but as a matter of fact you are only a young medico, a general practitioner, and his lordship is bound to think that I am making something for myself out of the marriage." " You don't think he'll consent ? " *' Never, my dear boy. One mesalliance was enough for him. He has got rid of me, and regained his daughter ; but no doubt he intends to repair her mistake by a grand match for Lesley." " But perhaps she would not marry the man he chose for her?" Brooke laughed. " Can't answer for Lesley, I don't know her well enough," he said. " Have you any notion, r>ow, that she cares for you ? " Maurice shook his head dismally. '* Not in the least. I scarcely think she even likes me. But I mean to try my chance some day." " 1 wish you joy," said Lesley's father, with a slight jrigmai''cal smile. "Especially with the Earl ofCourtle- roy. Hallo ! there's the dinner bell. We have wasted iH our time talking up here*: you'll stay and dine? " BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. »77 " No, thanks — wish I could, but I must dine with Ethel, and go out directly afterwards." ** When is the marriage to take place ? " said Caspar, directing a keen glance to the face of his friend. " Ethel's ? There is nothing settled." " I say, Maurice, I don't like Trent. He's a slippery customer. I would look after him a bit if I were you, and put Ethel on her guard. I think I am bound to say as much as that." " Do you think any harm of him ? " " I think harm of him — unjustly, perhaps. I am not so sure that I know of any. I only want you to keep your eyes open. Good-bye, old man." And Caspar Brooke gave his friend's hand such a pres- sure that Maurice went away satisfied that I^esley's father, at any rate, and in spite of protest, was upon his side. Miss Brooke came into dinner at the last moment, so Mr. Brooke and his daughter were saved the embarrassment of dining alone — for it could not be denied that it would have been embarrassing after the recent scene, if there had been no third person present to whom they could address remarks. Miss Brooke's mind was full of the meeting which she had attended, and she gave them a glowing account of it. Lesley spoke very Uttle, but her face was happier than it had been for a long time, although her eyes were red. Mr. Brooke looked at her a good deal in a fur- tive kind of way, and with more interest than usual. She was certainly a good-looking girl. But that was not ail. Caspar Brooke had passed the period of caring for good looks and nothing else. Lesley had spirit, intelligence, honesty, endurance, as well as beauty. Well, she might make a good wife for Maurice after all. For although he had declared that Kenyon was *' a shocking bad match," he was inclined to think in his own heart that Kenyon was too good for his daughter Lesley. However, he had a soft corner in his big heart for the little girl who used to sit on his knee and refuse to go to sleep without his good-night kiss, and he was pleased when she came up to him before he went out that evening, and timidly put her face up to be kissed, as if she had still been the child he loved. She had never done that before ; and he took it more as a sign of gratitude for permission to write to Lady Alice than actual affection for himself. 12 178 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. " Are you writing your letter ? " he said, touching htr cheek half playfully, half caressingly. "Yes," said Lesley, looking down. "Is there — have you — no message ? " " Why should I have a message ? You/ mother and I correspond through our lawyer, my dear. But — well, yes, if you like to say that I am sorry for this mistake of the last few months, you may do so. I have no doubt that she has missed your letters, and I should like her to under- stand that the correspondence was not discontinued at my desire. I regret the mistake." He said it formally and gravely, and in a particularly icy tone of voice ; but Lesley was for the moment satisfied. She went back to her writing-desk and took up her pen. She had already written a coui)le of sheets, but in them her father's name had scarcely been mentioned. Now, however, she wrote : — " You may be wondering, dearest mamma, why I am writing to you in this way, because you told me that I must not write, and I have put off my explanation until almost the end. I could not bear to be without your letters any longer, and to-day I said so to my father I could not help telling him, because I was so miserable. And he wishes me. to tell you that it was all a mistake, and he is very sorry ; he never meant to i)ut a Stop to our writing to each other, and he is very, very sorry that we thought so." Lesley's version was not so dignified as her father had intended it to be. " He was terribly distressed when he found out that I was not writing to you ; and called himself all sorts of names — a tyrant and an ogre, and asked what we must have thought of him ! He was really very much grieved about it, and never meant us to leave off writing. So- now I shall write as often as I please, and you, dearest mamma, will write to me too. "There is one tlung I must say, darling mother, and you will not be angry with me for saying it, will you ? I think father must be different now frcm what he was in the old days ; or else — i)erhaps there may have been a mistake about him, such as there has been about the letters I For he is so clever and gentle and kind — a little sarcastic now and then, but always good ! The poor people at the Club (which I told you about in the last sheet) just adore him j and they say that he has saved many of them from worse BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. «79 than death. And you never told me about his Dock, dear mamma — ' The Unexplored.' It is such a beautiful book — surely you think so, although you think ill of the writer? Of course you have read it ? I have read it four times, I think ; and I want to ask him about some parts of it, but I have never dared — I don't think he even knows that I have read it. It has gone through more than twelve editions, and has been translnted into French and German, so you must have seen it. And Mr. Kenyon says it sells by thousands in America. " It was Mr. Kenyon who first told me about it, and made me understand how blind I was at first to my father's really gi eat qualities. I know he is not like grandpapa — he does sometimes seem a little rough when compared to grandpapa ; but then you always said I must not expect every man I met in the world to have grandpapa's courtly manners. And it must have been very lonely for you if he went out at such funny hours as he does now, and did not breakfast or lunch with you ! But I am told that all * jour- nalists keep these hours,' and that it is very provincial of me not to know it ! It is a very different house, and dif- ferent life, from any that I ever saw before ; but I am get- ting accustomed to it now, especially since Mr. Kenyon has talked to me. " Dearest mother, don't think that I love you one whit the less because I am away from you, and am learning to love other people a little too. Nobody could be to me what you are, my own dear mother. — Your child, " Lesley." So Lesley's girlish, emotional, indiscreet letter went upon its way to Lady Alice, who was just then in Eaton Square, and Lesley never dreamt of the tears that it brought to her mother's eyes. The letter was a shock to Lady Alice in more ways than one. First, it showed her that on one point at least she had been mistaken — and it was a point that had long been a very sore one to her. Caspar had not meant the corres- pondence between mother and daughter to cease— so he said now ; but she was certain that he had spoken very harshly about it when the arrangement was first made. He had even affected to doubt whether she had heart enougji to care whether she heard from her child or not. iSo '^00a:E'S DAUGirTEH. «0 have bee/as m^lJif "^"^ ""'« =he kncv I Sh„ "'">■ ' could se?a,,es?rmr' \ ''^ ^^^yrZT'^L f^ nian,andnotbrdkJ?"/!i?"'' ^^ discover \onH ^ .'f>' IT^^ VniZtf ■■'^^rr^''y over Uslev's remart «ke!he resolved"',''" "'."•. " ^^taincdBu,!™ ,"'•■■; "'<= Orcoursethchou.edid^/orc^c!m:i„°:;f;;<: BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. Itl But early in the day Lady Alice went to the ne«rt8t keok- seller's and bought a copy. The obliging book-seller, who did not know her, remarked that " Brooke's * Unexplored ' " was always popular, and asked her whether she would like an unbound copy, or one bound in neat great cloth. Lady Alice took the latter : she had a distaste for paper-covered books. She read " The Unexplored " in her own room that morning, but of course she was not struck by it exactly as Lesley had been. The facts which had horrified Lesley were no novelties to her. She was, in truth, slightly angry that her innocent Lesley should have so much of the great city's misery and shame laid bare to her. She acknow- ledged the truth of the portraiture, the beauty of the descrip- tions, the eloquence of the author's appeals to the higher classes ; but she acknowledged it with resentment. Why had Caspar written a book of this sort? a book that taunt- ed the higher classes with their birth, and reproached the wealthy with their riches ? It was rather a disgrace than otherwise, in Lady Alice's aristocratic eyes, to be connect- ed in liny way with the writer of " The Unexplored." Nevertheless, the book stirred in her the desire to vin- dicate the worth of her order and of her sex ; and the next day, after having despatched a long and tender letter to Lesley (with a formal message of thanks to her husband), she went out to call on a lady, who was noted in her circle as a great philanthropist, and mentioned to her in a timid way that she wished she could be of any use amongst the poor, but she really did not see what she could do. Her friend, Mrs. Bexley, was nothing if not practical. ** But, my dearest Lady Alice, you can be of every use in the world," she said. " I am going to drive to the East End to-morrow morning, to distribute presents at the London Hospital — it is getting so close to Christmas, you know, that we really must not put it off any longer. I generally go once a week to vist the children and some of the other patients. Won't you come with me? " " I am afraid I should be of very little use," said Lady Alice. " But we shall not want you to do anything — only to say a kind word to the patients now and then, and give them things." " I think I could do that," said Lesley's mother, softly. I; ...1 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 1.1 - lis lllllio 2.5 ill 1.8 Photographic Sdences Corporation k A ^/ A 1.25 1.4 1.6 = ^ ^ •4 6" ► \ A \\ ^> «■ - It- 6^ ''^U 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 ^ ■•a BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, She went back to her father's house quiic cheered by the unexpected prospect of something to do — something which should take her out of the routine of ordinary work — something which should bring her closer (though she did not say it to herself) to the aims and objects of Lesley and Caspar Brooke. The visit was a great success. Lady Alice, with her tall, graceful figure, her winning face, her becoming dress, was a pleasant sight for the weary eyes of the women and children in the accident wards. Mrs. Bexley was wise enough not to take her near any very painful sights. Lady Alice talked to some of the little children and gave them toys : she made friends, rather shyly, with some of the women, and promised to cbme and see them again. Mrs. Bexley was well known in the hospital, and was allowed to stay an unusually long time. So it happened that one of the doctors, coming rather hurriedly into one of the wards, paused at the sight of a lady bending over one of the children's beds, and looked so surprised that one of the nurses hastened to explain that the stranger came with old Mrs. Bexley and was going away again directly. The doctor nodded, and went straight up to the child's bed. Lady Alice, raising herself after careful arrangement of some wooden animals on the sick child's table, came face to face with a very handsome man of about thirty, who seemed to be regarding her with especial interest. He moved away with a slight bow when she looked back at him, but he did not go far. He paused to chat with another little patient, and Lady Alice noticed that all the small faces brightened at the sight of him, and that two or three children called him imperiously to their bedsides. Some- thing about him vaguely interested her — perhaps it was only his pleasant look, perhaps the affection with which he was regarded, perhaps the expression which his face had worn when he looked at her. She remembered him so well that she was able when she paid a second visit to the hospital to describe him to one of the Sisters, and ask his name. " Kenyon," she repeated, when it was told to her. " I suppose it is not an uncommon name ? " Lesley had spoken of a Mr. Kenyon. It was not this Mr. Kenyon, of course 1 But it v>ai " this Mr. Kenyon ; " and thus Maurice met the mother of the girl he loved in the ward of a London BROOKE'S DAUGHTMX. i«3 hospital, whither Lady Alice had been urged by that im- pulse towards *' The Unexplored," of which her husband was ihe author. And in another ward of the same hospital lay a patient whose destiny was to influence the fates of both — an insensible man, whose name was unknown to the nurses, but whom Oliver would have recognized as his brother, Francis Trent. l«4 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. CHAPTER XXI. ETHEL REMONSTRATES. The house in which the Kenyons resided was built on the same pattern as Mr. Brooke's, but it was in some re- spects very unlike Mr. Brooke's place of residence. Mau- rice's consulting-room and dining-room corresponded, perhaps, to Mr. Brooke's dining-room. and study : it was upstairs where the difference showed itself Ethel's drawing-room was like herself — a little whimsical, a little bizarre ; pretty, withal, and original, and somewhat unlike anything one had ever seen before. She was fond of novelties, and introduced the latest fashions in draperies or china or screens as soon as she could get hold of them ; and the result was occasionally incongruous, though always bright and cheerful-looking. It was the incongruity of the ornaments and arrangements which chiefly struck the mind of Oliver Trent as he entered Ethel's drawing-room one afternoon, and stumbled over a footstool placed where no footstool ought to be. " I wish," he began, somewhat irritably, as he touched Ethel's forehead with his lips, " that you would not make your room quite so much like a fancy fair, Ethel." Ethel raised her eyebrows. " Why, Oliver, only the other day you said how pretty it was ! " " Pretty ! I hate the word. As * if prettiness ' could be taken as a test of what was best in art." " My room isn't ' art,' pouted Ethel ; " it's me." The sentence might be ungrammatical, but it was strictly true. The room represented Ethel's character exactly. It was odd, quaint, striking, and attractive. But Oliver was not in the mood to see its attractiveness. " It is certainly a medley," he replied, with some incisive- ness. " How many styles do you think are represented in the place? Japanese, Egyptian, Renaissance, Louis Quinze,. Queen Anne, Early Georgian " " Oh, no ! please don't go on ! " cried Ethel, with mock earnestness. " Nat Early Georgian, please ! Anything but that ! " MROOKE'S DAUGHTER. «»$ « It is all incongruous and out of taste," said Oliver, in an. ill-tempered tone, and then he threw himself into a deep, comfortable lounging chair, and closed his eyes as if the sight of the room were too much for his nerves. Ethel remained standing : her pretty mignonne figure was motionless ; her bright face was thoughtful and over- cast. " Do you mean," she said, quietly, " that I am incon- gruous and out of taste too ! " There was a new note in her voice. Usually it was light and bird-like : now there was something a little more weighty, a little more serious, than had been heard in it before. Oliver noted the change, and moved his head restlessly ; he did not want to quarrel with Ethel, but he was ill at ease in her presence, and therefore apt to be exceedingly irritable with her. " iow wrest my words, of course," he answered. "You always do. There's no arguing with — with — a woman." "With me you were about to say. Don't spare me. What other accusations have you to bring ! " " Accusations ! Nonsense ! " " It is not nonsense, Oliver." Her voice trembled. "I have felt for some time that all was not right between us. I can't shut my eyes. I must believe what I see, and what I feel. We must understand one another." Oliver's eyes were wide open now. He began to see that he had gone a little too far. It would not do to snub Ethel too much — at least before the marriage. Afterwards — he said to himself — he should treat her as he felt inclined. But now "You are mistaken, Ethel," he said, in a tone of half appeased vexation which he thought very effective. " What on earth should there be wrong between us ! Open your eyes and your ears as much as you like, my dear child, but don't be misled by what you feel." The wind is in the East, remember. You feel a chill, most probably, and you put your malaise down to me." His tone grew more affectionate as he spoke. He want- ed her to believe that he had been suffering from a mere passing cloud of ill-temper, and that he was already ashamed of it. " I feel the effects of the weather myself," he said. ** I have been horribly depressed all day, and I have a head- 1 .«■ iK SXOOKE*S DAUGHTER. ache. Perhaps that is why the brightness of your room seemed to hurt my eyes. You know that I always like it when I am well." He looked at her keenly, hoping that this reference to possible ill-health might bring the girl to his feet, as it had often done before in the case of other women ; but it did not seem to produce the least effect. She stood silent, immobile, with her eyes still fixed upon the floor. Silence and stillness were so unusual in one of Ethel's vivacious temperament, that Oliver began to feel alarmed. " Ethel," he said, advancing to her, and laying his hand upon hers, " what is wrong ? What have I done ? " She shook her head hastily, but made no other reply. " Look at me," he said, softly. And then she lifted her eyes. But they wore a ques- tioning and not a trustful look. " Ethel, dearest, what have I done to offend you ? It cannot be my silly comment on your room that makes you look so grave ? Believe me, dear, it came only from my headache and my bad temper. I am deeply sorry to have hurt you. Only speak — scold me if you like — but do not keep me in this suspense." He was skilled in the art of pleading. His pale face, usually so expressionless, took on the look of almost passionate entreaty. Ethel was an actress by profession — perhaps a little by nature also — but she was too essentially simple-hearted to suspect her friends of acting parts in private life, and in- deed trusted them rather more implicitly than most people trust their friends. It had been a grief to her to doubt Oliver's faith for a moment, and her eyes filled with tears,while they flashed also with indignation, as she replied, " You must know what I mean. I have felt it for a very long time. You do not care for me as you used to do." " Upon my soul, J do ! " cried Oliver, very sincerely. " Then you never cared for me very much." This was getting serious. Oliver had no mind to break offhis engagement. He reserved the right to snub Ethel without giving offence. If this was an impracticable course to pursue, it was evident that he must abandon it and eat humble pie. Anything rather than part from her just now. He had lost the woman he loved : it would not do to lose also his only chance of winning a competency for himself and immunity from fear of want in the future. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 187 " Ethel," he said, softly, " you grieve me very much. I acknowledge my faults of temper — I did not think you mistook then for a want of love." •* I do not think I do. It is something more real, more tangible than that." "What is it, dear?" She paused, then looked keenly into his face. " It seems to me, Oliver, that Lesley Brooke has won your heart away from me." He threw back his head and laughed — a singularly jarring and unpleasant laugh, as it seemed to her. " What will you imagine next? " he said. " Imagine? Have I imagined it? Isn't it true that you have been at her house almost every day for the last three or four weeks ? Do you come here as often ? Is it not Lesley that attracts you ? — not me ! " " Oh, so you are jealous ! " " Yes, I suppose I am. It is only natural, I think." They faced each other for a moment, defiantly, almost fiercely. There was a proud light in Ethel's eyes, a com- pression of the lips which told that she was not to be trifled with. Oliver stood pale, with frowning brows, and eyes that seemed to question both the reality of her feeling and the answer that he should make to her demand. It was by a great effort of self-control that at last he answered her with calmness — " I assure you, Ethel, you are utterly mistaken. What have I in common with a girl like Miss Brooke — one of the most curiously ignorant and wrong-headed persons I ever came across ? Can you think for a moment that I should compare her with you ? — youy beautiful and gifted and cultured above most women ? " " That is nothing to the point," said Ethel, quickly. *• Men don't love women because of their gifts and their culture." " No," he rejoined, " but because of some subtle likeness or attractiveness which draws one to the other. I find it in you, without knowing why. You — I hoped — found it — -" His voice became troubled ; he dropped his eyes. Ethel trembled — she loved him, poor girl, and she thought that he suffered as she had suffered, and she was sorry for him. But her outraged pride would not let her make any advance as yet. iM BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, V 'a " I BMiy be a fatuous fool," said Oliver, after an agitated pause, " but I thought you loved me." " I do love you," cried Ethel, passionately. " And yet you suspect me of being false to you." " Not suspect — not suspect " — she said, incoherently, and then was suddenly folded in Oliver's arms, and felt that the time for reproach or inquiry had gone by. She was not sorry that matters had ended in this way, although she felt it to be illogical. With his kisses upon her mouth, with the pressure of his arm enfolding her, it was almost impossible for her o maintain, in his presence, a doubt of him. It was when he had gone that all the facts which he had ignored came back to her with torturing in- sistence, and that she blamed herself for not having refused to be reconciled to him until she had ascertained the truth or untruth of a report that had reached her ears. With a truer lover she might have gone unsatisfied to her dying day. A faithful-hearted man might never have perceived where she was hurt ; he would not have been astute enough to discover that he might heal the wound by a few timely words of explanation, Oliver, keenly alive to his own interests, reopened the subject a few days later of his own accord. They had completely made up their quarrel — to all out- ward appearance, at any rate — and were sitting together one afternoon in Ethel's obnoxious drawing-room. They had been laughing together at some funny story of Ethel's associates at the theatre, and to the laughter had succeed- ed a silence, during which Oliver possessed himself of the girl's hand and carried it gently to his lips. " Ethel," he said, softly, " what made you so angry with me the other day ? " " Your bad behavior, I suppose ! " she said, trying to treat the matter in her usual lively fashion. " But what was my bad beliavior ? Did it consist in going so often to the Brookes' ? " " Oh, what does it matter ? " exclaimed Ethel, petulant- ly. " Didn't we agree to forgive and forget ? If we didn't, we ought to have done. I don't want to look back." " But you are doing an injustice to me. Ethel, I dare not say to you that I insist on knowing what it was. But I very strongly wish that you would tell mc — so that I might at least try to set your mind at rest." BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 189 " Well," said Ethel, quickly, " if you must know — it was only a bit of gossip — servants gossip. 