LESLEY COMES HOME.
Caspar Brooke was a busy man, and he was quite determined 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 treatment 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 French city, street,
house, and atmosphere alike seemed depressing. The chimes of St.
Pancras' church, woefully 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 walls. 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, 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, formally. 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 suppose?" 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 appreciate 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 suspected 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 burst of sobbing which she could not control. She was
terribly ashamed of herself next moment; but the next moment was too
late. She had made as bad a beginning as she had it in 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 Dayman 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 further ado. Lesley drank it
obediently, and felt reinvigorated: 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. Nobody 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 soothing 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 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 kindliness 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 something 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 her something to eat and drink, and waited on her with the
care of a woman with a truly kindly heart. Lesley began to take courage
and to ask questions.
"I suppose I shall see my father again to-morrow morning," she said.
"About mid-day you may see him," Miss Brooke answered, cheerfully. "He
will be out till two or three in the morning, you know; and of course he
can't be disturbed 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 anything--at least, I meant only----"
"I understand all about it," said her aunt, "and I shall tell your
father what I think if he alludes to the matter. In the meantime you
had better go to sleep, and wake up fresh and bright in the morning.
Good-night, my 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. Pancras rang 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 preoccupied; she had a committee at twelve, she
said, and another 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 herself! You are not in Paris now, my dear, you are in
London; 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 of having spoken sharply, became
immediately more gentle in manner, and told her certain details about
the arrangements 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, innocently. "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 Lesley 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_?"
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 atmosphere, 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 sister 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 servant, 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. 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 surprised 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
suddenly occurred 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."