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BROOKE'S DAUGHTER.
*A NOVEL.*
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ADELINE SERGEANT,
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MONTREAL:
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BROOKE'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER I.
THE END OF HER CHILDHOOD.
The Convent of the Annonciades, situated in a secluded spot on the
outskirts of Paris, has long been well reputed as an educational
establishment for young ladies of good family. The sisters themselves
are women of refinement and cultivation, and the antecedents of every
pupil received by them are most carefully inquired into: so carefully,
indeed, that admission to the Convent School is looked on almost as a
certificate of noble birth and unimpeachable orthodoxy. The Ladies of
the Annonciades have indeed lately relaxed their rules, so far as to
receive as parlor-boarders some very rich American girls and the
children of a Protestant English marquis; but wealth in the first
instance, and birth in the second, counterbalance the objections that
might be raised to their origin or their faith. These exceptions to the
rule are, however, few and far between; and, in spite of the levelling
tendencies of our democratic days, Annonciades Convent is still one of
the most exclusive and aristocratic establishments of the kind in
Europe.
Although we know too well that small-minded jealousy, strife, and
bickering must exist in a community of women cut off so entirely from
the outer world as in this Convent of the Annonciades, it must be
confessed that the very name and air of the place possess a certain
romantic charm. The house is old, turreted like a chateau, overgrown
with clematis and passion-flower. The grounds, enclosed by high mossy
walls, are of great extent, and beautifully laid out. The long chestnut
avenue, the sparkling fountains, the trim flower-beds, are the delight
of the sisters' hearts. The green beauty of the garden, and the grey
stones of the ancient building, form a charming background for the
white-veiled women who glide with noiseless footsteps along the
cloisters or the avenue: a background more becoming to them even than to
the bevy of girls in their everyday grey frocks, or their Sunday garb of
white and blue. For the sisters' quaint and graceful dress harmonizes
with the antique surroundings of building and ornament as anything
younger and more modern fails to do.
These women--shut off from the world, and knowing little of its joys or
sorrows--have a strangely tranquil air. With some the tranquility verges
on childishness. One feels that they have not conquered the world, they
have but escaped it; and, as one pities the soldier who flies the
battle, so one mourns for the want of courage which has condemned these
women to an inglorious peace. But here and there another kind of face is
to be seen. Here and there we come across a countenance bearing the
tragic impress of toil and grief and passion; and we feel it possible
that in this haven alone perhaps could a nature which had striven and
suffered so greatly find in the end a lasting place. But such faces are
fortunately few and far between.
From the wide low window of the great _salle d'etude_ a flight of steps
with carved stone balustrades led into the garden. The balustrades were
half-covered with clustering white roses and purple clematis on the day
of which I write; and a breath of perfume, almost overpowering in its
sweetness, was wafted every now and then from the beds of mignonette and
lilies on either side. The brilliant sunshine of an early September day
was not yet touched with the melancholy of autumn: the leaves of the
Virginia creeper had not yet changed to scarlet, nor had the chestnuts
yellowed as if winter was creeping on apace. Everything was still, warm
and bright.
The stillness was partly accounted for by the fact that most of the
pupils had gone home for their summer holidays. The _salle d'etude_ was
empty and a little desolate: no hum of busy voices came from its open
window to the garden; and even the tranquil sisters seemed to miss the
sound, and to look wistfully at the bare desks and unused benches of
their schoolroom. For they loved their pupils 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
for 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 under their
guardianship and tuition for many years. Such a parting--probably a
final one--was now imminent, and not a few of the sisters were troubled
by the prospect, although it was against their rule to let any sign of
such grief appear.
It was not the hour of recreation, but the ordinary routine of the
establishment was for a little while suspended, partly because 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
childhood, 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
Catholic church. It was not often that a gentleman set foot within the
precincts of the convent; and although he would not be allowed 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 chere Lisa," whom they were to lose so soon!
No wonder the most placid of the nuns, the most stolid of the
lay-sisters, 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 like Lesley, had changed it into Lisa; but Lesley
loved her own name, which was a heritage 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
circumstances, she was told, had hitherto prevented her mother from
taking her to an English home. But now the current of 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 Lesley'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 answer 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 melancholy which only made
her delicate face more attractive--at least 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 enough 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 he 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!--such was the phrase that she, in her girlish
innocence and ignorance, used to herself. As to scandal and
tittle-tattle, none of it reached the 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'etude_, 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, taking 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, controlling 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 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 tribulation."
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 protect 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 not
lie in any measure 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 off from the rest of the world as one
made of finer clay than others.
Many people resented this demeanor--which was quite unconscious on Lady
Alice's part--and thought that it signified 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 never
willingly haughty; but in some respects, she was what the world calls
proud. She was proud of her ancient lineage; of the 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 comment a reproach. "You surely knew how I longed to be
with 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 _understood_ me,
mamma--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."
"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 clearness of her sight. But Sister Rose's words
came back to her mind with an inspiring thrill which restored her
strength. "Patience, endurance, resignation!" Was this the occasion 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, entreatingly, "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, and
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 suspense, 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----"
"Promise nothing until you have heard what I have to say," said her
mother, drawing back. "I want you to hear the story before you see your
grandfather again: that is the reason why I begged the Mother to let me
speak to you here, before you left the convent. I have been forced into
my present line of action, Lesley: I never took it wilfully. You shall
judge for yourself if it were likely that I----But I will not excuse
myself beforehand. I can tell you all that is necessary for you to know
in very few words; and the rest lies in your hands."
Lady Alice's pale lips quivered as she spoke, but her eyes were dry and
filled with a light which was singularly cold and stern. Lesley,
kneeling still, looked up into her face, and, fascinated by what she saw
there, remained motionless and mute.
"I have not let you speak to me of your father," Lady Alice began,
"because I did not know how to answer your questions truthfully. But now
I must speak of him. You have thought of him sometimes?"
"Yes."
"And you have thought him dead?"
"I thought so--yes."
"But he is not dead," said Lady Alice, bitterly. "To my exceeding
misfortune--and yours also--your father, Lesley, is alive."