OLIVER'S INTENTIONS.
"Well, what is she like?" Oliver Trent asked, lightly, of his sister
Rosalind, when they met that evening at dinner.
"Lesley Brooke? She is a handsome girl," said Mrs. Romaine, 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, shadowy 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 individuality 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 set 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 believe 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 look 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, in a sense. The girl is very like her mother, too--she has Lady
Alice's features and figure, but the expression 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 want me to 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 himself.
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 fond of Ethel. And especially of the twenty thousand pounds
that her uncle left her."
"Ethel Kenyon is handsome enough to be loved for something beside her
money."
"Handsome? Oh, she's good-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 I 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 probably
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 quickly as she spoke. "That woman
scorned me--gloated over my sorrow 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 once stabbed me, the dearest wish of my life would
be fulfilled!"
"Women are always vindictive," said Oliver, philosophically. "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 even _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 will
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 daughter 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."
"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 you," he
said. "And I shall tell him so."
Mrs. Romaine made no objection. This ne'er-do-weel brother of
hers--Francis by name--had always been a trouble and perplexity to her.
He had been in the habit of appealing periodically to her for help, and
she had seldom failed to respond to the appeal, although she believed
that all the money she gave him went for gambling debt or drink; but
lately Oliver had interfered. He had said that Francis must henceforth
apply to him and not to Rosalind if he wanted help, which sounded kind
and brotherly enough; but Rosalind had a vague suspicion that there was
more than met the ear in this declaration. She fancied somehow, that
Oliver had secret and special reasons for preventing Francis'
applications to her. But she knew very well that it was useless to ask
questions or to make surmises respecting Oliver's motives and actions,
unless he chose to show a readiness to make them clear to her. So she
let him go out of the house without further remark.
As Oliver crossed the road, he noticed that a man was leaning against
the iron railings of the green enclosure in the middle of the Square.
The man's form was in shadow, but his face seemed to be turned to Mrs.
Romaine's house. Oliver sedulously averted his eyes and hailed a passing
hansom cab. He had no mind to be delayed just then, and he was almost
certain that he recognized in that gaunt and shabby figure his
disreputable brother. No, by-and-bye he would talk to Francis, he said
to himself, but not to-night. He had other game in view on this
particular evening in September.
The Novelty Theatre was just then occupied by a company that claimed to
be the interpreters of a Scandinavian play-writer whose dramatic poems
were just then the talk of London. Ethel Kenyon was playing a very minor
part--a smaller _role_, indeed, than she was generally supposed to take,
but one which she had accepted simply as an expression of her
enthusiastic admiration for the author. Oliver knew the state of mind in
which she generally came away from the representation of this play, and
counted on her bright and elevated mood as a help to him in the course
he meant to pursue.
He knew her habits as well as he knew her moods. For the last three
years, ever since Rosalind had settled in London, and he had been able
to cultivate Miss Kenyon's acquaintance, he had watched her blossom from
a saucy, laughing girl into a very attractive woman. It was only during
the past few months, however, that he had thought of her as his future
wife--only since she had succeeded to that enticing legacy of twenty
thousand pounds. Since then he had studied her more carefully than ever.
The Scandinavian writer's play was always over by a quarter to ten
o'clock, and was succeeded by another in which Ethel had no share. She
never stayed longer than was necessary on these nights. She was
generally ready to leave the theatre soon after ten o'clock with her
companion, Mrs. Durant, who had the right of entry to her dressing-room,
and generally acted as her dresser. Maurice Kenyon had refused to let
his sister go upon the stage unless she was always most carefully
chaperoned. Mrs. Durant was always at hand whenever Ethel went to the
Novelty Theatre. And Oliver knew exactly what to expect when he took up
his position--not for the first time--at the narrow little stage-door.
It was after ten o'clock, and the moon had risen in an almost cloudless
sky. Even London looked beautiful beneath its light. Oliver cast a
glance towards it and nodded as if in satisfaction. He did not care for
the moon one jot; but he held a theory that women, being more romantic,
were more likely to say "yes" to a wooer than "no," where they were
wooed beneath a moonlit sky. The chances were all in his favor, he said
to himself.
A cab was already waiting. Presently the door opened and a young lady in
hood and cloak came out. The light fell on a delicate, piquante face,
with a complexion of ivory fairness which cosmetics had not had time to
destroy, with charming scarlet lips, long-lashed dark eyes, a dimpled
chin, and a great quantity of curling dark hair--the kind of hair which
will not lie straight, but twists itself into tight rings, and gets into
apparently inextricable tangles, and looks pretty all the time. And this
was Ethel Kenyon. Her companion, a woman of forty-five, staid and
demure, followed close behind her, giving no sign of surprise when
Oliver raised his hat and gently accosted the two ladies.