1 know all that can be said respecting the foolishness of listening to gossip from such a source — but I can't help it. One of the maids at Mr. Brooke's — ^" " Sarah ?" asked Oliver, with interest. "Sarah never liked me." " No, it was not Sarah — it was that maid of Lesley's — Kingston her name is, 1 believe — who said to one of our servants one day that you went there a great deal oftener than she would like, it she were in my place. There ! I have made a full confession. It was a petty spiteful bit of gossip, of course, and I ought not to have listened to it — but then it seemed so natural — and I thought it might be true ! " " What seemed natural ? " said Oliver, who, against his will, was looking very black. " Why, that you should like Lesley ; she is the sweetest girl I ever came across." In his heart Oliver echoed that opinion, but he fell morally bound to deny it. " You say so only because you have never seen yourself 1 My darling, how could you accuse me merely on servants* evidence I " . " Is there 710 truth in it, Oliver ? " " None in the least." " But you do go there very often ! " Then Oliver achieved a masterpiece of diplomacy. " My dear Ethel," he said, ** I will go there no more until you go with me. I will not set foot in the house again." He knew very well that Mr. Brooke would not admit him. It was clever to make a virtue of necessity. " No, no, please don't do that ! Go as often as you please." " It was simply out of kindness to a lonely girl. I played her accompaniments for her sometimes, and listened to her singing. But as you dislike it, Ethel, I promise you that I will go there no more." " Oh, Oliver, forgive me ! I don't doubt you a bit. Do go to see Lesley as often as you can. I should like you to do it. Go for my sake." But Oliver was quite obdurate. No, he would not go to the Brookes' again, smce Ethel had once objected to his 190 BROOKE*S DAUGIHER. going. And on this pinnacle of austere virtue he remained, thereby reducing Ethel to a state of self-abasement, which spoke well for his chances of mastery in the married life which loomed before him. MJ^OOKE'S DAUGHTER. 191 CHAPTER XXII. LADY ALICE'S PHILANTHROPY. Meanwhile, Lady Alice Brooke, in pursuit of her new fancy for philanthropy and the sick poor, had wandered somewliat aimlessly into other wards beside those set apart for women and children — at first the object of her search. She strayed — I use the word " strayed " designedly, for she certainly did not do it of set purpose — with one of the nurses into accident wards, into the men's wards, where her flowers and fruits and gentle words made her welcome, and where the bearded masculine faces, '-orn sometimes by pain and privation of longstanding, appealed to her sensi- bilities in a new and not altogether unpleasant way. For Lady Alice was a very feminine creature, and liked, as most women do like, to be admired and adored. She had confessed as much when she told the story of her life to her daughter Lesley. And she had something less than her woman's due in this respect. Caspar Brooke had very honestly loved and admired her, but in a protective and slightly " superior " way. The earl, her father, belonged to that conservative portion of the aristocratic class which treats its womankind with distinguished civility and pro- foundest contempt. In her father's home Lady Alice felt herself of no account. As years increased upon her, the charm of her graceful manner was marred by advancing self-distrust. In losing (as she, at least, thought) her physical attractions, she lost all that entitled her to consi- deration amongst the men and women with whom she lived. She had no fixed position, no private fortune, nothing that; would avail her in the least when her father died ; and the gentle coldness of her manner did not encourage women to intimacy, or invite men to pay her attentions that she would scorn. In any other situation, her natural gifts and virtues would have fairer play. As a spinster, she would still have had lovers ; as a widow, suitors by the the dozen ; as a happily married woman she would have 19* liROOKE'S DA UGHTER, been courted, complimented, flattered, by all the world. But, as a woman merely separated from a husband with whom she had in the first instance eloped, living on suffer- ance, as it were, in her father's house, •' neither maid, wife, nor widow," she was in a situation which became more irksome and more untenable every year. To a woman conscious of such a jar in her private life, it was really anew and delightful experience to find her- self in a place where she could be of some real use, where she was admired and respected and Mattered by that un- conscious flattery given us sometimes by the preference of the sick and miserable. The men in one of the accident wards were greatly taken with Lady Alice. There was her title, to begin with ; there were her gracious accents,her graceful figure, her gentle, beautiful face. The men liked to see her come in, liked to hear her talk — although she was decidedly slow, and a little irresponsive in conver- sation. It soon leaked out, moreover, that material benefits followed in the wake of her visits. One man, wholeft the hospital, returned one day to inform his mates that " the lady " had found work for him on her father's estate, and that he considered himself a " made man for life." The attentions of such men who were not too ill to be influenced by such matters were henceforth con- centrated upon Lady Alice ; and she, being after all a simple creature, believed their devotion to be genuine, and rejoiced in it. With one patient, however, she did not for some time establish any friendly relations. He had been run over, while drunk, the nurses told her, and very seriously hurt. He lay so long in a semi-comatose condition that fears were entertained for his reason, and when the mist gradu- ally cleared away from his brain, he was in too confused a state of mind for conversation to be possible. Lady Alice went to look at him from time to time, and spoke to the nurse about him ; but weeks elapsed before he seemed conscious of the presence of any visitor. The nursing sister told the visitor at last that the man had spoken and replied to certain questions : that he had seemed uncertain about his own name, and could not give any coherent account of himself. Later on, it trans- pired that the man had allowed his name to be entered as '* John Smith." fiRnOA'/rs DArciITER, »93 the world, sband with gon suffer- muid, wife, came more private life, find her- 1 use, where by that un- refe fence of the accident lere was her accents.her e men liked although she e in conver- hat material One man, rm his mates n her father's nadc man for fe not too ill ceforth con- after all a be genuine, I to time, and fapsed before visitor. The I the man had that he had id could not on, it trans- lo be entered •* Not his own name, Vm certain," the nurse said, (Uei- dedly. " Why not ? " Lady Alice asked, with curiosity. " It's too common by half for his face and voice," the Sister answered, shrewdly. '* If you look at him or speak to him, you'll find that that man's a },'cntleman." "A gentleman — picked up drunk in the street ? " " A gentlem.iu by birth or former position, I mean," said the Sister, rather dryly. ** No doubt he has come down in the world ; but he has been, at any rate, what people call an educated man." Lady Alice's prejudices were stirred in favor of the broken-down drunkard by this characterization; and she made his acquaintance as so(m as he was able to talk. Her impression coincided with that of the Sister. The man had once been a gentleman — a cultivated, well-bred man, from whom refinement had never quite departed. Over and above this fact there was something about him which utterly puzzled Lady Alice. His fiice recalled to her some one whom she had known, and she could not imagine who that some one might be. The features, the contour of the face, the expression, were strangely familiar to her. For, by the refining forces which sickness often applies, the man's face had lost all trace of former coarseness or com- moness : it had become something like what it had been in the days of his first youth. And the likeness which puzzled Lady Alice was a very strong resemblance to the patient's sister, Rosalind Romaine. Lady Alice was attracted by him, visited his bedside very often, and tried to win his confidence. But " John Smith " had, at present, no confidence to give. Questions confused and bewildered him. His brain was in a very excitable condition, the doctor said, and he was not to be tormented with useless queries. By the time his other injuries had been cured, he might perhaps recover the full use of his mind, and could then give an account of himself if he liked. Till then he was to be let alone ; and so Lady Alice content- ed herself with bringing him such gifts as the authorities allowed, and with talking or reading to him a little from time to time in soothing and friendly tones. It was to be noted that before long his eyes followed her with interest as she crossed the ward ; that his brow cleared when she spoke to him, and that all her movements were watched by him with 13 \\ % 194 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, W^A great intentness. in spite of this she could not get him to reply with anything but curtness to her inquiries after his health and general welfare ; and it was quite a surprise to her when one day, on her visit to him, he accosted her of his own accord. " Won't you sit down ? " he said suddenly. " Thank you. Yes, I should like to sit and read to you a little if you are able " " It isn't for that," he said, interrupting her unceremoni- ously; " it's because I have something special to say to you. If you'll stoop down a moment I'll say it — I don't want any one else to hear." In great surprise, Lady Alice bowed her head. ** I want to tell you," he said gruftiy, " that you're wasting your time and your money. These men in the ward are not really grateful to you one bit. They specu- late before you come as to how much you are likely to give them, and when you are gone they compare notes and grumble if you have not given them enough." "I do not wish to hear this," said Lady Alice, with dignity. " I know you do not ; but I think it is only right to tell you. Try them : give them nothing for a visit or two, and see whether they won't sulk and look gloomy, although you may talk to them as kindly as ever " '* And if they did," said Lady Alice, with a sudden flash of energy and insight which amazed herself, " wlio could blame them, considering the pain they have suffered, and the brutal lives they lead? Why should they listen to my poor words, if I go to them without a gift in my hand?" She spoke as she would have spoken to an equal — an unconscious tribute to the refinement which stamped this man as of a higher cr.libre than his fellows. " It is a convenient doctrine for them," said John Smith, and buried his head in the bedclothes ^s if he wanted to hear nothing more. For Lady Ai ce's next two visits he would not look up, or respond when she came near him, which she never failed to do ; but on the third occasion he lifted his head. " Well, madam," he said, " you have after all been trying my plan, I hear. Do you find that it works well? " Lady Alice hesitated. The averted faces and puzzled, downcast — sometimes sullen — looks of the sick men and \^ BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. >9S ot get him to [ries after his : a surprise to >sted her of his id read to you IX unceremoni- l to say to you. —I don't want head. , "that you're se men in the . They specu- u are likely to compare notes lOUgh. idy Alice, with mly right to tell a visit or two, oomy, although I a sudden flash :lf, " who could e suffered, and ley listen to my n my hand?" .0 an equal — an :h stamped this [aid John Smith, if he wanted to lid not look up, (hich she never lifted his head. all been trying |cs well ? " ;s and puzzled, sick men and boys to whom she had of late given nothing but kind words, had grieved her sorely. *' I suppose it proves the truth, in part, of what you say," she aiiSwered gently, " but on the other hand I find that my gifts have been judged excessive and unwise. It seems that I have a great deal to learn in the art of giving : it does not come by nature, as some suppose. I have consulted the doctors and nurses — and I have to thank you for giving me a warning." A look of surprise passed across the man's face. ** You're better than some of them," he said, curtly. " I thought you'd never look at me again. I don't know why I should have interfered. But I did not like to see you cheated and laughed at." Lady Alice colored, but she felt no resentment against the man, although he had shown her that she had made herself ridiculous when she was bent on playing Lady Bountiful, and posing as an angel of light. She said after a moment's '/ause — ** I believe you meant kindly. Is there nothing that I can do for you ? " He shook his head. " I don't think so — I can't remem- ber very well. The doctors say I shall remember by and by. Then I shall know." " And if I can, you will let me help you ? '' " I suppose I ought to be only too glad," said the patient, with a sort of sullenness, which Lady Alice felt that she could but dimly understand. " I suppose I'm the sort of man to b" helped ; and yet I can't help fancying there's a — Past — a Past behind me — a life in which I once was proud of my mdependence. But it strikes me that this was very long ago." He drew the bedclothes over his head again, and made no further reply. Lady Alice came to Gee him after this con- versation as often as the rules of the hospital would allow her; and, although she seemed to get little response from him, the fact really remained that she was establishing an ascendancy over the man such as no nurse or doctor in the place had yet maintained. Others noticed it beside herself; but she, disheartened a little by her disappoint- ment in some of the other patients, did not recognize the reality of his attachment to her. And an event occurred about the time which put John Smith and hospital matters out of her head for a considerable time to come. 196 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. Old Lord Courtleroy died suddenly. He was an old man, but so hale and liearty that his death had not been expected in the least ; but he was found dead in his bed one morning, and the doctors pronounced that his com- plaint had been heart diseii^ic. The heir to the title and estate was a distant cousin whom Lady Alice and her father had never liked ; and when he entered upon his posses- sions, Lady Alice knew that the time had come for her to seek a home elsewhere. She had sufficient to live upon ; indeed, for a single woman, she was almost rich ; but the loneliness of her position once more forced itself upon her, especially as Lesley was not by her side to cheer her gradually darkening life. She wrote the main facts concerning Lord Courtleroy's death and the change in her circumstances in short, rather disjointed letters to Lesley, and received very tender replies ; but even then she felt a vague dissatisfaction with the girl's letters. They were full of a wistfulness which she could not understand : she felt that something remote had crept into them, some aloofness for which she could not account. And as Captain Harry Duchesne happened to come across her one day, and inquired very particularly after Miss Brooke, she induced him to promise to call on Lesley when he was in London, and to report to her all that Lesley did or said. If it was a somewhat underhand proceeding, she told herself that she was justified by her anxiety as a mother. Lord Courtleroy had left a considerable sum t j Lesley, and when rnotlier and daughter were reunited, as J-ady Alice hoped that they would shortly be, there was no question as to their having means enough and to spare. Lady Alice began 'co dream of a dear little country house in Sussex, with an occasional season in London, or a winter at Bagneres. She was recalled from her dreams tj the realities of life by a letter from her husband. Caspar Brooke wrote to ask whether, under present circum- stances, she would not return to him. BROOKE'S DAUGHl'ER, 197 iras an old d not been in his bed t his com- he title and d her father his posses- e for her to 1 live upon ; ch ; but the If upon her, ) cheer her Courtleroy's short, rather very tender sfaction with ilness which thing remote :h she could ne happened It particularly ise to call on ort to her all ,t underhand itified by her CHAPTER XXIII. CAPTAIN DUCHESNE. Lesley's life seemed, to her now much less lonely than it had been at first. The consciousness of having made friends was pleasant to her, although her affection for Ethel had been for a time overshadowed by tlie recollection of Oliver's unfaithfulness. But when this impression passed away, as it gradually did, after the scene that had been so painful to her, she consoled herself with the belief that Oliver's words and actions had proceeded from a temporary derangement of judgment, for which he was not altogether responsible, and that he had returned to his allegiance ; therefore she might continue to be friendly with Ethel without any sensation of treachery or shame An older woman than Lesley would not, perhaps, have argued in this way : she would have suspected the perma- nence of Oliver's feelings more than Lesley did. But, being only an inexperienced girl, Lesley comforted herself by the fact that Oliver now avoided her ; and iaid that it could not be possible for her to have attracted him away from Ethel, who was so winning, so sweet, so altogether delightful. Then, apart from the Kenyons, she began to make pleasant acquaintances amongst her father's friends. Cas- par Brooke's house was a centre of interest and entertain- ment for a large number of intellectual men and women ; and Lesley had as many opportunities for wearing her pre:ty evening gowns as she could have desired. There were " at homes " to which her charming presence and her beautiful voice attracted Caspar's friends in greater num- bers than ever : there were dinner-parties where her inter- est in the new world around her made everything else interesting ; and there was a constant coming and going lof people who had work to do in the world, and who did jit with more or less success, which made the house in IWoburn Place anything but a dull abode. 198 BROOKFrS DAUGHTER. The death of her grandfather distressed her less from regret for himself than from anxiety for her mother's future. Lady AHce's notes to her were very short and somewhat" vaguely worded. It was, therefore, with positive joy that, one afternoon in spring, she was informed by her maid that Captain Duchesne was in the drawing-room, for she felt sure that he would be able to tell her many details that she did not know. Siic made haste to go down, and yet, before she went, she paused to say a word to Kings- ton, who had brought her the welcome news. " I wish you would go out, Kingston ; you don't look at all well, and this spring air might do you good." It was certainly easy to see that Kingston was not well. During the past few weeks her face had become positively emaciated, her eyes were sunken, and her lips were white. She looked like a person who had recently passed through some illness or misforti'iie. Lesley had tried, delicately and with reserve, to question her ; but Kingston had never replied to any of her inquiries. She would shut up her lips, and turn away with the look of one who could keep a secret to the grave. " Nothing will do me good, ma'am," she answered dryly. " Oh, Kingston, I am so sorry ! " " Go down to your visitor, ma'am, and don't mind me," said Kingston, turning her back on the girl with unusual abruptness. " It isn't much that I've got to be sorry for, after all." " If there is anything I can do to help you, you will let me know, will you not? " said Lesley. But Kingston's " Yes, ma'am," fell with a despairing cadence on her ear. Kingston had been to her husband's lodgings only to find that he had disappeared. He had left some of his clothes, and the few articles of furniture that belonged to his wife, and had never said that he was going away. The accident that had made Francis Trent a patient at the hospital where Lady Alice visited was of course unknown to his landlady, as also to his wife. And as his memory did not return to him speedily, poor Mary Trent had been left to suffer all the tortures of anxiety for some weeks. At first she thought that some injury had happened to him — per- haps that he was dead : then a harder spirit took posses- ■] i he answered a despairing \ >' BROOKE 'S DA UGHTER. •99 sion of her, and she made up her mind that he liad finally abandoned her — had got money from Oliver and departed to America without her. She might have asked Oliver whether this were so, but she was too proud to ask. She preferred to eat out her heart in solitude. She believed herself deserted forever, and the only grain of consolation that remained to her was the hope of making herself so useful and acceptable to Lesley Brooke, that when Leslie married she would ask Mary Kingston to go with her to her new home. Kingston had made up her mind about the man that Lesley was to marry. She had seen him come and go : she had seen him look at her dear Miss Lesley with ardently admiring eyes : she believed that he would be a true and faithful husband to her. But she knew more than Lesley was aware of yet. Lesley went slowly down into the drawing-room. She .remembered Captain Duchesne very well, and she was glad to think of seeing him again. And yet there was an indefinable shrinking — she did not know how or why. Harry Duchesne was connected with her old life — with the Paris lights, the Paris drawing-rooms, the stately old grandfather, the graceful mother — the v/hole assembly of things that seemed so fixr away. She did not understand her whole feeling, but it suddenly appeared to her as if Captain Duchesne's visit was a mistake, and she had better get it over as soon as possible. It must be confessed that this sensation vanished as soon as she came into the actual presence of Captain Duchesne. Tlie young man, with his grave, handsome features, his drooping, black moustache, his soldierly bearing, had an attraction for her after all. He rei 'inded her of the mother whom she loved. It was not very easy to get into conversation with him at first. He seemed as ill at ease as Lesley herself had been. But when she fell to questioning him about Lady Alice, his tongue became unloosed. " She does not know exactly what to do. She talks of taking a house in London — if you would like it." " Would mamma care to live in London? " " Not for her own sake : for yours." ** But I — I do not think I like London so much," said Lesley, with a swift blush and some hesitation. Captain Duchesne looked at her searchingly. 1 ST 1 ! 