MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
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 that 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. But 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 Annonciades 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
destination was reached; and Lesley's thoughts were diverted a little
from their sad bewilderment by what was to her the novel sight of Paris
by gaslight, 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 will. 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 Bloomsbury 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 something 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 seen much of human emotion, was
to induce a passing 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 chambermaid. The chambermaid led them to
the door of a suite of rooms, where they were 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
dinner," said her mistress. "His Lordship 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 be taken in two ways, Dayman,"
she said, as she turned to meet her mother at the door. And in a few
minutes she was standing in the gay little French _salon_, where the
earl was conversing with a much younger man in a glare of waxlights.
Lord Courtleroy was a stately-looking man, with perfectly snow-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 was softened by a touch of personal
affection with which family pride had nothing whatever to do. For Lord
Courtleroy's feelings towards Lesley were mixed. He saw in her the 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 disposition to resent or even to remark
on his changes of mood. She admired her grandfather immensely, and was
pleased to hear him comment 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!
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.
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 himself, 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 girt!"
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 was not a very
respectable character, and that no woman of spirit would have submitted
to live with him any longer. Lady Alice's reputation 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 identified 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 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 something."
"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 unwarrantable thing in exacting a
promise only half understood. But she swallowed her rising qualms, and
went oh, 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; but it is on the young that unscrupulous persons love
to prey--and therefore I 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 hurried excursions to shops,
interviews with milliners and dressmakers, eager discussions 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, but 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.
"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 supplementary 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. 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.