KNIGHT-ERRANTRY.
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 prejudice 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 Romanist. Now this was not the case, for Lesley
had always been allowed to go to her own church, see her own clergyman,
and hold aloof from the devotional exercises prescribed 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 under the
same roof with her. She made this remark to Miss Brooke on the third
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
disapproval. 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 because she liked it. Lesley was only
just beginning to suspect 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, respectable 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 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 mistake. 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 disliked 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 gaining 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 sad upsetting for
poor master."
"I don't interfere with your master," said Lesley, somewhat 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 Sarah--after flouncing out of the room with an
indignant "Well, I'm sure!"--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 indiscreet 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, poisoned version
of what she had heard into Caspar Brooke's too 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 that 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 of
_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 demeanor, 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 had 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 expected 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! We are each a new experience to the other! What
a basis for friendship!"
"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."
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 melancholy
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
abandoned 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 pursed 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--
"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!"
said the doctor. "I wouldn't have believed it! Is she blind? Doesn't she
_see_ 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!
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 misapprehension 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 misunderstanding 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 not possibly 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 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
himself, 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 comprehended 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 the
grace 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 grey, and if he could judge aright, fashionably made. Yes, a
little French fashion-plate--a doll, powdered, perhaps, and painted,
laced up, and perfumed and clothed in dainty raiment, to come and make
discord in her father's home! It was intolerable. 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!
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 indifferent to the opinion of his child. And perhaps
he was right, and Caspar Brooke not quite so indifferent 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 her? But no: Ethel was not
serious enough in her appreciation 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 immensely, especially since
she had given up her practice: he liked her because she was so frank, so
sensible, so practical 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 daughter that she
was a frivolous fool! 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 secretly 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 introduced 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.
Miss Brooke was not at home.
"Miss Lesley Brooke then?"
Miss Lesley Brooke was in the drawing-room. Maurice went upstairs.