900 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. \ " Indeed ? I understood that you had become much attached to it. I am sure Lady Alice thinks so." " I do love it — yes, but it is on account of the people who live in London," said Lesley. " Ah, you have made friends ? " " There is my father, you know." • " Yes." And something in his tone made Lesley change the subject hurriedly. Captain Duchesne would never have been so ill-bred as to speak disparagingly of a lady's father to her face ; and yet she felt that there was some- thing disparaging in the tone. "Have you seen the present Lord Courtleroy?" she asked. " Yes ; I have met him once or twice. He is somewhat stiff and rigid in appearance, but he is very courteous — more than courteous, Lady Alice tells me, for he is kind. He wishes to disturb her as little as possible — entreats her to stay at Courtleroy, and so on ; but naturally she wishes to have a house of her own." " Of course. But I thought that she would prefer the South of France." ** Tf I may say so without offence," said Captain Duchesne, smiling, " Lady Alice's tastes seem to be changing. She used to love the country and inveigh against the ugliness of town ; but now she spends her time in visiting hospitals and exploring Whitechapel " Lesley almost sprang to her feet. " Oh, Captain Du- chesne, are you in earnest ? " " Quite in earnest." " Oh, I am so glad ! " " Why, may I ask ? " said Duchesne, with real curiosity. But Lesley clasped her hands tightly together and hung her head, feeling that she could not explain to a compara- tive stranger how she felt that community of interests might tend to a reconciliation between the long separated father and mother. And in the rather awkward pause that followed, Miss Ethel Kenyon was announced. Lesley was very glad to see her, and glad to see that she looked ai)provingly at Captain Duchesne, and launched at once into an animated conversation with him. Lesley relapsed almost into silence for a time, but a satisfied smile played upon her lips. It seemed to her that Cap- tain Duchesne's dark eyes lighted up when he talked to BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. aoi Ethel as they had not done when he talked to her ; that Ethel's cheeks dimpled with her most irresistible smile, and that her voice was full of pretty cadences, delighted laughter, mirth and sweetness. Lesley's nature was so thoroughly unselfish, that she could bear to be set aside for a friend's sake ; and she was so ingenuous and single- minded that she put no strained interpretation on the honest admiration which she read in Harry Duchesne's eyes. It may have been partly in hopes of drawing her once more into the conversation that he turned to her presently with a laughing remark anent her love of smoky London. " Oh, but it is not the smoke I like," Lesley answered. " It is the people." " Especially the poor people," put in Ethel, saucily. " Now, I can't bear poor people ; can you, Captain Du- chesne ? " " I don't care for them much, I'm afraid." " I like to do them good, and all that sort of thing," said Ethel. " Don't look so sober, Lesley ! I like to act to them, or sing to them, or give them money ; but I must say I don't like visiting them in the slums, or having to stand too close to them anywhere. I am so glad that you agree with me, Captain Duchesne ! " And not long afterwards she graciously invited him to call upon her on " her day," and promised him a stall at an approaching matinee., two pieces of especial ii /or, as Lesley knew. Captain Duchesne sat on as if fascinated by the brilliant little vision that had charmed his eyes ; and not until an uncoiiscionable time had elapsed did he seem able to tear himself away. When he had gone, Ethel expressed her- self approvingly of his looks and manners. "I like those soldierly-looking men," she said. **So well set up and distinguished in appearauce. Is he an old friend of yours, Lesley ! " " No, I have met him only once before. In Paris, he dined with us — with my grandfather, my mother, and my- self." " And he comes from Lady Alice now ? " . "Yes, to bring me news of her." Ethel nodded her bright little head sagaciously. " It's very plain what Lady Alice wants, then?" 202 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. W I " What? " said Lesley, opening her eyes in wide amaze. " She wants you to many him, my dear." ** Nonsense ! " " It's not nonsense : don't get so red about it, you silly girl. What a baby you are, Lesley." "I am sure mamma never thought of anything of the kind," said Lesley, with dignity, although her cheeks were still red. " We shall see what we shall see. Well, I won't put my oar in — isn't that kind of mc ? But, indeed, your Cq,ptain Duchesne looks thoroughly ripe for a flirtation, and it will be as much as I can do to keep my hands off him." " How would Mr. Trent like that? " said Lesley, trying to carry the war into the enemy's camp. " He would bear it with the same equanimity with which he bears the rest of my caprices," said Ethel, merrily ; but a shade crossed her brow, and she allowed Lesley to lead the conversation to the subject of her trousseau. Captain Duchesne did not seem s'ow to avail himself of the favor accorded to him. He presented himself at Ethel's next " at home j " and devoted himself to her with curious assiduity. Even the discovery of her engagement to Mr. Trent did not change his manner. It was not so much that he paid her actual attention, as that he paid none to anybody else. When she was not talking to him> he kept silence. He seemed always to be observing her, her face, her manner, her dress, her attitude. Yet this kind of observation was quite respectful and unobtrusive : it was merely its continuity that excited remark. Oliver noticed it at last, and professed liimself jealous : in fact he was a little bit jealous, although he did not love Ethel overmuch. But he had a ])ride of possession in her which would not allow him to look witli equanimity on the pros- pect of her being made love to by anybody else. Ethel enjoyed the attentions, and enjoyed Oliver's jeal- ousy, in her usual spirit of childlike gaiety. She was quite assured of Oliver's affection for her now ; and she looked forward with shy delight to the day of her wedding, which had been fixed for the twentieth of March. Meanwhile, Oliver was devoured with secret anxiety. For what had become of Francis, and when would he appear to demand the rnoney which had been promised to him on the day ^Y^le'l the marriage should take place ? BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. ao3 wide amaze. CHAPTER XXIV. MR. BROOKE'S DESIRES. Lady Alice's movements were not without interest to Caspar Brooke, although Lesley did ot suspect the fact. It was quite a surprise to her when he entered the library one day, with apparently no other object than that of say- ing abruptly, " What is your mother going to do, Lesley ? " " To do ? " said Lesley, flushing slightly and looking astonished. '' Yes " — impatiently. " Where is she going to live ? What will become of her ? Do you want to go to her? I wish to hear what you know about her arrangements." He planted himself on the hearth-rug in wliat might be termed an aggressive attitude — really the expression of some embarrassment of feeling. It certainly seemed hard to him at that moment to have to ask his daughter these questions. " I think," said Lesley, with downcast eyes, " that she is trying to find a house to suit her in Mayfair." " Mayfair. Then half her income will go in rent and taxes. Will she live there alone ? " " Yes. At least — unless — until " ** Until you join her : I understand. Will " — and then he made a long pause before continuing — " if she wants you to join her at once, and you wish to go, don't let t^is previous arrangement stand in the way. I shall not inter- fere." His curtness, his abruptness, would once have startled and terrified Lesley. She had of late grown so much less afraid of him, that now she only lifted her eyes, with a proud, grieving look in them, and said, ** Do you want me to go away, then ? " ** Watit you to go? Certainly not, child," and Mr. Brooke stretched out his hand, and drew her to him with a 'W '\ i A^..,:JS- BROOK'E'S DAUGHTER. caressing gesture. '* No : I like to have you here. But I thought you wanted to go to her." " So I do," said Lesley, the tears coming to her eyes. ** But — I want to stay, too. I want" — and she put both hands on his arms with a gesture as affectionate as his own — " I want my father and mother both." " I'm afraid that is an impossible wish." " But why should it be ? " said Lesley, looking up into his face beseechingly. His features twitched for a moment with unwonted emotion. ** You know nothing about it," he said — but he did not sjDeak harshly. "You can't judge of the circum- stances. What can I do ? Even if I asked her she would not come back to me." And then he put his daughter gently from him and went dr^wn to his study, where he paced up and down the floor for a good half-hour, instead of settling down as usual to his work. But Lesley's words were not without their effect, although he had put them aside so decidedly. With that young, fair face looking so pleadingly into his own, it did not seem impossible that she should form a new tie between himself and his wife. Of course he had always known that children were conventionally supposed to bind the hearts of hus- band and wife to each other ; but in his own case lie had not found that a daughter produced that result. On the contrary, Lesley had been for many years a sort of bone of contention between himself and his wife; and he had re- tained a cynical sense of the futility of such conventional utterances, which were every day contradicted by barefaced facts. But now he began to acknowledge that Lesley was draw- ing his heart closer to his wife. The charm of a family circle began to rise before him. Pleasant, indeed, would it be to find that his dingy old house bore once more the characteristics of a home ; that womankind was represented in it by fairer faces and softer voices than the face and voice even of dear old Doctor Sophy, with her advanced theories, her committees, and her brisk disregard of the amenities of life. Yes, he would give a good deal to see Alice — it was long since he had thought of her by that name— established in his drawing-room (which she should refurbish and adorn to her heart's content), with Lesley by SL I /iA'OOA'/:'S /). I ( UIITER, 205 re. But I ) her eyes, e put both as his own ng up into - unwonted aid— but he the circum- • she would m and went »rn the floor . as usual to ;ct, although that young, did not seem veen himself that children ;arts of hus- case he had It. On the rt of bone ol he had re- onventional ly barefaced her side, and himself at liberty to stroll in and out, to be smiled upon, and — yes, after all, this was his dearest wish — to dare to lavish the love of which his great heart was full upon the wife aud child whose loss had been the mis- fortune of his life. As he thought of the past years, it seemed to him that they had been very bleak and barren. True, he had done many things ; he had influenced many people, and accom- plished some good work ; but what had he got out of it for himself? He was an Individualist at heart, as most men are, and he felt conscious of a claim which the world had not granted. It was almost a shock to him to feel the egoistic desire for personal happiness stirring strongly within him ; the desire had been suppressed for so long, that when it once awoke it surprised him by its vitality. The outcome of these reflections was seen in a letter written that day after his talk with Lesley. He seated himself at last at his writing-table, and after some minutes' thought dashed off the following episde. He did not stop for a word, he would not hesitate about the wording f sentences : it seemed to him that if he paused to consider, his resolution might be shaken, his purpose become un- fixed. " My Dear Alice," he wrote — " I hear from Lesley that you are looking for a house. Would it not be better for us all if you made your home with me again? Things have changed since you left me, and I might now bcbetter able to consult your tastes and wishes than I was then. We are both older and, I hope, wiser. Could we not manage to put aside some of our personal predilections and make a home together for our daughter ? I use this argument because I believe it will have more weight with you than any other : at the same time, I may add that it is for my own sake, as well as for Lesley's, that I make the proposi- tion. Your affectionate .husband, Caspar Brooke." It was an odd ending, he thought : he had certainly [not shown himself an affectionate husband to her for many years. But there was truth in the epithet : little as she jmight believe it, or as it might appear. He would not II I ; 3o6 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. Stop to re-read the letter : he had said what he wanted to say, and she could read his meaning easily enough. He had held out the olive branch. It was for her to accept or reject it, as she would. Lesley could not understand why he was so restless and apparently uneasy during the next few days. He seemed to be looking for something — expecting something — no- body knew what. Me spent more time than usual with her, and took a new interest in her affairs. She did not know that he was trying to put himself into training for domestic life, and that he found it unexpectedly pleasant. •'What's this? " he said one day, picking up a scrap of paper that fell from a book that she held in her hand. " Not a letter, I think ? Have you been making extracts? " " No," said Lesley, blushing violently, but not trying to take the paper from him. ** May 1 see it? Oh, a sort of essay — description — im- pressions of London in a fog." He murmured a few of the words and phrases as he went on. " Why, this is very good. Here's the real literary touch. Where did you get this, Lesley? It's not half bad." As she made no answer, he looked up and saw the guilty laughter in her eye<5, the conscious blushes on her cheeks. " You don't mean to say " ' " I only wrote it to amuse myself," said Lesley, meekly. " I've had so little to do since I came here, and I thought I would scribble down my impressions." ** My dear child," said Mr. Brooke, " if you can write as well as this, you ought to have a career before you. Why," he added, surveying her, " I had no idea of this. And I always did have a secret wish that a child of mine should take to literature. My dear " "But I don't want to take to literature, exactly," said Lesley, with a little gasp. " I only want to amuse myself sometimes — just when I feel inclined, if you don't think it a great waste of time " " Waste of time? Certainly not. Go on, by all means. I shall only ask to see what you do now and then ; I might be able to give you a hint — though I don't know. Your style is very good already — wants a little compression, perhaps, but you can make sentences — that's a comfort." And Mr. Brooke fell to reading the manuscript again, with a very pleased look upon his face. BROOKE'S DA UGllTER. 207 i wanted to ough. He r to accept restless and He seemed ething— no- usual with She did not training for lly pleasant, ip a scrap of n her hand, g extracts?" not trying to cription— im- d a few of the , this is very e did you get |saw the guilty 1 her cheeks. ley, meekly, md I thought can write as you. Why," this. And I mine should exactly," said amuse myself don't think it by all means. then; I might know. Your compression, 's a comfort." pt again, with It was while he was still reading tliat a servant brought in some letters which had just arrived. He opened the first that came to hand almost unthiiiknigly, for his mind was quite absorbed in the discovery which he liad made. It was only when his eye rested on the first page of the letter that memory came back to him. He gave a great start, rose up, putting Lesley's paper away from !nm, and went to the other side of the room to read his letter. It was as follows : — '•Dear Mr. Brooke, — *' I h.ive already founcl a liouse that I think will suit me, and I hope that Lesley will join me there as soon as ynii can spare her. I am afraid that it is a little too late to change our respective ways of life. It would be no advantage to Lesley to live with parents who were not agreed. " Yours very truly, " Alice Urooke." Caspar Brooke turned round with a face that had grown strangely pale, walked across the room to Lesley, and dropped the letter in her lap. " There !" he said. " I have done my uttermost. That is your mother's reply to me." He strode out of the room, without deigning to answer her cry of surprise and inquiry, and Lesley took up the letter. It was with a burst of tears that she put it down. " Oh, mother, mother ! " she cried to herself, "how can you be so unkind, so unjust, so imforgiving ? He is the best man in the world, and yet you have vhe heart to hurt him." She did not see her father again until the next day, and then, although she made no reference in words to the letter which she restored to him, her pale and downcast looks spoke for her, and told the sympathy which she did not dare to utter. Mr. Brooke kissed her, and felt vaguely comforted; but it began to occur to him that he had made Lesley's position a hard one by insisting on her visit to his house, and that it might have been happier for her if she had remained hostile to himself, or ignorant of his existence. For now, when she went back to her mother, would not the affection that she evidently felt for him rise up as a barrier between herself and Lady Alice ? Would she not try to fight for him? She was brave enough, and impetuous 2o8 BJiOOA'E'S DA UGIITER. enough, to do it. And tlien Alice might justly accuse him of having embittered the relation, hitherto so sweet, between mother and daughter, and thereby inilicted on her an injury wliich nothing on earth could rejiair or justify. Could nothing be done to remedy this state of things ? Caspar Brooke began to feel worried by it. His mind was generally so serene that the intrusion of a personal anxiety seemed monstrous to him. He found it difficult to write in his accustomed manner : he felt a diminution of his interest in the club. Witli masculine impatience of such an unwonted condition, he went off at last to Maurice Kenyon, and asked him seriously whether his brain, his heart, or his liver were out of order. P'or that something was the matter with him, he felt sure, and he wanted the doctor to tell him what it was. Maurice questioned and examined him carefully, then assured him with a hearty laugh tliat even his digestion was in the best possible working order. Brooke gave himself a shake like a great dog, looked displeased for a moment, and then burst out laughing too. " I su])pose it is nothing, after all," he said. '' I've been a trifle anxious and worried lately. Nothing of any im- portance, my dear fellow. By the by, have you been to see Lesley lately?" " May I speak to her ? " said Maurice, his face brighten- ing. " I th.oughl " " Speak when you like," Caspar answered, curtly. " I almost wish you would get it over. Get it settled, I mean," " I shall get it settled as soon as I can, certainly," said Maurice. And i\Ir. Brooke went away, thinking that after all he had found one way of escape from his troubles. For if Lesley accepted Maurice, and lived with him in a house opposite her fatlier's, there would always be a corner for him at their fireside, and he would not go to the grave feel- ing himself a childless, loveless, desolate old man. It must be conceded that Mr. Brooke had sunk to a very low pitch of dejection when he was dominated by such thoughts as these. II' BROOKE'S DA UGIITER. 209 CHAPTER XXV. LESLEY'S PROMISK. X < If Maurice was no backward lover. He made his way to Lesley that very day, and found her in the library — not, as usual, bending over a book, but standing by the window, from which could be seen a piece of waste ground over- grown with grass and weeds, ana shaded by some great •plane and elm trees. There was nothing particularly fasci- nating in the outlook, which pjuLook of the usual grimness of a London atmosi:)herc \ but the young green of the budding trees spoke, in spite of the blackness of their branches, of spring and spring's delight ; and there was a brightness in the tints of the tangled grass which gave a restful satisfaction to the eye. Lesley was looking out upon this scene with a wistfulness which struck Maurice with some surprise. "You like this window?" he said, interrogatively, when they had shaken hands and exchanged a word or two of greeting. " Yes, it reminds me in some way of my old convent home. I don't know why it should ; but there are trees and grass and greenness." " Ah, you love the country ? " "Do not you?" " Yes, but there are better things in the world than even trees and grass." " Ah, yes," said Lesley, eagerly. Then, with a little smile, she addedj as if quoting — '' Souls of men." ** I was thinking of their bodies," said the young doctor. ** But that's as it should be. You think of the spiritual, I only of the material side. Both sides ought to be con- sidered : that is where men and women meet, I take it." " I suppose so," said Lesley, a little vaguely. " I'm afraid," Maurice went on, '' that it will be a long time before I have a country house of my own : a place where there will be trees and green meadows and flowers, 14 ll 1 9 if; ^ I MM 2IO BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, such as one loves and sighs for. I have often thought " — with a note of agitation in his voice — " how much easier it would be to ask any one to share my life if I had these good things to offer. My only chance has been to find some one who cares — as I care — for the souls and bodies of the men and women around us ; who would not disdain to help me in my work." *' Who cotild disdain it "> " asked Lesley, innocently indignant. " Do you mean " — turning suddenly upon her — ** that you don't consider a hard working doctor's life something inexpressibly beneath you ? " She drew back a little hurt, a little bit astonished. " Certainly not. Why should I ? " "You are born to a life of luxury and self-indulgence." " My father is a journalist," said Lesley with a smile, in which amusement struggled with offence. " But your grandfather was an earl ! It is possible," with a touch of raillery, " that you prefer earls to general practitioners." " Of the two, it is the doctor that leads the better life, in my opinion," said Lesley, rather hotly ; but immediately cooling down, she added the remark — " My preferences have nothing much, however, to do with the matter." " Have they not ? How little you know youi own power ! " Lesley looked at him in much amaze. Whither this conversation was tending it had not yet occurred to her to inquire. But something in his look, as he stood fronting her, brought the color to her cheeks and caused her eyes to sink. She became suddenly a little afraid of him, and wished herself a thousand miles away. Indeed she made one backward step, as if her maidenly instincts were about to manifest themselves in actual flight. But Maurice saw the movement, and made two steps forward, which brought him so close to her that he could have touched her hand if he had wished. " Don't you understand? " he said, in an agitated voice. " Don't you see that your opinion — your preferences — are all the world to me ? " He paused as if expecting her to reply — leaning a little towards her to catch the word from her lips. But Lesley did not speak. She remained motionless, as pale now as she had been red before — her hands hanging at her sides BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 211 and her eyes fixed upon the ground. She looked as if she were stricken dumb with dismay. " I know that I have not recommended myself to you by anything that I have said or done," Maurice went on. " I misjudged you once, and I spoke roughly, rudely, brutally ; but it was the way you took what I said which made me understand you. You were so fine, so noble, so sweet ! Instead of making my stupidity an excuse for shutting yourself away from what your father was doing, you im- mediately threw yourself into it, you began to work with him and for him — as of course I might have seen that you would do directly you came to know him. I was a fool, and you were an angel — that summarizes the situation." A faint smile curled Lesley's lips, although she did not look up. ** I am afraid there is not much of the angel about me," she said. *' Ah, you can't see yourself as others see you," he answered, quite ignoring the implication in her remark which a less ardent lover might have resented. " To me, at any rate, you are the one woman in the world, the only one I have ever loved — shall ever love as long as I live — the fulfilment of my ideal — the realization of all my dreams ! His vehemence made Lesley draw back. **You exaggerate," she said with a slight shake of head. " Indeed, I am not all that — I could not be. I very ignorant and full of faults. I have a bad temper — " You have a temper that is sweetness itself ! " " Oh, Mr. Kenyon, how can you say so ? " — with a look of reproach. " You who have seen me so angry ! " '* Your temper is just like your father's," said Maurice, dogmatically. *' A little hot, if you like, but sweet " " Something like preserved ginger? " asked Lesley. The two young people looked at each other with laughter in their eyes. This was Lesley's way of trying to stave off the inevitable. If Maurice's declaration could only be construed into idle compliment, she would be rid of the necessity of giving him a plain answer. And what had been begun as a proposal of marriage seemed likely to degenerate into a fencing match. Maurice saw the danger, and was too quick-witted to fa.- unawares into the trap which Lesley had laid for him. A war of words was the very thing in which he and Ethel the am » ! i 1 ! 212 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. most delighted; and it was usually quite easy to induce brother and sister to engage upon it. But on this occasion he was too much in earnest for word-play. He laughed at Lesley's simile, and then became suddenly and almost fiercely grave. " I can't let you turn the whole thing into a joke," he said. " You know that I mean what I say. It is a matter of life and death to me. I love you with my whole heart, and I come to-day to know whether there is any chance for me — whether you can honor me with your love — whether you will one day consent to be my wife." His voice sank to a pleading tone, and his face was very pale. But he felt that a grea.t display of emotion would frighten and repel the girl, and he therefore sedulously ^.voided, as far as possible, any appearance of agitation. He could not, however, entirely achieve the calmness which he desired, and the very suppression of his agitation, which, in spite of himself, made his voice shake, and brought fire to his eyes, had an unwontedly unnerving effect upon Lesley. '* Oh, I don't know," she said hurriedly. " I can't tell — I never thought " " Think now," he said persuasively, '* Am I disagree- able to you ? " •* No," — very softly. " Have you forgiven me for my bad behavior in the past?" " You never did behave badly." ** But you have forgiven me ? " " Oh, yes." This was illogical, as she had previously intimated that there was nothing to forgive ; but, under such circum- stances, Lesley may be excused. '* And — su'-2ly, then — you like me a little ! " " A little," Lesley breathed, rather than spoke, with an unconscious smile of happiness. ** Can you not call it ' loving ? ' " asked Maur'ce, daiing for the first time to take her soft little hand in his. But the question, the look, the touch, suddenly terrified Lesley, and brought back to her mind a long-forgotten promise. What v/as it her mother had required of her before she left Paris for her father's house ? Was it not a pledge that she should not bind herself to mar»-y any man ? BROOKE'S DAUGHTEK. 