"Good-evening, Miss Kenyon. Good-evening, Mrs. Durant: I hope you notice
what a lovely evening it is!"
"Indeed I do!" said Ethel, fervently. "Oh, how I wish I were in the
country! I should like a long country walk."
"Would not a town walk do as well, for once?" asked Oliver, in his most
persuasive tones. "I was wondering whether you would consent to let me
see you home, as it is such a lovely night. But I see you have a
cab----"
"I would rather drive, I must say," remarked Mrs. Durant. It was what
she knew she was expected to say, and she was not sorry for it, "I am
tired of being on my feet so long. But if you would like to walk,
Ethel, I daresay Mr. Trent would escort you."
"I should be only too pleased," said Oliver.
Ethel laughed happily. "All right, Mrs. Durant. You drive, and I'll walk
home with Mr. Trent."
She scarcely waited for Oliver to offer his arm. She laid her hand in it
so naturally, so securely, that even Oliver felt an impulse of pleasure.
He looked down at the lovely, smiling creature at his side with
admiration, even with tenderness.
At first they did not speak much, for they had to pass through some
crowded and ill-smelling thoroughfares, where conversation was almost
impossible. By-and-bye they emerged from these into Holborn, and thence
they made their way into the wider streets and airier squares which
abound in the West Central district. When they came in sight of the
white pillars and paved yard of the British Museum, they were deep in
talk on all sorts of matters--"Shakespeare and the musical glasses," as
Oliver afterwards laughingly remarked. But he did not choose that she
should altogether guide the course of conversation. Now and then he took
the reins into his own hands. And it amused him to see how readily she
allowed him to direct matters. She responded to the slightest hint, was
attentive to the least check. Such quickness of apprehension, he argued,
meant only one thing in a woman: not intellectual faculty, but love.
"And you still like the stage?" he said to her, after a time.
"I like it immensely. I can express myself there as I could in no other
sphere of life. People used to advise me to take to recitations: how
glad I am that I stood out for what I liked best."
"What one likes best is not always the safest path."
"You might as well say it is not always the easiest path! Mine is a very
hard life, so far as work is concerned, you know. I toil early and late.
But how can you be so awfully trite, Mr. Trent? I did not expect it of
you."
"A good deal of life is rather trite," said Oliver. "I know only one
thing that can preserve it from commonplaceness and dullness and
dreariness."
"And that is----"
"Love."
A little silence fell on both of them. Oliver's voice had sunk almost to
a whisper: Ethel's cheeks had grown suddenly very hot.
"Love makes everything easy and beautiful. Does not your poet say
so--the man whose play you have acted in to-night? Ethel, why don't you
try the experiment?--the experiment of loving?"
"I do try it," she said, laughing, and trying to regain her lost
lightness of tone. "I love Maurice and Mrs. Durant and hosts of people."
"Add one more to the list," said Oliver. "Love _me_."
"You?" she said, doubtingly. "I am not sure whether you are a person to
be loved."
"Oh, yes, I am. Seriously, Ethel, may I speak to your brother? May I
hope that you can love me a little, and that you will some day be my
wife?"
"Oh, that is _very_ serious!" she said, mockingly. And she withdrew her
fingers from his arm. "I did not bargain for so much solemnity when I
set out with you from the theatre to-night."
"But I set out, Ethel, with the intention of asking you to be my wife.
Come, my darling, won't you give me an answer? Don't send me away
disconsolate! Let me teach you what love means--love and happiness!"
His voice sank once more to its lowest murmur. Ethel listened,
hesitated, smiled. Her little fingers found their way back to his arm
again, and were instantly caught and pressed, and even kissed, when they
came to a dark and shady place. And before he parted with her at the
door of her brother's house, he had put his arms round her and kissed
her on the lips.
Was it all pretence--all for the sake of those twenty thousand pounds of
hers? Oliver swore to himself that it was not. She was such a pretty
little thing--such a dear, loving little girl, in spite of her fun and
merriment and spirit--one could not help feeling fond of her. Not that
he was going to acknowledge himself capable of such a weakness when he
next talked to Rosalind.
He was strolling idly along the east side of Russell Square as these
thoughts passed through his mind. He had completely forgotten the
stroller whom he had seen leaning against the railings of the Square
gardens; but he was unpleasantly reminded of that gentleman's existence
when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice said in his ear--
"I've been waiting here six hours, Oliver, and I must have a word or two
with you."