21' — that she should not engage herself to be married? Lesley had an instinctive knowledge of the fact that to proclaim her promise would be to cast discredit on Lady Alice ; and so, while trying to keep her word, she sought for means to avoid telling the whole truth. ** No, oh no," she said, withdrawing her hand at once and turning away. '* Indeed, I could not. Please do not ask me any more." The shock was very great to Maurice. He stood perfectly silent for a moment. He had thought that he was making such good progress — and, behold ! the wind had suddenly changed ; the face of the heavens wals overcast. He tried to think that he had been mistaken, and made another attempt to win a favorable hearing. "Miss Brooke — Lesley — you say you like me a little. Do you not think that your liking for me might grow ? When you know that I love you so tendc-^* that I would lay down my very Hfe for you, when you can hear all that I can tell you of my hopes, my dreams, my aspirations " " I do not want to hear," said Lesley, putting out her hand blindly. " Please do not tell me : it makes me miser- able — indeed, I must not listen." Again Maurice stood silent for a moment. " Must not listen ? " he repeated at length, with a keen look at her. " Why must you not ? " Lesley made no answer. "You speak strangely," said Kenyon, with some slight coldness beginning to manifest itself in his manner. "Why should you not listen to me ? If you are thinking of your father, I can assure you that he has no objection to me. I have consulted him already. He would be honestly glad, I believe, if you could care for me — he has told me so. Does his opinion go for nothing ? " She shook her head. " I can't explain," she said brokenly. " I can only ask you not to say anything — at least — I have promised " " Promised not to listen to me ? " " To anything of the kind," said Lesley, feehng that she was making a terrible mess of the whole affair, and yet unable to loosen her tongue sufficiently to explain. " May I ask to whom you gave this promise?" • " No," said Lesley. 214 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. I j There was another silence, but this time it was a silence charged with ominous significance. Maurice's face was very white, and a peculiar rigidity showed itself in the lines of his features. He was very much disappointed, and he also felt that he had some right to be displeased. " If you were bound by any such promise, Miss Brooke," he said, *' I fhink it would have been better that your friends should have known of it. I don't think that Mr. Brooke was aware " ** Oh, no, he knew nothing about it." " It was a promise ijiade before you came here ? " " Yes." " Of which your mother — Lafly Alice — approves ? " "Oh, yes — it was to her — because she " Lesley stammered and tried to explain. There was a tre- mendous oppression upon her, such as one feels sometimes in a nightmare dream. She longed to speak out, to clear herself in Maurice's eyes, and yet she could not frame a single intelligible sentence. It was as though she were afflicted with dumbness. " I think," said Maurice^ deliberately, " that your father and your aunt had a right to know this fact. You seem to have kept them in ignorance of it. And I have been led into a mistake. I can assure you, Miss Brooke, that if I had been aware of any previous i)romise — or — or en- gagement of yours, I should never have presumed to speak as I have spoken to-day. I can but apologize and with- draw." Before Lesley could answer, he had taken his hat, bowed profoundly, and left the room. And Lesley, with lips from which all color had faded, and hands pressed tightly together, watched him go, and stood for some minutes in dazed, despairing silence before she could say, even to herself, with a burst of hot and bit- ter tears, " Oh, I did not mean him to think that. And now I cannot explain ! What shall I do ? AVhat can I do to make him understand ? " But that was a question for which she found no answer. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 2IS CHAPTER XXVI. CURED. 5 hat, bowed 1 no answer. "You are quite well," said the doctor to John Smith, otherwise called Francis Trent, at the great hospital one day. " You cnn go out to-morrow. There is nothing more that we can do for you." Smith raised his dull eyes to their faces. " Am I — cured ? " he asked. One of the doctors shrugged his shoulders a little. Ano- ther answered kindly and pityingly, ** You will find that you are not as strong as you used to be. Not the same man in many respects. But you will be able to get your own living, and we see no reason for detaining you here. What was your trade ? " The patient looked down at his white, thin hands. '* I don't know," he said. " Have you friends to go to ? " There was a pause. Some of the medical students who were listening came a little nearer. As a matter of fact, Francis Trent's future depended very largely on the an- swer he made to this question. The statement that he was " quite well " was hazarded rather by way of experiment thin as a matter of fact. The doctors wanted to know what he would say and do under pressure, for some of them were 'joginning to suggest that the man should be removed to the workhouse infirmary or a lunatic asylum. His faculties seemed to be hopelessly beclouded. Suddenly he lifted his head. A new sharp light had come into his eyes. He nodded reassuringly. "Yes, I have friends," he said. "You have a home where you can go ? Shall we write to your friends to meet you ? " "No, thank you, sir. I can find my own way home." And then they conferred together a little, and left him, and reported that he was cured. Certainly, there seemed to be nothing the matter with him now. His wounds and injuries had healed, his bodily i ! ill aaam I ! 2l6 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. Strength was returning. But the haze which hung over his mind was far more impenetrable than the doctors guessed. Something of it had been apparent to them in the earlier days of his ilhiess ; but his clear and decided answers to their questions convinced them that memory had to some extent returned. As a matter of fact it was not memory that had returned, but a sharpening of his perceptive facul- ties, awakening him to the fact that he stood in danger of being taken for an idiot or a madman if he did not frame some answer to the questions which the doctors asked him. This new acuteness was perhaps the precursor to a return of his memory ; but as yet the Past was like a dead wall, an abyss of darkness surrounding him. Now and then flashes of light seemed to dart across that darkness : he seemed on the point of recalb'ng something — he knew not what ; for the flashes faded as quickly as they came, and made the darkness all the greater for the contrast. He was possessed now by the idea that if he could get out of hospital, and walk along the London streets, he might remember all that he had forgotten. His own name, his own history, had become a blank to him. He knew in some vague, forlorn fashion, that he had once been what the world calls a gentleman. He had not acknowledged so much to the doctors : he had not felt that they would believe him. Even when the groping after the Past became most painful, he made up his mind that he would not ask these scientific men for help : he was afraid of being treated as a "case," experimented on,. written about in the papers. There was something in the Past of which he knew he ought to be ashamed. What could it be ? He was afraid to ask, lest he might find himself to be a criminal. In these haunting terrors there was, of course, ".distinct token of possible insanity. The man needed a friendly, guiding hand to steer him back to the world of reason and common-sense. But to whom could he go, since he had taken up this violent prejudice against the doctors? He felt drawn to none of the nurses, although some of them had been very kind to him. The only person to whom he might perhaps have disburthened himself, if he had had the opportunity, was the sweet-voiced, sweet-faced woman viThom he had warned of the ill effects of her gifts. He did not know her name, or anything about her ; but before he left the hospital he asked one of the nurses who she was. BROOK'FJS DAUGHTER. ai7 " Lady Alice Brooke — daughter of the Lord Courtleroy, who died the other day," was the reply. "■ Could you give me her address ? " " No ; and I don't think that if I could it would be of any use to you. She is leaving England, I believe. If you want work or help, why don't you speak to Mr. Kenyon ? He's the gentleman to find both for you — Mr. Maurice Kenyon." " Which is Mr. Kenyon ? " "There — he's just passing through the next ward ; shall I speak to him for you ? " " No, thank you : I don't want rmything from him : I only wanted the lady's name," said John Smith, in a dogged sullen kind of way, which made the whitecapped nurse look at him suspiciously. " Brooke ! — Kenyon ? " — How oddly familiar the names seemed to him ! Of course they were not very uncommon names ; but there was a distinct familiarity about them which had nothing to do with the names themselves, as if they had some connection with his own history and his own affairs. He was discharged — " cured." He went out into the streets with half-a-crown in his pocket, and a fixed deter- mination to know the truth, sooner or later, about himself. At the same tinie he had a great fear of letting any one know the extent of the blanks in his memory. He thought that people might shut him up in a madhouse if he told them that he could not recollect his own name. A certain amount of intellectual force and knowledge remained to him. He could read, and understand what he read. But of his own history he had absolutely no idea ; and the only clue to it that he could find lay in those two names — Brooke and Kenyon. Could he discover anything about tne possessors of these names which would help him ? He entered a shop where a Post Office Directory was to be found, and looked at Maurice Kenyon's name amongst the doctors. He found Mr. Kenyon's private address ; but as yet it told him nothing. Woburn Place ? Well, of course he had heard of Woburn Place . it was no vonder that he should know it so well ; but the name told him nothing more. He sat staring at it so long that the people of the shop grew impatient, and asked him to shut the book. He went I- ! iSBmm 218 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. away, and wandered about the streets, vaguely seeking for he knew not what. And after a time he bought a news- paper. Here again he found the name that had attracted his attention — the name of Kenyon. " Last appearance of Miss Kenyon at the FrivoHty Theatre — this week only." "Who's Miss Ethel Kenyon?" he asked — drawing a bow at a venture — of his neighbor in the dingy little coffee- house into which he had turned. It was ten to one that the man would not know ; but he would ask. As it happened, the young nan did know. " She's an actress," he said. '' I went to see her the other night. Pretty girl — going to get married and leave the stage. My brother's a scene shifter at the Frivolity — knows all about her." " Who is she going to marry ? " ** Oh, I don't know — some idle young chap that wants her money, I believe. She ain't the common sort of actress, you know. Bit of a swell, with sixty thousand pounds of her own." ** Oh," said his interlocutor, vaguelv. ** And — has she any relations ? " " Well, that I can't tell you. Stop a bit, though : I did hear tell of a brother — a doctor, I believe. But I couldn't be sure of it." •• Could you get to know if you wanted ? " The young fellow turned and surveyed his questioner with some doubt. *' Dare say I could if I chose," he said. " What do you want to know for, mate ? " " I've beer away — out of England for a long time — and I think they /e people who used to know me, said Francis Trent, improvising his story readily. " I thought they could put me on the way of work if I could come across them ; but I don't know if it's the same," " Why don't you go to see her to-night ? She's worth a look : she's a pretty little thing — but she don't draw crowds : the gallery's never full." '* I think I'll go to-night," said Francis, rising suddenly from his seat. He fancied that the young man looked at him suspiciously. *' Yes, no doubt, I should know her if I saw her: I'll go to-night." He made, his way hastily into the street, while his late companion sent a puzzled glance after him. " Got a tile loose, that chap has," he said to the girl at the counter as he also passed out. *' Or else he was a bit screwed." V- BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 219 s questioner So that night Francis Trent went to the Frivolity, and witnessed, from a half-empty gallery, a smart, sparkling little society Jilay, in whicli lOihel Kenyon had elected to say farewell to her admirers. He saw her, but her face nroduced no impression upon his mind. It was not familiar to him, although her name was fiin-""- liar enough. Those gleaming dark eyes in the saucy pi- quante face, the tiny graceful figure, the silvery accents of her voice, were perfectly strange to him. They suggested absolutely nothing. It was the name alone that he knew ; and he was sure that it was in some way connected with his own. Before the end of the play, he got up and went out. The lights of the theatre made him dizzy : his head ached from the hot atmosphere and from his own physical weak- ness. He was afraid that he should cry out or do some- thing strange which would make people look at him, if he sat there much longer. So he turned into aside street and leaned against a wall for a little time, until he felt cool and refreshed. The evening was warm, considering that the month was March, and the air that played upon his fixce was soft and balmy. When he had recovered himself a little, he noticed a group of young n^.en lighting their cigar- ettes and loitering about a door in the vicinity. Presently he made out that this was the stage-door, and that these young men were waiting to see one of the actresses come out. By the fragments of their talk that floated to him on the still evening air in the quiet side street, Francis Trent gathered that they spoke a good deal of Ethel Kenyon. " So this is the last we shall see of pretty little Ethel," he heard one man sav. " Who's the man she's hooked, eh ? " Nobody seemed to know. ** Why did she go on the boards at all, I wonder ? She's got money, and belongs to a ])re-eminently respectable family. Her brollier's a doctor." ** Stage-struck," said another. "She'll give it up now, of course. Here's her carriage. Slie'll be here directly." " And the happy man at her heels," I suppose, sneered the first speaker. " They say she's madly in love with him, and that he, of course, wants her money." " He's a cad, I know that," growled a younger man. t I !' i 330 jihtooKi: '.v DA : \;irrEK. Impelled by an interest ot which he himself did not know the source, Francis Trent had drawn nearer to the stage door as the young fellows spoke. He was quite close to it, when it opened at last and tlie pretty actress came forth. She was escorted by a train of admirers, rich and poor. Her maid was laden with wraps and bouquets. The man ager and the actor who played the leading part were on cither side of her, and Kthel was laughing the merry, un- affected laugh of a perfectly ha[)py woman as she made her triumphal exit from the little theatre where she had achieved all her artistic success. Another kind of success, she thought, was in store for her n:)w. She was to know an- other sort of happiness. And the whole world looked very bright to her, although there was one little cloud — no big- ger than a man's hand, perhaps — which had already shown itself above the horizon, and might one day cloud the noontide of her love. Francis Trent was so absorbed in watching her lovely face, and in wondering why her name had seemed so fami- liar, that he paid scant attention to her followers. It was only as the carriage drove off that his eye was caught by the face of a man who sat beside her. A gleam from agas- lamj) had fallen full upon it, revealing the regular, passion- less features, the dark eyes and pale complexion of Ethel's lover. And as soon as he saw that face, a great change came over the mental condition of Francis Trent. He stood for a moment as if paralyzed, his w trn features strangely convulsed, a strange lurid light she '"d itself in his hag- gard eyes. Then he threw his ar'ns wildly in the air, uttered a choked, gasping cry, atid rushed madly and vainly after the retreating carriage, heedless of the shouts which the little crowd sent after him. " He's mad — he'll never catch up that carriage ! What does he run after it for, the fool? " said one of the men on the pavement. And indeed he soon relinquished the attempt, and sat down on a doorstep, panting and exhausted, with his face l)uried upon his arms. But he was not mad. He was sure of that now. It was only that he had — partially and feebly, but to some extent effectually — remembered what had happened to him in the dark dead Past. Ji/iOOA^£'S DAUGHTER, aai iself did not nearer to the IS quite close actress came :h and poor. s. The man part were on he merry, un- she made her had achieved success, she s to know an- Id looked very loud— no big- al ready shown lay cloud the ing her lovely jemed so fami- )wevs. It was [Was caught by am from a gas- igular, i)assion- xion of Ethel's a great change rent. He stood ures strangely ,elf in his hag- ily in the air, :d madly and of the shouts rnage What of the men on [tempt, and sat with his face It now. It was Ito some extent Id to him in the CHAPTER XXVII. DOUBT. It was a difficult matter for Maurice Kenyon so to word his report to Caspar Brooke as not to excite his dis- pleasure againt Lesley. He felt himself bound to respect Lesley's confidences — if such they might be called — respecting the promise which kept her from returning his love; but he could not help a certain bitterness of tone in referring to his interview with her ; and his friend observed the bitterness. " What reason did she give for refusing you ? " he asked sharply. " I suppose she does not care for me." " There is something else — to judge from your look. Perhaps there is — somebody else ? " said Brooke. " Well, I don't know that I'm doing right in telling you — but — God help me ! — I believe there is," said Maurice, with a groan. " She did not tell you who ? " " No." Mr. Brooke knitted his brows. He was inclined to think that Oliver Trent had produced an impression on Lesley's su.sceptible heart. He could not ask questions of any of the persons concerned ; but he had his suspicions, and they made him angry as well as anxious. He made it his business during the next day or two to find out whether Oliver had been to the house since the day when he had interrupted the interview ; but he could not learn that he had ventured there again. It was no use asking Dr. Sophy about Lesley's comings and goings : it was almost impossible for him to question Lesley herself. " What rubbish it all is — this love-making, marrying, and giving in marriage ! " he said, at last, impatiently, to himself. " I'll think no more about these young folks' affairs — let them make or mar their happiness in their own way. I'll think of my work and nothing else — I've ne- 'I ( ! mr 1^ ,1 1 HI I: 222 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. glected it a good deal of late, I fancy. I must make up for lost time now." And sitting down at his table, he turned over the papers upon it, and took up a quill pen. But he did not begin to write for some minutes. He sat frowning at the paper, biting the feathers of his pen, drumming with his fingers on the table. And after a tim^ he muttered to himself, " If any man harms Lesley, I'll v ring his neck — that's all ; " which did not sound as though he were giving to his literary work all the attention that it required. As to Lesley, she would have given a great deal at that time for a counsellor of some kind. The old feeling of friend- lessness had come back to her. Her aunt was absorbed by her own affairs, her father looked at her with unquiet displeasure in his eyes. Oliver Trent had proved himself a false friend indeed. Ethel was a little reserved with her, and she had sent Maurice Kenyon away. There was nobody else to whom she could turn for comfort. True, she had made many acquaintances by this time : her father's circle was a large one, and she knew more people now than she had ever spoken to in her quiet convent days. But these were all acquaintances — not friends. She could not speak to any one of these about Maurice Kenyon, her lover and her friend. Once or twice she thought vaguely of writing to her mother about him ; but she shrank from doing so without quite knowing why. The fact was, she knew her mother's criticism beforehand : she expected to be reproached with having broken her compact in the spirit if not in the letter ; and she did not know how to justify herself. Maurice had taken his dismissal as final, and she had not meant him to do so. Now, if ever, the girl wanted a friend who would either encourage her to explain her posi- tion to him, or would do it for her. Lady Alice would not fill this post efficiently. And Lesley, in her youthful shamefaced pride, felt that nothing would induce her to make her own explanation to Maurice. It would seem like asking him to ask her again to marry him — an insupport- able thought. So she went about the house pale and heavy-eyed, trying with all her might to throw herself into her father's schemes for his club, writing a little now and then, occupying her- self feverishly with all the projects th"*^ came in her way, but bearing a sad heart about with her all the time. She was not outwardly depressed — her pride would not let her ill ' ' BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 223 I seem melancholy. She held her head high, and talked and laughed more than usual. But the want of color and bright- ness in her face and eye could not be controlled. •* You pale-faced wretch," she said to herself one Satur- day evening, as she stood before her glass and surveyed the fair image that met her eye ; " why cannot you look as usual? It must be this black dress that makes me so colorless : I wish that I had a flower to wear with it." Mr. Brooke and his sister were holding one of their fre- quent Saturday evening parties, when they were " at home " to a large number of guests. Lesley was just about to go downstairs. Her dress was black, for she was in mourning for her grandfather ; and it must be confessed that the sombre hue made her look very pale indeed. The wish for a flower was gratified, however, almost as soon as formed. Kingston entered her room at that moment carry- ing a bouquet of flowers, chiefly white, but with a scarlet blossom here and there, which would give exactlv the touch of color that Lesley's appearance required. " These flowers have just come for you, ma'am," King- ston said quietly. Her subdued voice, her pale face, and heavily shadowed eyes, did not make her a cheerful-looking messenger; but Lesley, for the time being, thought of nothing but the flowers. " Where do they come from, Kingston ? " she asked, eagerly. " I was only to say one word, ma'am — that they came from over the way." There was no want of color now in Lesley's face. Her cheeks were rose-tinted, her eyes had grown strangely bright. " Over the way." Of course that meant Maurice. Did not he live over the way ? — and was there any one else at the Kenyons' house who would send her such lovely flowers ? If he sent her flowers, she reflected, he could not have yet ceased to care for her, although she had behaved so badly to him — in his eyes, at least. The thought gave her courage and content. Perhaps he was coming that night — he had a standing invitation to all the Brookes' evening parties — and when he came he ^^ould perhaps " say some- thing" to her, something \\\\ic\\ she could answer suitably, so as to make him understand. li 111; !: ' 1 224 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. She did not know how pretty she looked as she stood looking down at her flowers, the color and smile and dimples coming and going in her fair young face in very unwonted confusion. But Mary Kingston noted every change of tint and expression, and was surprised. For the little mystery was quite plain to her. It was not Mr. Kenyon who sent the flowers at all. Mr. Kenyon was too busy a man to buy bouquets. It was Oliver Trent who had sent thern, for Kingston had herself seen him carrying the flowers and entrusting them to a commissionnaire with a message for Miss Brooke. She believed, too, that Lesley knew from whom they came. But she was not sufficiently alert and interested just then to make these matters of great impor- tance to her. She did not think it worth her while to say how much she knew. With a short quick sigh she turned away, and expected to see her young mistress quit the room at once, still with that happy smile upon her face. But Lesley had heard the sigh. "Oh, Kingston," she said, laying her hand on the woman's arm, •'* I wish you would not sigh like that ! " " I beg your pardon, ma'am ; I did not mean to annoy you." " I don't mean that : I mean it for your own sake. You seem so sad about something — you have been sad so long ! " " I've had a sad life, Miss Lesley." " But there 's surely some special sadness now ? " " Yes,'' said the woman slowly. " Yes, that is true. I've — lost — a friend." She put a strong emphasis on the word " lost," and paused before and after uttering it, as if it bore a peculiar meaning to her. But Lesley took the word in its ordinary sense. " I am very sorry," she said. " It must be very terrible, I think, when one's friends die." She stood silent for a minute — a shadow from Kingston's grief troubling the sweetness of her fair ftjce. It was the maid who broke the silence. " Excuse me, ma'am ; I oughtn't to have troubled you with my affairs to-night, just when you're enjoying yourself too. But it's hard sometimes to keep quiet." Moved by a sudden instinct of sympathy, Lesley turned and kissed the woman who served her, as if she had been a sister. It was in such ways that she showed her kinship r <\ ■ W BROOKE \S DA UGHTER, 225 with the man who had written '* The Unexplored." I.uly Alice, in spite of all her kindness of heart, would never have thought of kissing her ladies' maid. • "Don't grieve — don't be sorrowful," said Lesley. "Per- haps things will mend by and by." " Ah, my dear," said Kingston, forgetting her position," as Lady Alice would have said, while that young, soft kiss was warm upon her cheek, " the dead don't come back." And when Lesley had gone downstairs, with the white and scarlet bouquet in her hand, Mary Kingston 3at down and wept bitterly. It was not the first lime that Lesley had spoken words of consolation to her ; but on this occasion her gentleness had gone home to Mary Kingston's heart as it had never done before. After weeping for herself for a time, she fell to weeping for Lesley too, for it seemed inevitable to her that Lesley should suffer before very long. She believed that Lesley was in love with Oliver, and that for this reason only had she refused Maurice Kenyon, which shows that Lesley had kept her own secret very well. '* I'd do anything to keep her from harm," said Mary Kingston, with a passionate rush of gratitude towards the girl for her kindly words and ways. " Francis Trent brough me grief enough, God knows ; and if she's going to throw herself away on Oliver, she'll have her heart broke sooner than mine. For I've been used to sorrow all my days ; auv she — poor, pretty lamb — she don't know what it means. And Miss Brooke all taken up with her medi- cine-fads, and Mr. Brooke only a man, after all, in spite of his goodness ; and my lady, her mother, far away and never coming near her — if anybody was friendless and for- lorn, it's Miss Lesley. Only me between her and her ruin, maybe I But I'll prevent it," said the woman, rising to her feet with a strange look of exaltation in her sunken eyes : " I'll guard her from Oliver Trent as I couldn't guard my own sister, poor lass ! I'll see that she does not come to any harm, and if he means ill by her I'll shame him be- fore all the world, even though I break more hearts than one by it." And then she roused herself from her reverie, and went downstairs, where she knew that her presence was required in the tea-room. Scarcely had she entered it, when she made a short pause and gave a slightly perceptible start. 15 ; I- .riP" mmmm 226 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, Hi' ' i ! For there stood Ethel Kenyon, with Oliver Trent in atten- dance. She had not thought that he would come to the house ; a rumor had gone about that he had quarreled with Mr. Brooke ; yet there he was, smiling, bland, irreproach- able as ever, with quite the look of one who had the right to be present. He was holding Ethel's fan and gloves as she drank a cup of tea, and seemed to be paying her every attention in his power. Ethel, in the daintiest of costumes, was laughing and tv*lking to him as they stood together. She was quite unconscious of any reason for his possible absence. Mary Kingston gave them a keen glance as she went by, and decided in her own mind that there was more in the situation than as yet she had understood. Oliver was playing a bold game. His marriage was fixed for the following Tuesday. From Mr. Brooke's atti- tude in general towards the Kenyons, he felt sure that Caspar would not place them in any painful or perplexing situation. He would not, for instance, refuse to welcome Oliver to his house again, if Oliver went in Ethel's com- pany. Accordingly, the young man put his i)ride and his delicacy (if he had either — which is doubtful) in his pocket, and went with his affianced wife to Mr. Brooke's Saturday evening party. " For I will see Lesley again," he said to himself, " and if I do not go to-night I may not have the opportunity. If she would relent, I would not mind throwing Ethel over — I could do it so easily now that Francis has disapjieared. But I would give up Ethel's twenty thousand, if Lesley would go with me instead ! " Little did he guess that only on the previous night had he been recognized and remembered by that missing bro- ther, whose tottering brain was inflamed almost to madness by a conviction of deliberate wrong ; or that this brother was even now upon his track, ready to demand the justice that he thought had been denied him, and to punish the man who had brought him to this evil pass ! Wild and mad as were the imaginings of Francis Trent's bewildered mind, they boded ill to his brother Oliver whenever the two should meet. Meanwhile, Ethel's lover, with a white flower in his but- ton-hole, occupied the whole evening in leaning idly against a wall, and feasting his eyes on the fair face and form — not of his betrothed, but — of Lesley Brooke. !t ! i!l BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. aa; CHAPTER XXVIII. TN MR. BROOKE S STUDY. re was more Caspar Brooke's dingy drawing-room looked cheerful enough that night, filled by a crowd of men and women, and animated by the buzz of c. -istant talk and movement. It was a distinguishing characteristic of his parties that they were composed more of men than of women ; and the guests were often men or women who had done something in the world, and were known foi some special excellence in their work. Lesley generally enjoyed these gatherings very much. The visitors were shabby, unfashionable peo- ple sometimes : they had eccentricities of dress and manner ; but they were always interesting in Lesley's eyes. Literary men, professors, politicians, travelers, philanthropists, fad- dists — these were the folk that mostly frequented Caspar Brooke's parties. Neither artists nor musicians were largely represented : the fiow of talk was rather political and literary than artistic ; and on the whole there were more elderly people than young ones. As a rule, Oliver Trent was not disposed to frequent these assemblies : he shrugged his shoulders at them and called them " slow," but on this occasion he was only too glad to find admittance. It was at least a good opportunity for watching Lesley, as she passed from one group to another, doing the duties of assistant-hostess with grace and tact, giving a smile to one, a word to another, entering into low-toned conversation, which brightened her eyes and flushed her fair cheek, with another. OHver thought her perfection. Beside her stately proportions, Ethel seemed to him ridiculously tiny and insignificant, and her sparkling prettiness was altogether eclipsed by Lesley's calmer beauty. He was not in an amiable mood. He had steeled himself against the dic- tates of his own taste and conscience, to encounter Caspar Brooke's cold stare and freezing word of conventional wel- come, because he longed so intensely for a last word with Lesley ; but he was now almost sorry that he had come. i^mm mm 228 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. Lesley seemed utterly indifferent to his presence. She cer- tainly carried his flowers in her hand, but she did not glance his way. On the contrary, she anxiously watched the door from time to time, as if she awaited the coming of some one who was slow to make his appearance. Who could the person be for whom she looked ? Oliver asked himself jealously. He had not the sliphtest suspicion that she was watching for Maurice Kenyon. And Maurice Kenyon did not come. It was his absence that, as the evening wore on, made the color slip from Lesley's cheeks and robbed her eyes of their first brightness. A certain listlessness came over her. And Oliver, watching from his corner, exulted in his heart, for he thought to himself — '* It is for me she is looking sad ; and if she will but yield her will to mine, I will win and wear her yet, in spite of all who would say me nay." It was a veritable love-madness, such as had not come upon him since the days of his youth. He had had a fairly wide experience of love-making ; but never had he been so completely mastered by his passion as he was now. The consideration that had once been so potent with him — love of ease, money, and position — seemed all to have vanished away. What mattered it that to abandon Ethel Kenyon at the last moment would mean disgrace and perhaps even beggary? He had no care left for thoughts like these. If Lesley would acknowledge her love for him, he was ready to throw all other considerations to the winds. " Sing something, Lesley," her father said to her when the evening was well advanced. " You have your music here ? " Oh, yes, Lesley had her music here. But she glanced a little nervously in Oliver's direction. *' I wonder if Ethel would accompany me," she said. She shrank nervously from the thought of Oliver's accompaniments. But Oliver was too quick for her. He moved forward to the piano as soon as he saw Caspar Brooke's eye upon it. And with his hand on the key-board, he addressed himself suavely to Lesley. " You are going to sing, I hope ? May I not have the pleasure of accompanying you ? " Lesley could not say him nay, but she also could not help a glance, half of alarm, half of appeal, towards her fiROOKT.'S DArCHTFR. 229 She ccr- iie did not ly watched ; conning of ,nce. Who )liver asked jpicion that id Maurice re on, made her eyes of me over her. in his heart, vill hut yield n spite of all ad not come I had a fairly d he been so ; now. The th him— love ave vanished ;thel Kenyon erhaps even ike these. If e was ready • to her when your music le glanced a ier if Ethel Ik nervously Ived forward I's eye upon addressed kot have the could not towards her father. Mr. Brooke's face wore an expression which was not often seen upon it at a social gatliering. It was dis- tinctly stormy — tiiere was a frown upon the brow, and an ominous setting of the lips which more than one person in the room remarked. " How savage Brooke looks ! " one guest murmured into another's oar. " Isn't he friendly with Trent ? " And the words were remembered in after days. But nothing could be said or done lo hinder Oliver from taking his place at the piano, for Lesley did not openly object, and her father could not interfere between her and his own guest. So Lesley sang, and did not sing so well as usual, for her heart failed her a little, partly through vexation and partly through disappointment at Maurice Kenyon's disappearance, but she gave pleasure to her hearers, in spite of what seemed to herself a comparative failure, and when she had finished her song, she was be- sieged by requests that she would sing once more. " Sing ' Thine is my heart,' " Oliver's soft voice mur- mured in her ear. " I have not that song here," said Lesley, quietly. She was not very much discomposed now, but she did not want to encourage his attention. She rose from the music-stool. "My music is downstairs," she said. *'Imust go and fetch it — I have a new song that Ethel has promised to play for me." Oliver bit his lips and stood back as Lesley escaped by the door of the front drawing-room. Mr. Brooke's eye was upon him, and he could not therefore follow her ; but he made his way into the library through the folding doors, and there a new mode of attack became visible to him. By the library door he gained the landing ; and then he softly descended the stairs, which were now almost deserted, for the guests had crowded into the drawing-room, first to hear Lesley's song and then to l^'sten to a recitation by Ethel Kenyon. But where had Lesley gone ? A subtle instinct told him that she had hidden herself for a moment — and told him also where to find her. The h'ghts were burning low in her father's study, which had been set to rights a little, in order to serve as a room where people could lounge and talk if they wanted to escape the din of conversation in the larger rooms. He looked in, and at first thought it empty. But the movement of a cur- tain revealed some one's presence ; and as his eyes became 1 'i 1.. i % 230 nROOKF/S DA UGHTEK. accustomed to tlie dimmer light, he saw tliat it was Lesley. She was standing between the lireplace and curtained win- dow, and her hand waj; on tlie mantelpiece. She started when she saw him in the doorway. It was her start that betrayed her. He came forward and shut the door behind him — Lesley fancied that she heard the click of the key in the lock. She tried to carrv matters with a high hand. "I am afraid I cannot find my music here," she said, " so please do not shut the door, Mr. Trent. There is little enough light as it is." She walked forward, but he had planted himself squarely between her and the door. She could not pass. " Mr. Trent " she began. " Wait ! don't speak," he said, in a voice so hoarse and stifled that she could hardly recognize it as his own. " I must have a word with you — forgive me — I won't detain you long " "Excuse me, I must go back to the drawing-room." Lesley spoke civilly but coldly, though some sort of fear of him passed shiveringly through her frame. " You shall not go yet : you shall listen to what I have to say." " Mr. Trent ! " " Yes, it is all very well to exclaim ! You know what I mean, and what I want. I had not time to speak the other night; but I will speak now. Lesley, I love you I " Mr. Trent, Ethel is upstairs. Have you forgotten her ? Let me pass." *' I have not forgotten her : I remember her only too well. She is the burden, the incubus of my life. Oh, I know all that you can tell me about her : I know her beauty, her gifts, her virtues ; but all that does not charm me. You, you and no other, are the woman that I love ; and, beside you, Ethel is nothing to me at all." "You might at least remember your duty to her," said Lesley, with severity. " You have won her heart, and you are about to vow to make her happy. I cannot understand how you can be so false to her." " If I am false to her/' said Oliver, pleadingly, " I am true to the dictates of my own heart. Hear me, Lesley — pity me ! I have promised to marry a woman whom I do BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, 231 not love. I acknowledge it frankly. I shall never make her happy — strive as I may, her nature will nc assimi- late with mine. She will go through life a disappointed woman ; while, if I set her free, she will find some nr.an whom she loves and will be happy with him. You may as well confess that this is true. You may as well acknow- ledge that her nature is too light, too trivial to be rent asunder by any falsity of mine. Ethel will nev^r break her heart ; but you might break yours, Lesley — and I — I also —have a heart to break." Lesley smiled scornfull\ . " Yours will not break very easily," she said, '* and I can answer for mine." " You are strong," he said, using the formula by which men know how to soften women's hearts, " stronger than I am. Be merciful, Lesley ! I am very weak, I know ; but weakness means suffering. Can you not pity me, when you think that my weakness and my suffering come from love of you ? " " I am very sorry, Mr. Trent, but I really cannot help it. It is your own fault — not mine," said Lesley, a little hotly. " I never thought of such a thing." " No, you were as innocent and as good as you always are," he broke in, **and you did not know what you were doing when you led me on with those sweet looks and sweet words of yours. I can believe that. But you did the mischief, Lesley, without meaning it ; and you must not refuse to make amends. You made me think you loved me." " Oh, no, no," said Lesley, her face aflame with outraged modesty. " I never made you think so ! You were mis- taken — that is all ! " " You made me think you loved me," Oliver repeated, doggedly, " and you owe me amends. To say the very least, you have given me great pain : you have made me the most miserable of men, and wrecked all chance of happi- ness between Ethel and myself — have you no heart that you can refuse to repair a little of the harm that you have done? You are a cruel woman — I could almost say a wicked woman : hard, false, and cowardly ; and I wish my words could blight your life as your coquetry has blighted mine." Lesley trembled. No woman could listen to such words unmoved, when her armor of increduHty fell from her as Lesley's armor had fallen. Hitherto she had felt a scorn- % A^-iSffss^ssssSiS^si--' h '-aaM iiiiil lljj: ili ilill ! l! .Ill I ; t li! ' ass BROOKE 'S DA UGIITER. ful disbelief in the reality of Oliver's love for her. But now that disbelief had gone. There was a ring of passionate feeling in Oliver's tones which could not be simulated. The coldness, the artificiality of the man had disappeared : his passion for Lesley had taken possession of him, and stirred his nature to the very depths. " Listen, Lesley," he said, in a low, strained voice, which shook and vibrated with the intensity of his emotion, " don't let me feel this. Don't let me feel that you have merely played with me, and are ready to cast me off like an old shoe when you are tired. Other women do that sort of thing ; but not you, my darling ! — not you — don't let me think it of you. Forgive me the harsh things I said, and help me — help me — to forget them." He had grasped the back of a chair with both hands, and was kneeling with one knee on the seat? he now stretched out his hands to her, and came forward as if to take her in his arms. But Lesley drew back. " I am very sorry," she said, " but I cannot help it. I did not mean to be unkind." " If you are really sorry for me," he said, still in the deep-shaken voice which moved her to so uneasy a sense of pain and wrong-doing, " you will do all you can for me. You will help me to begin a new life. I love you so much that I am sure I could teach you to love me. I am certain of it, Lesley — dearest — let me try ! " Did she falter for a moment ? There flashed over her the remembrance of Maurice's anger, of his continued absence, of the probability that he would never CD-^-ne back to her ; and the dream of a tender love that could envelop the rest of her lonely life assailed her like a temptation. She hesitated, and in that moment's pause Oliver drew nearer to her side. " Kiss me, Lesley ! " he whispered, and his head bent over hers, his lips almost touched her own. Then came the reaction — the awakening. " Oh, no, no ! Do not touch me. Do not come neiar me. I do not love you. And if I did "—said Lesley, almost violently — " if I loved you more than all the world, do you think that I would betray Ethel, my friend ? that I would be so false to her — and to myself? " " Then you do love me ? " he murmured, undisturbed by her vehemence, which he did not think boded ill for his chances, after all. BROOKE 'S DA UGH TER. •at " No, I do not." " You are mistaken. Kiss me once, Lesley, and you will know. You will feel your love then." " You insult rne, Mr. Trent. Love you ? Come one step nearer and I shall hate you. Oh ! " she said, recoiling, as a gleam from the lamp revealed to her the wild expression in his eyes, the tension of his white lips and nostrils, the strange transformation in those usually impassive features which revealed the brutal nature below the polished sur- face of the man, " I hate you now ! " She was close to the wall, and her head came in sudden contact with the old-fashioned bell-rope. She seized it firmly. " Open the door," she aaid, " or I shall ring this bell and send for my father. He will know what to do." Oliver gazed at her for a minute or two, then, with a smothered oath upon his lips, he turned slowly to the door and opened it. Before leaving the room, however, he said, in a voice half-stifled by impotent passion — " Is this really your last word? " " The last I shall ever speak to you," said Lesley, reso- lutely. Then he went out, seizing his hat as he passed through the hall and made his way into the street. He did not notice, as he retired, that a woman's figure was only half- concealed behind the curtains that screened a door in the study, and that his interview with Lesley must therefore have had an unseen auditor. He forgot that Ethel and Rosalind waited for him above. He was mad with rage ; deaf to all voices saving those of passion : blind to all sights save the visions that floated maddeningly before his eyes. Mad, blind, deaf to reason as he was, he was obliged to come back to earth and its realities before very long. For he was stopped in the streets by rough hands : a hoarse, passionate voice uttered threats and curses in his ear ; and he found himself face to face with his long-vanished and half-forgotten brother, Francis Trent. I m m SKOOKE'ii DAUGHTER, low CHAPTER XXIX. BROTHERS. "What do you want with me? "said Oliver trying to shake off the rude grasp. '* I want you — you," gasped the man. He was evidently much excited, and his breath came in hard, quick pants. ** Have you forgotten your own brother? " The two paused for an instant under a gas lamp. Oliver looked into Francis Trent's drawn, livid face — into the wild, bloodshot eyes, and for an instant recoiled. It struck him that the face was that of a madman. But it was, nevertheless, the face of his brother, and after that moment- ary pause he recovered himself and laughed slightly. " Forgotten you ? I'm not very likely to forget you, my boy. Well, what do you want ? " ** I want that two thousand pounds." His hand still clutched Oliver's arm, and the grasp was becoming unpleasant. *' Can you not take your hand off my arm ? " said th<^ younger man, coolly. " I'm not going to run away. Apro- pos, what have you been doing with yourself all these weeks ! I thought you had given us the slip altogether." " I want my money," said Francis, doggedly. Oliver looked at him curiously. What did this persist- ence mean ? What money was he thinking about ? " Your money ? " he repeated. " Yes, my money — the money you ought to have given me by this time — where is it ? " " You mean the sum I promised you on my wedding- day ? " Francis nodded, with a rather confused look upon his face. " My wedding-day has not occurred yet," said Oliver, lightly. " Upon -my word, I doubt whether it ever will occur. Don't alarm yourself, Francis. I shall get the money for you before long — I've not forgotten it." BROOKE'S DAUGHTER, •35 !r trying to s evidently lick pants. np. Oliver I — into the . It struck But it was, at moment- htly. jet you, my grasp was ? " said tlK vay. AprO' all these together." his persist- ut? lave given ^ wedding- upon his id Oliver, ever will 11 get the " I want it now. Two thousand pounds," said Franciii, thickly. " Are you drunk, man ! Do you think I carry two thousand pounds about with mc in my pocket ? Go home — I'll see vou again when you are sober." " I have touched nothing but water to-day," said his brother. ** I swear it — so help me, God ! I know what I'm about. And I know you. I know you for the vilest cheat and trickster that ever walked the earth. I've been in hospital — I don't know how long. I know that you would cheat me if you could. You were to pay me within six months — and it's over six months now." *' I tell you I'm not married. I was to pay you on my wedding-day." " You were to pay me within six months. Have you opened a bank account for me and paid in the two thou- sand pounds ? " " Are you mad, Francis ? " " Mad ? — I may well be mad after all you have made me suffer. I tell you I want money — money — money — I want two thousand pounds." His voice rose almost to a shriek, and the sound rever- berated along the quiet street with startling effect. Oliver shrank into himself a little, and gave a hurried glance around him. Tliey were still in Upper Woburn Place, and he was afraid that the noise should excite remark. It was plain to him that Francis was either drunk or out of his mind, and he therefore concentrated his attention on getting quietly away from him, or leading him to some more secluded spot. ** Look here," he said, in a conciliatory tone. " You shall have your money if you'll be quiet and come away with me. Come to my house and I'll explain things to you. You've not seen Rosalind for a long time, have you ? Come in and talk things over." " Oh, you want to trap me, do you ? " said Francis, sullenly. '* No, I'll not come to your house. Go in and fetch the money out to me, or I'll make you repent it." Oliver was almost at his wit's end. *• All right," he said, soothingly. *' I will fetch it. I can give you a cheque, you know. But don't you want a little loose change to go on with? Take these." He held out a handful of gold and silver. Francis looked at it with covetous eyes for a minute or two, then thrust tomuk wmmm SSSSSSESK^Ssa^tdf-.tj-sia-ri-j ^6 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. iiiiiiiii his brother's hand aside with a jerk which almost sent the coins into the road. " I want justice, not charity," he said. " I want the money you promised me." Oliver shrugged his shoulders, and slowly returned the money to his pocket. " I am more than ever convinced that you are either mad or drunk, my boy," he said. "You should never refuse ten pounds when you can get it, and it's not a thing that I should fancy you have often done before. However, as you choose." He walked onward, and Francis walked, heavily and unsteadily, at his side, muttering to himself as he went. Oliver glanced curiously at him from lime to time. " I wonder what has happened to him," he said to him- self. " It's not safe to question, but I should like to km v. Is it drink ? or is it brain disease ? One thing or the other it must be. He does not look as if he would live to spend the two thousand pounds — if ever he gets it. I wonder if I could contrive to stave off the payment " And then he fell into a gloomy calculation of ways and means, possibilities and chances, which lasted until the house in Russell Square was reached. Here the brothers paused, and Oliver looked keenly into his companion's face, noting that a somewhat remarkable change had passed over It. Instead of being flushed and swollen, as if from drinking, it had become very pale. His eyes seemed on the point of closing, and he wavered unsteadily in his walk. Oliver had to put out his hand to save him from falling, and to help him to the steps, where he collapsed into a sitting posture, with his head against the railings. He seemed to be stupefied, if not asleep. " Dead drunk," said Oliver to himself. " The danger's over for to-night, at any rate. Now, what shall I do with him ? I can't get hiin into the house and lock him into a room — that would make talk. I think I had better leave him to the tender mercies of the next policeman ; if he gets run in for being drunk and incapable, so much the better for me." He took out his latch key and let himself into the house, closing the door softly behind him, so as not to awaken the half-sleeping wretch upon the steps. Then he ascend- ed the stairs — still softly, as if he thought that he was not BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 237 lost sent the " I want the Bturned the are either lould never id it's not a lone before. heavily and as he went, me. aid to him- ike to km v. hing or the juld live to gets it. I trment " ' ways and 1 until the he brothers nion's face, lad passed as if from seemed on idily in his him from collapsed ie railings. le danger's I do with lim into a etter leave ; if he gets the better the house, to awaken he ascend- le was not yet out of danger of awaking him — and locked himself into his own room. Then he drew a long breath, and stood motionless for a moment, with bent brows and downcast eyes. " There will be no end to this," he said to himself, " until Francis is shipped off to America or landed safely in a madhouse. One seems to me about as likely as another. I wonder whether he was drunk to-night, or insane ? Drunk, I think : insanity " — with a sinister smile — " would be too great a stroke of luck for me ! " But it was perfectly true, as Francis had said, that no drop of intoxicating liquor had passed his lips that day. He was suffering from brain disease, as Oliver had half suspected, although not to such an extent that he could actually be called insane. A certain form of mania was gradually taking possession of his mind. He was con- vinced that he had been robbed by his brother of much that was his due ; and that Oliver was even now withhold- ing money that was his. This fancy had its foundation in fact, for Oliver had wronged him more than once, and was ready to wrong him again should a suitable opportunity occur ; but the notion that at present occupied his mind, respecting the payment of the two thousand pounds, was largely a figment of his disordered brain. Oliver had cer- tainly questioned within himself whether he should be called upon to pay this sum, and as Francis seemed to have 'completely disappeared, he began to think that he might evade his promise to do so ; but he bad not as yet sought to free himself from the necessity of paying it. Francis* own words and demeanor suggested this idea for the first time to his mind. Was it possible, he asked himself, to prove that Francis was insane — clap him into a lunatic asylum — get rid of him forever without hush- money ? True, there was his wife, Mary, to be silenced ; but she had no influence and no friends. " Power is always in the hands of those who have most money," Oliver said to himself, as he reviewed the situation, after leaving Francis on the door step. " I have more money than Francis, certainly : I ought to be able to control his fate a little — and my own." But Oliver, astute as he thought himself, was occasion- ally mistaken in his conclusions. Frarxis Trent, as we have said, was not intoxicated ; and when he had dozed quietly for a few moments on the door-step, he came some- n I 33« BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. what to himself, as he usually did after these f.ts of frenxj. He felt dazed and bewildered, but he was no longer furious. He could not remember very well what he had said to Oliver, or what Oliver had said to him. But he knew where he was, and that in this region — between Russell Square and St. Pancras Church — he should find his truest friends and perhaps also his bitterest foes. He roused himself, stretched his cramped limbs, and turned back to wander towards" Upper Woburn Place, hard- ly knowing, however, why he bent his steps in that direction. Instinct, not memory or reflection, guided him, and when he halted, he leaned against the railings of the house from which he had seen Oliver come forth, without realizing for one moment that it was the house in which his faithful and half-forgotten Mary was to be found. The door open'id, as he waited, and some of the guests came out. Two or three carriages drove up: there was a call for a hansom, a whistle, and an answering shout. Fran- cis Trent watched the proceedings with a sort of stupid attention. They reminded him of the previous night when he had seen Ethel Kenyon coming out of the theatre after her farewell performance. But on that occasion he had passed unnoticed and unrecognized. This was not now to be the case. Suddenly a woman on the threshold of Mr. Brooke's h9use caught sight of the weary, shabby figure leaning against the railings. Francis heard a little gasp, a little cry, and felt a hand upon his own. " Francis ! is it you ? have you really come back ? " It was Mary Kingston who looked him in the face. He returned the gaze with lack-lustre, unseeing eyes. When the fever-fit of rage left him, he was still subject to odd lapses of memory. One of these had assailed him now. He did not recognize his wife in the very least. ** I — I don't know you," he said. *' Go away, woman. I'm not doing any harm." There is nothing so piteous as the absence of recognition of the patient's best friends in cases of brain-disease. Francis Trent's condition sent a stab of pain to Mary's innermost heart. She forgot where she was — she forgot her duties as doorkeeper ; she remembered only that she loved this man, and that he had forgotten her. She cried aloud " Francis, I am your wife." BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. ^39 " I hav^ no wife," said the distraught man, looking list- lessly beyond her. " I am hcic to see Oliver — he is to give me some money." " Don't you remember Mary, Francis ? Look at me — look at me." " Mary ? " he said, doubtfully. *' Oh, yes, I remember Mary. But you are not Mary, are you ? " " Yes, indeed I am. Where have you been all this time ? Oh, my poor dear, you can't tell me ! You are ill, Francis. Let me take care of you. Can you tell me where you live?" But he could not reply. His head drooped upon his breast : he looked as if he neither saw nor heard. What was she to do ? Of one thing Mary was certain. Now that she had found her husband, she v/as not going to lose sight of him again. She would go with him whithersoever he went, unless he repelled her by force. She gave one regretful thought to her young mistress, and to a certain project which she had determined to put into effect that night, and then she thought of the Brookes no more. She must leave them, and follow her husband's fortunes. There was no other way for her. Fortunately she had money in her pocket. She had also thrown a shawl across her arm before she came to the door. The shawl belonged to Miss Brooke, and had been offered to one of the guests as a loan ; but Mary had forgotten all about the guests, and appropriated the shawl, with the cool reso- lution which characterized her in cases of emergency. Ne- cessity — especially the necessity entailed by love-^knows no law. At that moment she knew no law but that of her repressed and stunted, but always abiding, affection for the husband who had burdened her life for many weary years with toil and anxiety and care. For him she would do any- thing — throw up all friendships, sacrifice her future, her character, and, if need be, her life. She wrapped the shawl round her head, and put her arm through her husband's, without once looking back. *' Come, Francis," she said, quietly, " show me where you live now. We will go home." She led him unresistingly away. Fpr a little while he walked as if in a dream ; but by and by his movements became more assured, and be tumecl so deii DAUGHTER. %^\ CHAPTER XXX. now. Ycu'U MRS. Trent's story. " I never heard of such an extraordinary thing," said Les- ley. " Then that shows how little you know of the world," said Doctor Sophy, amicably. " I've heard of a hundred cases of the kind." " Well, there are some elements of oddity in this case," remarked Caspar Brooke, striking in with unexpected readiness to defend his daughter's views. " Kingston was not a giddy young girl, who would go off with any man who made love to her. Indeed, I can't quite fancy any man making love to her at all. She was remarkably plain, poor woman." " She had beautiful eyes," said Lesley. " And she was so nice and quiet and kind. And I really thought that slie was — fond of me." She paused before she uttered the last three words, being a little afraid that they would be thought sentimental. And indeed Miss Brooke did give a contemp- tuous snort, but Caspar smiled kindly, and patted his daughter's hand. ** Don't take it to heart," he said. '* * Fondness ' is a very indeterminate term, and one that you must not scru- tinize too closely. This little black beast, for instance " — caressing, as he spoke, the head of the ebony-hued cat which sat upon the arm of his chair — " which I picked up half-starving in the street when it was a kitten, is fond of me because I feed it : but suppose that I were too poor to give it milk and chicken-bones, do you think it would retain any affection for nie ? A sublimated cupboard-love is all that we can expect now-a-days from cats — and servants." " When you can write as you do about love," said Lesley, who was coming to know her father well enough to tease him now and then, " I wonder that you dare venture to express yourself in this cold-blooded way in our hear- ing ! " 16 N! 1. -J' ■' ■'^''~' "' ■'■ rnfflii: 242 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. W. *• Ah, but, my dear, I was not talking about love," said Caspar, lightly. ** I was talking about * fondness,' which is a very different matter. You did not say that your maid, Kingston, lovedyoxx — I suppose she was hardly likely to go that length — you said that she was fond of you. Very probably. But fondness has its limits." Lesley smiled in reply, and did not utter the thought that occurred to her. What she really believed was that Kingston was not only *' fond " of her, after the instinctive fashion of a dumb creature that one feeds, but loved her, as one woman loves another. Although her democratic feelings came to her through her father's teaching, or by inheritance from him, she did not quite like to say this to him : he might think it foolish to believe that a servant whom she had not known for very many weeks actually loved her; and yet she had the conviction that Kingston's attachment was deeper and more sincere than that of many a woman who claimed to be her friend. And she was both grieved and puzzled by Kingston's disappearance. For this was on Monday morning, and the woman had not come back to Mr. Brooke's. Great had been the as- tonishment of every one in the house when it was found that the quiet, well-spoken, well-behaved Mary Kingston, who had hitherto proved herself so trustworthy and so con- scientious, had gone away — disappeared utterly and en- tirely, without leaving a word of explanation behind. She had last been seen on the pavement, shortly before mid- night, assisting a lady to get into a hansom. Nobody had seen her re-enter the house. It seemed as if she had been spirited away. She had gone without a bonnet or shawl, in her plain black dress and white cap and apron, as if she meant to return in a minute or two, and she had not appeared again. The shawl that she had taken with her was not missed, for Miss Brooke continued for some lime under the impression that it had been lent to one of the visitors. The conversation recorded above took place at Mr. Brooke's luncheon-table. It was not often that he was present at this meal, but on this occasion he bad joined his sister and daughter, and questioned then with considerable interest about Kingston. After lunch, he put his hand gently on Lesley's arm, just as she was leaving the dining- room, and said, in a tone where sympathy was veiled with banter— BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 243 ** Never mind, my dear. We will get you another maid, who will be less fond of you, " ^d then perhaps she will stay." " I don't want another maid, thank you, papa. And, indeed, I do think Kingston was fond of me," said Lesley earnestly. Mr. Brooke shrugged his shoulders. " Verily," he said, ** the credulity of some women " " But it isn't credulity," said Lesley, with something between a smile and a sigh, '* it is faith. And I can't altogether disbelieve in poor Kingston — even now." Mr. Brooke shook his head, but made no rejoinder. Privately he thought Lesley foolishly mistaken, but believed that time would do its usual office in correcting the mis- takes of the young. His own incredulity received a considerable shock some- what later in the day. About four o'clock a knock came to his study, and the knock was followed by the appearance of the sour-visaged Sarah. " If you please, sir, there's that woman herself wants to see you." " What woman, Sarah ? " said Caspar, carelessly. He was writing and smoking, and did not look up from his work. '* The woman, Kingston, that ran away," said Sarah, in- dignantly. " I nearly shut the door in her face, sir, I did." *' That wouldn't have been legal." said Mr. Brooke. *' Why doesn't she see Miss Brooke or Miss Lesley? I am busy." " I expect she thinks she can get round you more easy," said Sarah, who was a very old servant, and occasionally took liberties with her master and mistress. " She won't do that, Sarah," said Caspar, laughing a little in spite of himself. " Show her in." He laid down his pen and his pipe with a rather weary air. Really, he was becoming involved in no end of do- mestic worries, and with few compensations for his trouble ! Such was his silent thought. Lesley would shortly leave him : Alice had refused to come back to his house. Well, it would be but for a short time. He had almost made up his mind that when Lesley was gone he would give up a house altogether, establish his sister in a flat, throw journalism U2!_iZ.-i-i:.i";^i=as£!iir»itK^Jra*ia«TBi 244 BK00h/:\S DAUGHTER. to the winds, and go abroad. The life that he had led so long, the life of London offices and streets, of the study and the committee-room, had become distasteful to him. As he thrust away from him the manuscript at which he had been busy, his lips were, half unconsciously, murmuring a very well-worn quotation — " For I will see before I die, The palms .and temples of the South." And from this passing day-dream he was roused by the entrance of a woman whom he knew only as his daughter's maid. He was struck at once by some indefinable change that had passed over her since he had seen her last. He had noticed her, as he noticed everybody that came within his ken ; and he had remarked the mechanical precision of her demeanor, the dull sadness of her lifeless eyes. There was a light in her face now, a tremulous quiver of her lips, a slight color in her thin cheeks. She looked like a creature who could feel and think : not an automaton, worked by ingenious machinery. He noted the change, but did not estimate it at its true worth. He thought she was simply excited by the con- sciousness of her misdemeanor, and by the prospect of an interview with him. He put on his most magisterial manner as he spoke to her. " Well, Kingston," he said, *' I hope you have come to explain the cause of the great inconvenience you have brought upon Miss Brooke and my daughter." "That is exactly what I have come to do, sir," said Kingston, looking him full in the face, and speaking in clear, decided tones, such as he had never heard from her before. She generally spoke in a muffled sort of way, as though she did not care to exert herself — as though she did not want her true voice to be heard. " Sit down," said Mr. Brooke, more kindly. He had the true gentleman's instinct ; he could not bear to see a woman stand while he was seated, although she was only his daughter's maid, and — presumably — a culprit awaiting condemnation. '' Now tell me all about it." " Thank you, sir, I'd prefer to stand," said Kingston, quietly. " At any rate, until I've told you one or two BROO/CJi'S DAUGHTER. 245 id led so itudy and tn. As he had been tig a very sd by the laughter's ange that He had vithin his :cision of is. There f her lips, I creature orked by t its true the con- ect of an iigisterial come to ^ou have jir," said aking in rom her way, as gh she iHe had Ito see a i^as only [.waiting Ingston, or two things about myself. To begin with : my name was Kings- ton before my marriage, bnt it's not Kingston now." " Do you mean that you have got married since Satur- day ? " asked Caspar, quietly. The woman uttered a short, gasping sort of laugh. " Since Saturday ? Oh, no, sir. I've been married for the last six years, or more. I am Francis Trent's wife — Francis the brother of Mr. Oliver Trent, who was here last Saturday night." And then, overcome with her confession, or with the look of mute astonishment — which he could not j <;press — on Caspar Brooke's countenance, she dropped into the chair that he had offered her, covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud. It took her hearer some seconds before he could adjust his mind to this new revelation. " Do you mean," he said at last, " that brother of Mr. Trent's " — he had nearly said * of Mrs. Romainc's " — " who — who " He paused, feeling unable to put into words the question that was in his mind. " That got into trouble some years ago, you mean," said Mrs. Trent, lifting her face from her hands, and trying to control her trembling voice. "Yes, I mean him. I know all about the story. He got into trouble, and he's gone from bad to worse ever since. I've done my best for him, but it doesn't seem as if I could do much more now." "Why?" " He's been ill — I think he's had an accident — ^but I don't rightly know what's been the matter with him. Mr. Brooke, sir, I hope you'll believe me in what I say. When I came here first I didn't know that you were friends with his sister and his brother, or I wouldn't have come near the place. And when I found it out I'd got fond of Miss Lesley, and thought it would be no harm to stay." " But what — what on earth — made you take a situation as ladies'-maid at all ? " cried Caspar, pulling his beard in his perplexity, as he listened to her story. " I wanted to earn money. He could not work — and I could not bear to see him want." " Could not work? Was it not a matter of the will? He could have worked if he had wished to work," said Mr, Brooke, rather sternly. " Tliat Francis Trent should let his wife go out as " "Oh, well, it was work I was used to," said Francis Trent's wife, patiently. " I'd been in service when I was « '(' a^6 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. a girl, and knew something about it. And it was honest work. There's plenty of ways of earning money which are worse than being a servant in your house, and to Miss Lesley, too." Lesley's words came back to Caspar's mind. She had had ** faith" in Kingston's attachment, and her faith seeiined now to be justified. Women's instincts, as Caspar acknow- ledged to himself, are in some ways certainly juster than those of men. " Is he not strong ? Is there no sort of work that he can do?" he demanded, with asperity. ** If you had come to me at the beginning and told me who you were, I might have found something for him. It is not right that his wife should be waiting upon my daughter. Tell me what he can do." " I don't think he can do much now," was Mary Trent's answer. ** He's very much broken down. I daresay you wouldn't know him if you saw him. I don't think he could do a day's work, so there's' all the more reason that I should work for both." She spoke truly enough as regarded the present ; but, by a suppression of the truth which was almost heroic she concealed the fact that for many years Francis had been able but unwilling to work. Now, certainly, he was inca- pacitated, and she spoke as if he had been an invalid for years. Thus Caspar Brooke undei stood her, and his next words were uttered in a gentler tone. " I am very sorry that you should have been brought into these straits, Mrs. Trent. Will you give me your address, and let me think over the matter? Mrs. Komaine or Mr. Oliver Trent " " I'd rather not have anything to do with them," said Mrs. Trent, quietly, but with an involuntary lifting of her head. " Mrs. Romaine knows I am his wife, but she won't speak to me or see me." Caspar moved uneasily in his chair. This account of Rosalind's behavior did not coin- cide v/ith his own idea of her softness and gentleness. "And Oliver Trent is the man who has brought more misery on me than any other man in the world." "But if I promise — as I will do — not to give your address to Mrs. Romaine or Mr. Trent, will you not let me know where you live?" said Caspar, with the gentle intonation that had often won him his way in spite of greater obstacles than poor Mary Trent's obstinate will. BROOKE'S DAVGHTER. 247 She had th seemed r acknow- jster than bat he can d come to e, I might at his wife hat he can iry Trent's aresay you jk he could >on that I isent ; but, heroic she s had been was inca- invaUd for nd his next en brought me your Romaine them," said fting of her t she won't asily in his id not coin- gentleness. 3ught more our address et me know : intonation of greater il. She gave him her address, after a little hesitation. It was in a Whitechapel slum. Then, seeing in his face that he would have liked to ask more questions, she went on hurriedly — ** But I have not come here to take up your time. I only wanted to explain to you why I left your house on Saturday — whicli I'm very sorry to have been obliged to do. And one other thing — but I'll tell you that afterwards." " Well? Why did you go on Saturday, Mrs. Trent? " said Mr. Brooke, more curious than he would have liked to allow. But she did not reply as directly to his question as he \/anted her to do. *' I was only a poor girl when Francis married me," she said, " but I loved him as true as any one could have loved, and I would have worked my fingers to the bone for him. And he was good to me, in his way. He goi to depend upon me and trust to me ; and I used to feel — especially when he'd had a little more than he ought to have — as if he was more of a child to me than a husl)and. It was to provide for him that I came here. And then — one day when I'd been here a little while — I went to his lodgings to give him some money I'd been saving up for him — and I found him gone — gone — without a word — without a message — disappeared, so to speak, and me left behind to be miserable." Caspar ejaculated *' Scoundrel ! " behind his hand, but Mrs. Trent heard and caught up the word. " No, you're wrong, sir, he was no scoundrel," she said calmly. ** He'd met with an accident and been taken to an hospital. He was there for weeks and weeks, not able to give an account of himself, or, as far as I can make out, even to give his name. He came out last week, and made his way, by sort of instinct, to your house, where he knew I was living. I came out on the steps and saw him there —my husband that I'd given up for lost. I ran up to him — you'd have done' the same in my place — and went with him without thinking of anybody else." " I see. But why did you not leave a word of explana- tion behind. " I daren't quit hold of him for a moment, sir. He was so dazed and stupid, he didn't even know me a. the first. That was why I say it was instinct, not knowledge, that guided him to the place. If I had left him to speak to M JiKOOKF:s DAUGHTER. f any one in the house, he might have gone off, and I never seen him again. That was why I felt obliged to goi sir, and am very sorry for the inconvenience I know I must have caused." Caspar nodded gravely. '* I see," he said. " Of course it was inconvenient, and we were anxious — there's no denying that. But I can see the matter from your point of view. Would you like to see Miss Lesley and explain it to her?" " I'd rather leave it in your hands, sir," said Mary Trent. *' Because there's one thing more I've got to mention before I go. And Miss Lesley may not thank me for mentioning it, although I do it to save her — poor lamb — and to save you too, sir, from a great trouble and sorrow and disgrac that hangs over you all just now." Caspar flushed. " Disgrace? " he said, almost angril And Mrs. Trent looked at him full in the face ar nodded gravely, as she answered— ** Yes, sir, disgrace." "'«'' CJ nd I riever to go.' sir, ow I must « Of course there's no your point ind explain lary Trent, ition before mentioning and to save nd disgrac ost angril e face ar Hh'oowr.s />.//'-day, but I ink I asked " I always ere perfectly on the arm. as ' fond ' of le ' ways and covering her d you when ration," said aillerv, " and vay of letting .oking keenly ler father did ;ried, with a discover, ht of Maurice She had long t, but had not effort to be der to tell ire al," she said, e you refused id not ask me " Nonsense, Lesley. A plain answer to a plain question is easy to give. Are you in love with any one else? " " No, indeed," she answered, vehemently ; " I am not And then, for some inexplicable reason, she stopped short. " ' Not in love with any one ' was what she was going to say," said Caspar to himself, as he watched with keen eyes the changes of color and expression in her face. " And she does not dare to say it after all. What does that mean ? " But he did not say this aloud. ** You don't care for Maurice, then ? " he asked her. She drew herself away from him and colored hotly, but made no other reply. " My dear," said Caspar, half jestingly, half warningly, " you must let nie remind you that silence is usually taken to mean consent." And even then she did not speak. '* Really, of all incomprehensible creatures, women are the worst. Well, well ! Tell me this, at any rate, Lesley ;: you have not given your heart to Oliver Trent? " *• Father ! how can you ask ? " '* Have you anything to complain of with respect to him ? Has he always behaved to you with courtesy and consideration ? " " I would rather not say," Lesley answer d, bravely. ** He — spoke as I did not like — once — or tWioa ; but it is his wedding-day to-morrow, and I mean to forget it all." " Once or twice ! When was the last time, child ? On Saturday? Here in this room? Ah, I see the truth in your face. Never mind how I know it. I want to know nothing more. Now you can go : I am busy, and shall probably have to be out late to-night." With these words he led the girl gently out of the room, kissed her on the forehead before he shut the door, and then returnea to his work. He did not dine with his sister and Jaughter, but sent a message of excuse. Later in the evening, Sarah reported to Miss Brooke that "Master had gone out, looking very nuich upset about something or other ; and he'd taken !iis overcoat and his big stick, which showed, she supposed, that he was off to the slums he was so fond of." Sarah did not approve of slums. 356 jBA'OOA'£'S daughter. CHAPTER XXXII. ETHEL KENYON's WEDDING-DAY. The morning of Ethel Kenyon's \vedding-clay was as bright and sunny as a ly wedding day had need to be. The weather was unusually warm, and the trees were al- ready showing the thin veil of green which is one of spring's first heralds in smoky London town. The window - boxes in the Square were gay with hyacinth and crocus- blossom. The flower-girls' baskets were brilliaiu with ** market bunches " of wall-flowers and daffodils — these be- ing the signs by which the dwellers in the streets know that the winter is over, that the time of the singing of birds has come, and that the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. The soft breezes blew a fragrance of violets and lilac- blossom from the gardens and the parks. London scarcely looked like itself, with the veil of smoke lifted away, and a fair blue sky, flecked with light silvery cloud, showing above thie chimney-tops. Ethel was up at seven o'clock, busying herself with the last touches to her packing and the consideration of her toilet ; for she was much too active-minded to care for the seclusion in which brides sometimes preserve themselves upon their wedding-mornings. Some people might have thought that it would not be a very festive day, for her brother was the only near relative who remained to her, and an ancient uncle and aunt who had been, as Ethel herself phrased it, " routed out " for the occasion, were not likely to add much to the gaiety of nations by their presence. Mrs. Durant, lately Ethel's companion, was to remain in the house as Maurice's housekeeper, and she had nominally the control of everything ; but Ethel was still the veritable manager of the day's arrangements. She had insisted on having her own way in all respects, and Oliver was not the man to say her nay — ^just then. Mrs. Romaine had offered to stay the night with her, and help her to dress ; but Ethel had smilingly refused BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 257 y was as ed to be. ;s were al- is one of le window - nd crocus- lliani with —these be- know that if birds has n the land, and lilac- on scarcely Lway, and a d, showing elf with the ition of her care for the themselves might have ay, for her ined to her, n, as Ethel asion, were ns by their lion, was to ler, and she t Ethel was ments. She ispects, and len. .t with her, ,ngly refused the companionship of her fulurc sister-in-law. "Thank:-, very much," she had said, in the light and airy wa) wliich look the sting out of words that might otlicrwise have hurt their hearer; "but 1 don't tliink there's anything in which I want help, and Lesley Brooke is going to act as my maid on the eventfiil morn itself." "Lesley Brooke?" said Mis. Roniaine. She could not altogether keeiJ the astonishment out of her voice. " Ves, why not ? " asked Ethel, witli just so much deli- ance in her voice as to put Mrs. Romaine considerably on her guard. " Have you any objection ? " " Dear Ethel, how can you ask such a thing ? When you know how fond I am of Lesley." ** Are you ? " asked Miss Kenyon lightly. " Do you know I should never have thought it, somehow. / am exceedingly fond of Lesley, and so " — with a little more color in her face than usual — " so is Oliver." Bravely as she spoke, there was something in the accent which told of effort and repression. Mrs. Romaine ad- mired her for that little piece of acting more than she had ever admired her upon the stage. She was too anxious for her brother's prosperity to say a word to disturb Ethel's serenity, whether it was real or assumed. '* I am so glad, dear," she said, sweetly. " Lesley is a dear girl, and thoroughly good and loving. I am quite sure you could not have a better friend, and she will be delighted to do anything she can for you." '' I don't know about that," said Ethel, with a little pout. " I had a great deal of trouble to get her to promise to come. She made all sorts of excuses — one would have thought that she did not want to see me married at all." Which, Rosalind thought, might be very true. She had so strong a faith in the power of her brother's fascinations that she could not believe that he had actually " made love," as he had threatened, to Lesley Brooke without success. Ethel spoke truly when she said that she had had great; difficulty in persuading Lesley to come. After what had passed between herself and Oliver, Lesley felt herself a traitress in Ethel's presence. It seemed to her at first impossible to talk to Ethel about her pretty wedding gifts, her trousseau and her wedding tour, or to listen while she swore fidelity to Oliver Trent, when she knew what she as8 BROOKE'S DAUGHrEK. n did know concerning the bridegroom's faith and honor. On the Sunday after the Brookes' evening party she had a very severe headache, and sent word to Ethel that she could not possibly come to her on the morrow. But Ethel immediately came over to see her, and poured forth ques- tions, consolations, and laments in such profusion that Lesley, half blind and dazed, was fain to get rid of her by promising afain that nothing should keep her away. And on ^" "^nd" le headache had gone, and she had no excuse. It w ! n .t n Lesley's nature to simulate: she could not preteiJf) \\\'.\ she had an illness when she was perfectly well, i '>iife ^*'ti- absolutely no reason that she could give either to the K« \,j ons or to Miss Brooke for not keeping her promise to sleep at Ethel's house on the Monday night, and be present at her wedding on Tuesday morning. So she wound herself up to make the best it. It seemed to her that no girl had ever been placed in so painful a position before. We, who have more experience of life than Lesley had, know better than that, Lesley's position was painful indeed, but it might in many ways have been worse. But she, ignorant of real life, more ignorant even than most girls, because she knew so few of the pictures of real life that are to be found in the best kind of novels, had nothing but her native instincts of truth and courage to fall back upon, together with the strong will and power of judgment that she inherited from her father. These qualities, how- ever, stood her in good stead that day. " It is no use to be weal;," she said to herself. " What good shall I do to Ethel if I give her cause to suspect Oliver Trent's truth to her ? The only question is — ought I to tell her — to put her on her guard ? Oh, I think not — I hope not. If he marries her, he cannot help loving her; audit would break her heart — now — if I told her that he was not faithful. I must be brave and go to her, and be as sympathetic as usual — take pleasure in her pleasure, and try to forget the past ! but I wish she were going to marry a man that one could trust, like my father, or like — Maurice." She always called him Maurice when she thought about him now. It took all the strength that she possessed, however, to go through the ordeal of those hours with Ethel. She managed to keep away until nearly nine o'clock on Monday night, and then — ^just after her father had gone out — she received BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. as9 honor. e had a liat she It Ethel [h ques- on that f her by U And ( excuse. ould not perfectly )iild give keeping Monday morning. t seemed painful a f life than iition was ;en worse. than most pf real life d nothing lall back udgment ties, how- no use to I I do to s truth to r — to put ot. If be uld break lithful. I ic as usual . the past 1 one could ight about ever, to go e managed iday night, le received I .el said " for I a peremptory little note from Ethel. " Why don't you come ? You said you would come almost directly after dinner, and it is ever so late now. Oliver has just left me : he has business in the city, so I shall not sec him again until to-morrow. Do come at once, or I shall begin to feel lonely." So Lesley went. She had to look at the wedding-cake, the wedding-gown, the simple little breakfast table. She sat up with Ethel until two in the morning, helping her to pack up her things, and listening to her praises of Oliver. 'I'hat was the worst of it. Ethel would talk of Oliver, would descant on his perfections, and, above all, on his love for her. ^t was very natural talk on Ethel's part, but it was indes ib: 1y painful and humiliating to Lesley. Every moment n sil( 'e seemed to her like an implicit lie, and yet she .^ Id .'Ot bring herself to destroy the fine edifice of her frie ."s /.opes, although she knew she could bring it down to the ro md with a touch — a word. "And I am so glad there is not to be a fuss, '' at last, when St. Pancras' clock was striking two : always thought that a fussy wedding would be horrid. You see, Lesley, I have dressed up so often in white satin and lace, as a bride, or a girl in a ballroom, or some other character not my own, that I feel now as if there would be no reality for me in a wedding if I did not wear rather every-day clothes. In a bride's conventional dress, I should only fancy myself on the stage again." " You don't call the dress you are to wear to-morrow * every-day clothes,' do you ? " said Lesley, with a smiling glance towards the lovely gown in which Ethel had elected to be married, and then to wear during the first part of her wedding-journey. " I call it just a nice, pretty frock — nothing else," said Ethel, complacently, " one that I can pay calls in after- wards. But I could not refuse the lovely lace Maurice in- sisted on giving me : so I shall wear a veil instead of a bon- net — it is the only concession I make to conventionality." " I wish you would go to sleep, Ethel : you will look very pale under your veil to-morrow." " Well, I will try ; but I don't feel like it. I hope Mau- rice will be back in good time. It was very tiresome of that patient of his to send for him in such a hurry." amsmmmmm 260 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. Then there was a silence, for both girls were growing sleepy ; and it was with a yawn that Ethel at last in- quired — Lesley, why won't father to wedding? wont your tatiier come " said Lesley, with a little start I asked him again on Saturday, and he re- " Won't he? " Not he fused." ** Perhaps," said Lesley, not very steadily, " it gives him pain to be present at a wedding : he speaks sometimes — as if he did not like to hear of them." " Oh, you poor, dear thing, I had forgotten all that trou- ble," said Ethel, giving her friend a hug which nearly strangled her ; " but won't it come right in the end ? Captain Duchesne says that she is so sweet, so charming — and your father is just delightful." " I think I can't talk about it," said Lesley, very quietly. " Then we won't. Did you know I had asked Captain Duchesne to the breakfast ? " " Oh, Ethel, how heartless of you I " Lesley said, laugh- ing in spite of herself. For Captain Duchesne's devotion was patent to all the world. At last they slept in each other's arms ; but at seven o'clock Ethel was skimming about the room like a busy fairy, and it was Lesley, sleeping heavily after two or three wakeful nights, who had to be aroused by the little bride- elect, and Ethel laughed merrily to see her friend's start of surprise. " Ethel ! Ethel ! People should be wailing on you and here you are bringing me tea and bread and butter. This is too bad ! " " It's a new departure," Ethel laughed. "There is no law against a bride's making herself useful as well as orna- mental, is there ? You will have to hurry up, all the same, Lesley : we are dreadfully late already. And it is the love- liest morning you ever saw — and the bouquets have just come from the florist — and everything is charming ! I feel as if T could dance." But Ethel's mirth did not communicate itself to Lesley. There was nothing forced or unnatural in the young bride's happiness, but Lesley felt as if some cloud, some shadow, were in the air. Perhaps she had had bad dreams. She would not damp Ethel's spirits by a word of warning, but the old aunt from the coimtry who came to inspect her li/iOOKE'S D.UG/ITEK, a6t growing t last in- :dding?" id he re- gives him le times — that trou- ch nearly the end? larming — ry quietly, d Captain laid, laiigh- s devotion t at seven ke a busy vo or three ttle bride- d's start of 3n you and er. This is lere is no ;11 as orna- the same, is the love- have just ng ! I ftel to Lesley. the young jloud, some [ad dreams. t)f warning, [inspect her niece as soon as she was dressed for church was not so considerate. ** You are letting your spirits run away with you, my dear," she Pf'd, reprovingly. " Even on a wedding-day there shoula not be too much laughter. Tears before night, when there has been laughter before breakfast, remember the proverb says." " Oh, what a cheerful old lady ! " said Ethel, brimming over with saucy laughter once more, us soon as the old dame's back was turned. " I don'l care : I don't mean to be anything but a smiling bride — Oliver says that he hates tears at a wedding, and 1 don't mean him to see any." Maurice arrived just in time to dress and to escort his sister \o the church. It was not he, but Mrs. Durant, the companion and house-keeper, who first received a word of warning that things were not altogether as ihey should be. Others beside Lesley were scentinij calamity in the air. Mrs. Romaine was to form one of the wedding-party. She made her appearance at a quarter to ten, beautifully dressed, but white to the very lips, and with a haggard look about her eyes. As soon as she entered the house she drew Mrs. Durant aside. " Has Oliver been sleeping here ? " she asked. *' Here ! " Mrs. Durant's indignant accent was sufficient answer. " He has not been home all night," Mrs. Romaine whis- pered. *' Not at home ! " " I suppose he is sleeping at his club and will come on from there," Mrs. Romaine answered, trying to reassure her- self now that she had given the alarm to another. " Every- thing has been ordered — my bouquet came from him, at least from the florist's this morning — and I suppose we shall find him at the church. But I have been dreadfully anxious about him — quite foolishly, I daresay. Don't say anything to any body else." Mrs. Durant did not mean to say anything, but — without exactly stating facts — she had managed in about three minutes to convey her own and Mrs. Romaine's feeling of discomfort to the whole party. The only exceptions were Maurice and Ethel, who, of course, heard nothing. A gloom fell upon the guests even while the carriages were standing at the door. .^mMmrr 262 liROOKI: 'S /). / VGIfTER. Lesley and Mrs. Roiiiuine luippciied to be placed in the same carriage, facing one another. They looked at one another in silence, but with a mutual understanding that they had never felt before. Each read her own fear m the other'-j face. But the fear came from different sources. Lesley was afraid that Oliver had felt himself unable to fulfil his engagement to Ethel, and had therefore severed his connection with her by flight : Rosalind feared that he had been taken ill or met with some untoward accident. Only in Rosalind's mind there was always another fear in the back ground wht.e her brothers were concerned — that one or other of them would be bringing himself and her to disaster and disgrace. She had no faith in them, and not much faith in herself. There was no bridegroom in waiting at Si. Pancras' Church. Mrs. Romnineheld a hurried consultation with a friend, and a messenger was despatched to Oliver's club, where he sometimes slept, and also to the rooms which he called his ** chambers" in th** city. A little silence over- spread the group of guests from the Kenyons' house. Other visitors, of whom there were not many, looked blithe enough ; but gloom was plainly visible on the faces of the bride's friends. And a little whisper soon ran from group to group — " The bridegroom has not come." If only he would appear before the bride ! There was yet time. The carriage containing Ethel and her brother he d not started from the door. But the distance was short, and speedily traversed : still Oliver did not come. And there at last was the wedding-chariot with its wliite silk linings and the white favors on the horses — and there was the pretty, smiling bride herself upon her brother's arm. How sweet she looked as she mounted the broad g^ey steps, with cheeks a little rosy, eyes downcast, and her smiles half concealed by the costly lace in which she had veiled herself! There was never a prettier bride than Ethel Kenyon, although she had not attired herself in all the bridal finery that many women covet. Something in the expression of the faces that met her at the church door startled her a little when she first looked up : she changed color, and glanced wonderingly from one to another. Some one spoke in Maurice Kenyon's ear. ** What is it ? " she asked, quickly. " Is anything wrong ? " BROOKE 'S DA UGIITER. a63 I in the , at one in^ that ir m the sources, inable to severed I that he accident. r fear in ,ed — that id her to , and not Pancras* on with a er's club, which he nee over- ise. Other ed blithe ces of the om group here was brother was short, me. And wliite silk there was ler's arm. road giey and her she had )ride than self in all met her at rst looked ngly from nyon's ear. anything << Oliver is late, dear, that is all. Just lit a mmutc - presently." " Late ! " re echoed the girl, turning suddenly pale. " Oh Maurice, what do you mean ? We were late too — it is a quarter past ten." *' Hush, my darling, he will be here directly, and more distressed than any of us, no doubt." " I should tliink so," said Ethel, trying to laugh. " Poor Oliver ! what a state he will be in ! " But the hand with which she had suddenly clutched Lesley's arm trembled, and her lips were very white. For a minute, for five, ♦"'^r ten minutes, the bridal party waited, but Oliver did not come. A messenger came back to say that he had not been at the club since the previous day. And then Maurice's hot temper blazed up. He left his sister and spoke to his old friend, Miss Brooke. ** Do not let Ethel make herself a laughing-stock," he said. ** The man insults us by being late, and shall acco\int to me for it, but she must be got out of this somehow. Can't you take her away ? " "Let her go to the vestry," said Miss Brooke. "You had better not take her away just yet — look at the crowd outside. I will get Lesley to persuade her." Ethel made no opposition. She went quietly into the vestry, and sat down on a seat that was offered to her, waiting in silence, asking no questions. Then there was a short period of whispered consultation, of terrible suspense. She herself did not know whether the time was short or long. She could not bear even Lesley's arm about her, or the sup- port of Maurice's brotherly hand. Harry Duchesne's dark face in the background seemed in some inexplicable sort of way the worst of all. For she knew that he loved and admired her, and she was shamed by a recreant lover before his very eyes. After a time Maurice was called out. A policeman in plain clc hes wanted to speak to him. They had five minutes' conversation together, and then the young doctor returned to the room where Ethel was still sitting. His face was as white as that of his sister now, and she was the first to remark the change. " You have heard something," she said, springing to her feet and fixing her great dark eyes upon his face. " Yes, Ethel, my poor darling, yes. Come home with me." HtH 264 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER " Not till you tell me the trulh." '* Not here, my darling — wait till we gc- home. Come at once." " I must know, Maurice : I cannot bear to wait. Is he —\%\\t—deadV' He would gladly have refused to answer, but his pallid lips spoke for him. And from anothes group a shriek mng out from the lips of Rosalind Romaine — a shriek that told her all. " Dead? Murdered ? Oh, no, no — it cannot be ? '' cried Oliver's sister. " Not dead ! not dead ! " She fell back in violent hysterics, but Ethel neither wept nor cried aloud. She stood erect, her head a little higher than usual, a smile that might almost be called proud curv- ing her soft lips. "You see," she said, unsteadily, but very clearly ; " you see — it was not his fault. He would have come — if he had been— alive." And t!ien, still smiling, she ga' ^ her hand to her brother and let him lead her away. But before she had crossed the threshold of the room, he was. obliged to take her in his arms to save her from falling, and it was in his arms that she was carried back to the carriage which she had left so smilingly. But for those who were ,oft behind there was more bad news to hear. In London no secret can be kept even from the ears of those whose heart it breaks to hear it. Before noon the newsboys were crying in the streets — " Brutal murder of a gentleman on his wedding-day. Arrest of a well-known journalist." And everywhere the name bandied from pillar to post was that of Mr. Caspar Brooke, who had been arrested on suspicion of having caused the death of Oliver Trent. BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 265 Come t- Is he lis pallid :iek z^v.% that told ? " cried ;her wept le higher 3ud curv- y; "you le — if he r brother 1 crossed :e her in his arms she had more bad ven from Before ling-day. r to post arrested tr Trent. CHAPTER XXXIII. IN ETHELS ROOM. To those wno knew Caspar Brooke best, it seemed ridicu- lously impossible that he should have been accused of any act of violence. But the accusation was made with so much circumstantial detail that no course seemed open to the police but to arrest him with as little delay as possible. And before the ill-fated wedding party had been dispersed, before Miss Brooke could hurry home, and long before Lesley suspected the blow that was in store for her, he had been taken by two policemen in plain clothes to the Bow Street Police station. The full extent of the misfortune did not burst upon Doctor Sophy ail at once. When she left the church the accusation was not publicly known, and as she walked home she reflected on the account that she must give to her bro- ther of the extraordinary events of the day, She wished he had been present, and wondered why he had shirked the invitation which had been sent him by Ethel. He was not usually out of bed at this hour, but she resolved to go to his room and tell him the story at once, for, though he had never cared much for poor Oliver Trent, he had always been fond of Ethel. Lesley had gone to the Kenyons' house at Maurice's earnest request, and might not be back for some time. She opened the door with her latch-key, and, to her great surprise, was confronted at once by Sarah, her face swollen, and her eyes red with weeping. " Sarah ! why — have you heard the dreadful news al- ready?" said Miss Brooke. " 1^2Cityou heard it, is more the question. I'm thinking ? " said Sarah, grimly. "Of course you mean — about poor Mr. Trent? " More than that, ma'am. However, here's a letter from master to you, and that'll tell you more than I can do." And Sarah handed a note to her mistress, and retired to tiie back of the hall, sniffing pudibly. I 266 BRO OKE'S DA UGH TEH. Miss Brooke walked into the dining-room and opened the note. Caspar had gone out, she gathered from the fact of his having written to her at all: perhaps he had heard of Oliver Trent's death, arid had gone to offer his services to Maurice, or to assist in discovering the murderer. So she thought to herself; and then she began to read the note. In another minute Sarah heard a strange, muffled cry ; and running into the room found that Miss Brooke had sunk down jx\ the sofii, and was trembling in every limb. Her brothjr's letter was crushed within her hand. "What does it mean, Sarah? — what does it mean?" she stammered, with a face so white and eyes so terror- stricken that Sarah took her to task at once. " It means a great, big lie, ma'am, that's all it means. Why, you ain't going to be put about by that, I hope, when master himself says — as he said to me — that he'd be home afore night ! I'm ashamed of you, looking as pale as you do, and you a doctor and all ! " " Did he say to you he would be home before night? " said Miss Brooke collecting herself a little, but still look- ing very white. Sarah took a step nearer to her, and spoke in a low voice. " Nobody elso in the house knows where he's gone," she said, '' but I know, for master called me himself, and told me what they wanted him for. It was two men in plain clothes, and there was a cab outside and a p'liceman on the box. ' Of course it's all a mistake, Sarah,' he said to me, as light-hearted as you please, 'and don't let Miss Lesley or your Missus be anxious. I dare say I shall be back in an hour or two.' And then he asked the men if he might write a note, and they let him, though they read it as he wrote, the nasty wretches ! " — and Sarah snorted contemptuously, while she wiped away a tear from her left eye with her apron. " But it is so extraordinary — so ridiculous ! " said Miss Brooke. And then, with a little more color in her face, she read her brother's letter over again. It consisted only of these words — *' Dkar Sophy, — Don't worry yourself. The police have got it into their wise heads that I had something to do with poor Trent's tragic end. I dare say I shall be back soon, but I must go and hear what tliey'vp got to say. Take care of Lesley. — C, B," BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 267 id opened from tlie ips he had :o offer his ; murderer, to read the uffled cry ; rooke had ;very limb. d. it mean ? " so terror- 1 it means, hope, when d be home 3ale as you re night ? " t still look- , low voice. gone," she ', and told en in plain iceman on le said to 't let Miss I shall be men if he ley read it ih snorted om her left said Miss jr face, she ve got it into rent's tragic d hear what " Take care of Lesley 1 As if she wanted taking care of ! " said Miss Brooke, with sudden energy. " Sarah, go over at once to Mr. Kenyon's, and tell Miss Lesley to come home. She can't stay there while this is going on. It isn't decent." Sarah was rather glad to execute this order. She was of opinion that Miss Lesley needed to be taken down a bit, and that this was the way in which the Lord saw fit to do it. And it never occurred to Miss Brooke to caution the woman against startling Lesley or hurting her feelings. She had been startled certainly, and almost overcome ; but she belonged to that class of middle-aged women who think that their emotions must necessarily be stronger than those of young people, because they are older and understand what sorrow means, whereas the reverse is usually the case. Besides, Miss Brooke quite underrated the warmth of Les- ley's attachment to her father, and was not prepared to see her experience anything but shallow and commonplace regret. So Sarah went to the house opposite and knocked at the door. She had to knock twice before the door was opened, for the whole household was out of joint. The maids were desperately clearing away all signs of festivity — flowers, wedding-cake, the charming little breakfast that had been prepared for the guests — everything that told of wedding preparation, and had now such a ghastly look. Under Mrs. Durant's direction the servants were endeavor- ing to restore to the rooms their wonted appearance. Ethel's trunks had been piled into an empty room : she would not want her trousseau now, poor child. The uncle from the country was pacing up and down the deserted drawing-room j the aunt was fussing about Ethel's dressing- room, nervously folding up articles of clothing and putting away trifles. Ail the blinds were down, as if for a funeral. And in Ethel's own room, the girl lay on her bed, white and rigid as a corpse, with half-shut eyes that did not seem to see, and fingers so tightly closed that the nails almost ran into her soft palms. Since she had been laid there she had not spoken ; no one could quite tell whether she were conscious or not ; but Lesley, who sat beside her, and sometimes laid her cheek softly against the desolate young bride's cold face, or kissed the ashen-grey lips, divined by instinct that she was not unconscious although \\ I'i^SHHHWii*'""**!* ■Ml 268 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. Stunned by the force of the blow — that she was thinking, thinking, thinking all the time — thinking of her lost lover, of her lost happiness, and beating herself passionately against the wall of darkness which had arisen between her zyA the future that she had planned for herself and Oliver. Sarah asked at once for Miss Lesley Brooke, and Mrs. Durant came out of the dining-room to speak to the mes- lienger. " Is Miss Brooke wanted very particularly ? " she asked. " Miss Kenyon will not have anyone else with her." •* I think I must speak to Miss Lesley, ma'am ; my mis- tress said I must," said Sarah, primly. Then, forgetting her loyalty to her employers in her desire to be communi- cative, she went on — '* Maybe you haven't heard what's happened, ma'am. Mr. Brooke's been taken up on the charge of murder " This was not strictly true, but it was the way in which Sarah read the facts. " And Miss Brooke says Miss Lesley must come home, as it is not pr oer for her to stay." The horror depicted on Mrs. Durant'i? face was quite as great as Sarah had anticipated, and even more so. For Mrs. Durant, a conventional and narrow-minded woman, did not know enough of Caspar Brooke's character to feel any indignation at the accusation : incked, she v/ab the sort of woman who was likely to put a vulgar construction upon his motives, and regard i^ as probable that he had quarreled with Oliver for not -^i-.ing to marry Lesley instead of Ethel Ker 'on. Ard she at once grasped die situation. Under the circumstances — if Caspar Brooke had killed Ethel's lover — it was mosi improper that Caspar Brooke's daughter should be staying in the house. ''Of course!" she said, with a shocked face, "Miss Lesley Brooke must go at once— -naturally. How very terrible ! I am much obliged to Miss Brooke for sending — as Ethel's chaperon I couldn't undertake I'll go upstairs and send her down to you." Sarah was left in the hall, while Mrs. Durant went up- stairs. But after a time the lady came down with a troubled air. " I can't get her to come," she said. " You must go up yourself, Sarah, and speak to her. She will come into the dressing- 00m, she says, for a minute, but she cannot leave BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 269 thinking, lover, of y against her a.nd ver. ind Mrs. the mes- he asked. my mis- orgetting :onimuni- d what's ip on the in which home, as 5 quite as so. For i woman, er to feel the sort ;ion upon uaneled stead of ituation. d killed Brooke's " Miss |.ow very sending ni go [vent up- Itroubled 1st go up linto the lot leave once, "I Miss Kenyon for a longer time. You must tell her quietly what has happened, and then she will no doubt see the advisability of going away." Sarah went upstairs, therefore, and entered the dressing- room, where the old aunt was still busy \ and in a minute or two Lesley appeared. ** What is it ? " she said, briefly. *' Your aunt sent me to say you must come home at miss." cannot come just yet : Miss Kenyon wishes me to stay with her," said Lesley, with dignity. " You'd better come. Miss Lesley. I don't want to tell you the dreadful news just now : you'd better hear it at home. Then you'll be glad you came. It's your pa, miss." *' My father ! Oh, Sarah, what do you mean ? Is he ill ? is he dead ? What is it ? " " He's been arrested, miss, for killing Mr. Trent." Sarah spoke in a whisper, but it seemed to her hearers as if she had shouted the words at the top of her voice. Mrs. Durant pressed her hands together and uttered a little scream. Lesley turned deadly white, and laid one hand on the back of a chair, as if for support. And the old aunt immediately ran into the inner room, and burst into tears over Ethel's almost inanimate form, bewailing her, and calling her a poor, injured, heartbroken girl, until Ethel opened her great dark eyes, and fixed them upon the aged, distorted face with a questioning look. ** Lesley ! " she breathed. " T want Lesley." *• Oh, my dearest child, you must do without Lesley now. It is not fit that she should come to you." But Ethel's Hps again formed the same sounds : I want Lesley." And the old lady continued — " She must not come, dear : you cannot see Lesley Brooke again. It is her father who has done this terrible thing — blighted your life — destroyed your hap mess " And so she would have babbled on had not Ethel all at once raised herself in her bed, with white face and flaming V eyes, and called in tones as clear and resonant as ever— \ <' Lesley ! Lesley ! come back ! " \ And then the old aunt was silent : silent and amazed. From the next room Lesley came, softly and swiftly as was her wont. Her face was pale, but her eyes .nd lips r^miii^^m mmm 270 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. I I 'i\ were steady. She went straight to Ethel ; was at once encircled by the girl's arms, and drew Ethel's head down upon her shoulder. " Shall I go ? " she whispered in Ethel's ear. " No, no ; don't leave me." " You know what they say ? Can you trust my father ? " " I trust you both. Stay with me." Lesley raised her head and looked back at the little group of meddlesome women who had tried to tear her from her friend's side. At the look they disappeared. They dared not say another word after meeting the rebuke conveyed in Lesley's pale, set face and resolute eyes. They closed the door behind them, and left the two girls alone. For a long time neither spoke. Ethel seemed to have relapsed once more into a semi-unconscious state. Lesley sat motionless, pillowing her friend's head against her shoulder, and stroking one of her hands with her own. Now and then hot tears welled over and dropped upon Ethel's dark, curly head, but Lesley did not try to wipe them away. She scarcely knew that she was crying : she was only aware of a great weight of trouble that had come upon her — trouble thi t. seemed to include in its eflFects all that she held most dear. Trouble not only to her friend, but to her father, her mother, her lover. Not a shadow of doubt as to her father's innocence rested upon her rnind : there was no perplexity, no shame — only sorrow and anxiety. Not many women could have borne the strain cf utter silence with such a burden laid on them to bear. But to Lesley, even in that hour, Ethel's trouble was greater than her own. An hour must have passed away before Ethel murmured, "Lesley — are you there ? " " Yes, I am with you, darling : I am here." "You are crying." " I am crying for you, Ethel, dear.*' For the first time, Ethel's hand answered to her pressure. Aftfc r a little silence, she spoke again — " i wish I could die— too." " My poor little Ethel." " I suppose there is no chance of that. People — like me — don't die. They only suffer — and suffer — and break vieir hearts — ^and live till they are eighty. Oh, if you were kind to me, you would give me something to make me die." at once Ld down father?" the little tear her ippeared. le rebuke es. They lis alone, d to have ;. Lesley ainst her her own. ped upon wipe them : she was had come effects all ler friend, ladow oif ler rntnd : rrow and the strain n to bear, juble was lurmured, pressure. )ple — like md break ill, if you to make BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. 271 She shuddered, and crept a little closer to Lesley's bosom. '* Oh, why must he go — without me — without me?" she cried. And then she burst out suddenly into bitter weeping, and with Lesley's arms about her she wept away some of the " perilous stuff" of misery which had seemed likely to destroy tlie balance of her brain. When those tears came her reason was saved, and Lesley was wise enough to be reassured and not alarmed by them. She was very much exhausted when the burst of tears was over, and Lesley was allowed to feed her with strong soup, which she took submissively from her friend. " You won't go ? " she whispered, when the meal was done. And Lesley whispered back : '* I will not go, darling, so long as you want me here." " I want you — always." Then with a gleam of returning strength and memory : " What was it they said about your father?" Lesley shivered. '* Never mind, Ethel, dear," she said " But — I know — I remember. That he was — a — oh, I can't say the word. But that is not true." " I know it is not true. It is a foolish, cruel mistake." murmured. " He was -from me — that I don't believe it, Lesley. And don't let them take you away from me." Holding Lesley's hand in hers, at last she fell asleep ; and sleep was the very thing that was likely to restore her. The doctor came and went, forbidding the household to disturb the quiet of the sick-room ; and after a time, Lesley, exhausted by the excitements and anxieties of the day, laid her head on the pillow and also slept. It was late in the afternoon when Maurice Kenyon, stealing softly into the room, found the two heads close together on one pillow, the arms interlaced, the slumber of one as deep as of the other. His eyes filled with tears as he looked at the sleeping figures. " Poor girls ! " he mut- tered to himself. " Well for them if they can sleep ; but I fear that theirs will be a sad awakening." Suddenly Lesley opened her eyes. The color rushed to her pale cheeks as she saw who was regarding her, but she had sufficient self-control not to start or move too hastily. Ethel altered her position at that moment, and "It could not be true," Ethel always kind and good. Tell him- 272 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. left Lesley free to rise, then sank back to slumber. And, obeying a silent motion of Maurice Kenyon's hand, Lesley followed him noiselessly into the dressing-room. BA'OOA'E'S DAUGHTER. •73 •r. And, \d, Lesley CHAPTER XXXIV. THE EVIDENCE. " She ought not to be left alone : I promised not to leave her," said Lesley in a low tone. " I have brought a nurse with me. She can go in and sit by the bed until you are ready to return," said Maurice, quietly. ** Call us, nurse, if my sister uakes and asks for us ; but be very careful not to disturb her unnecessarily." The nurse, whose face Lesley scanned with involuntary interest, was gentle and sensible-looking, with kindly eyes and a strong, well-shaped mouth. She looked like a woman to be trusted ; and Lesley was therefore not sorry to see her pass into Ethel's room. She had felt very conscious of her own ignorance of nursing during the past few hours, and had not much confidence in the sense or judgment of any woman in the house. Maurice made her sit down, and then stood looking at her for a moment. " You are terribly pale," he said at last. " Will you come downstairs and let me give you something to eat and drink?" " Oh, no, thank you. I want nothing. And Ethel may need me : I cannot bear to be far away." *' Have you had notliing all day ? It is after five o'clock." She shook her head. •' Then you must eat before I talk to you. I have several things to say, and you must have strength to listen. Sit still : I will be back directly." He went away, and Lesley leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She was very weary, but even in her trouble there was some sweetness for her in the knowledge that Maurice was attending to her needs. When he returned with wine and food, she roused herself to accept both, knowing very well that he would not tell her what she wanted to hear until she had done his bidding. The door between bed and dressing room was closed ; the house was very quiet, and the light was dim. Maurice spoke at last, in grave, low tones. 18 i^ MMM a74 BROOKE'S DAUGHTER. *' Is he at home take he is a heart — free " I have just come from your father," ! Lesley started and clasped her hands, again? " " No. They would not let him go. But we, who know him, will stand by him until man." " Then you believe — as I believe ? " she asked, tremu- lously. ** Would it be possible for me to do otherwise ? Hasn't he been my friend for many a year ? You have surely no need to ask I " Lesley, looking up at him, stretched out her hand in silence. He took it in both his own and kissed it tenderly. Seeing her grief, and seeing also her sympathy for another woman who grieved, had, for the time being, cured him of his anger against her. He had cherished some bitter feeling towards her for a while ; but he forgot it now. *' I am as sure," he said, fervently, " that Caspar Brooke could not commit murder as I am sure that you could not. It is an absurdity to think of it." " Then what has made people think of it ? " asked Lesley. " How has it come about ? " Maurice paused. ** There is a mystery somewliere," he said slowly, " which is a little difficult to fathom. Can you bear to hear the details ? Your father told me to tell them to you — as gently as I could." " Tell me all— all, please." " Poor Oliver Trent was found dead early this morning on the stair of a lodging-house in Whitechapel. I have been to the place myself: it is now under the care of the police. He had been beaten about the head ... it was very horrible . . . with a thick oaken staff or walking stick . . . the stick lay beside him, covered with blood, where he was found. The stick was — was your father's, unfortunately : it must have been stolen by some ruffian for the purpose — and — and " He stopped short, as if the story were too hard to tell. Lesley sat watching his face, which was as pale as her own. ** Go on," she said, quickly. " What else ? " " A pocket-book — with gilt letters on the back : C. B. distinctly marked. That was also found on the stairs, as if it had dropi)ed from the pocket of some man as he went down. And it is proved — indeed, your father tells me so — i; I d. he at home ake heart — le is a free jked, tremu- se ? Hasn't ve surely no her hand in I it tenderly. for another :ured him of some bitter it now. Lspar Brooke )u could not. it?" asked lewliere," he thom. Can Id me to tell his morning )el. I have care of the ... it ten staff or lim, covered s — was your len by some hard to tell, as her own. back : C. B. he stairs, as I as he went ells me so—- BROOKE'S DAUailTER, that he went to that house last night and did not It'uve it until nearly midnight." " But why was he there ? " " He went to see the man and woman who lived in the top room of that lodging-house. I think you know the woman. She was once your maid " '* Mary Kingston ? She came to our house that very afternoon. She must have asked my father to go to see her — he spoke kindly of her to me. But why did Mr. Trent go there too ? " "There have been secrets kept from us which have now come to light," said Maurice, sadly. •* Oliver went there to see his brother Francis, who was ill in bed ; and his brother's wife was no other than the woman who acted as your maid, Mary Kingston — or rather Mary Trent. Kingston left your house on Saturday, it seems, because she had caught sight of her husband in the street : he had been very ill, and she felt herself obliged to go home with him and put him to bed. He has been in bed, unable to rise, she tells me, ever since." " But she — sheT said Lesley eagerly, " can explain the whole matter. She must have heard the fight — the scuffle — whatever it was — upon the stairs. She ought to be able to tell when father left the house — and when Mr. Trent left the house. They did not go together, did they ? " there was a touch of scorn in her voice. ** No, they did not go together. But what Mrs. Trent alleges is, that your father waited for Oliver on the stairs, and attacked him there. It is a malicious, wicked lie — I am sure of that. But it is what she says she is willing to swear." " Mrs. Trent ! " Lesley repeated vaguely. " Mrs. Trent ! Do you mean — Kingston ? Kingston swears that my father lay in wait for Oliver Trent upon the stairs ? It is impossible ! " " Yes, Kingston," Maurice answered, in alow, level voice. " It is Kingston who has accused your father of the crime." Lesley covered her face with her hands, and for a moment or two did not speak. " It is too terrible," she said at last, not very steadily. '* I do not know how to believe it. I always trusted her. Is there nobody worth trusting in the world? Is there no truth and faith any- where at all ? " 1! '.V \ ¥ *''^, *•- <9 ^ n »# % ? /^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) 1.0 I.I If: IIIM Mi Ii4 If li^ IM Z2 2.0 1.25 U III 1.6 Photographic Sdences Corporation *t ^