CAPTAIN DUCHESNE.
Lesley's life seemed to her now much less lonely than it had been at
first. The consciousness of having made friends was pleasant to her,
although her affection for Ethel had been for a time overshadowed by the
recollection of Oliver's unfaithfulness. But when this impression passed
away, as it gradually did, after the scene that had been so painful to
her, she consoled herself with the belief that Oliver's words and
actions had proceeded from a temporary derangement of judgment, for
which he was not altogether responsible, and that he had returned to his
allegiance; therefore she might continue to be friendly with Ethel
without any sensation of treachery or shame. An older woman than Lesley
would not, perhaps, have argued in this way: she would have suspected
the permanence of Oliver's feelings more than Lesley did. But, being
only an inexperienced girl, Lesley comforted herself by the fact that
Oliver now avoided her; and said that it could not be possible for her
to have attracted him away from Ethel, who was so winning, so sweet, so
altogether delightful.
Then, apart from the Kenyons, she began to make pleasant acquaintances
amongst her father's friends. Caspar Brooke's house was a centre of
interest and entertainment for a large number of intellectual men and
women; and Lesley had as many opportunities for wearing her pretty
evening gowns as she could have desired. There were "at homes" to which
her charming presence and her beautiful voice attracted Caspar's friends
in greater numbers than ever: there were dinner-parties where her
interest in the new world around her made everything else interesting;
and there was a constant coming and going of people who had work to do
in the world, and who did it with more or less success, which made the
house in Woburn Place anything but a dull abode.
The death of her grandfather distressed her less from regret for himself
than from anxiety for her mother's future. Lady Alice's notes to her
were very short and somewhat vaguely worded. It was, therefore, with
positive joy that, one afternoon in spring, she was informed by her maid
that Captain Duchesne was in the drawing-room, for she felt sure that he
would be able to tell her many details that she did not know. She made
haste to go down, and yet, before she went, she paused to say a word to
Kingston, who had brought her the welcome news.
"I wish you would go out, Kingston; you don't look at all well, and this
spring air might do you good."
It was certainly easy to see that Kingston was not well. During the past
few weeks her face had become positively emaciated, her eyes were
sunken, and her lips were white. She looked like a person who had
recently passed through some illness or misfortune. Lesley had tried,
delicately and with reserve, to question her; but Kingston had never
replied to any of her inquiries. She would shut up her lips, and turn
away with the look of one who could keep a secret to the grave.
"Nothing will do me good, ma'am," she answered dryly.
"Oh, Kingston, I am so sorry!"
"Go down to your visitor, ma'am, and don't mind me," said Kingston,
turning her back on the girl with unusual abruptness. "It isn't much
that I've got to be sorry for, after all."
"If there is anything I can do to help you, you will let me know, will
you not?" said Lesley.
But Kingston's "Yes, ma'am," fell with a despairing cadence on her ear.
Kingston had been to her husband's lodgings only to find that he had
disappeared. He had left some of his clothes, and the few articles of
furniture that belonged to his wife, and had never said that he was
going away. The accident that had made Francis Trent a patient at the
hospital where Lady Alice visited was of course unknown to his landlady,
as also to his wife. And as his memory did not return to him speedily,
poor Mary Trent had been left to suffer all the tortures of anxiety for
some weeks. At first she thought that some injury had happened to
him--perhaps that he was dead: then a harder spirit took possession of
her, and she made up her mind that he had finally abandoned her--had got
money from Oliver and departed to America without her. She might have
asked Oliver whether this were so, but she was too proud to ask. She
preferred to eat out her heart in solitude. She believed herself
deserted forever, and the only grain of consolation that remained to her
was the hope of making herself so useful and acceptable to Lesley
Brooke, that when Lesley married she would ask Mary Kingston to go with
her to her new home.
Kingston had made up her mind about the man that Lesley was to marry.
She had seen him come and go: she had seen him look at her dear Miss
Lesley with ardently admiring eyes: she believed that he would be a true
and faithful husband to her. But she knew more than Lesley was aware of
yet.
Lesley went slowly down into the drawing-room. She remembered Captain
Duchesne very well, and she was glad to think of seeing him again. And
yet there was an indefinable shrinking--she did not know how or why.
Harry Duchesne was connected with her old life--with the Paris lights,
the Paris drawing-rooms, the stately old grandfather, the graceful
mother--the whole assembly of things that seemed so far away. She did
not understand her whole feeling, but it suddenly appeared to her as if
Captain Duchesne's visit was a mistake, and she had better get it over
as soon as possible.
It must be confessed that this sensation vanished as soon as she came
into the actual presence of Captain Duchesne. The young man, with his
grave, handsome features, his drooping, black moustache, his soldierly
bearing, had an attraction for her after all. He reminded her of the
mother whom she loved.
It was not very easy to get into conversation with him at first. He
seemed as ill at ease as Lesley herself had been. But when she fell to
questioning him about Lady Alice, his tongue became unloosed.
"She does not know exactly what to do. She talks of taking a house in
London--if you would like it."
"Would mamma care to live in London?"
"Not for her own sake: for yours."
"But I--I do not think I like London so much," said Lesley, with a swift
blush and some hesitation. Captain Duchesne looked at her searchingly.
"Indeed? I understood that you had become much attached to it. I am sure
Lady Alice thinks so."
"I do love it--yes, but it is on account of the people who live in
London," said Lesley.
"Ah, you have made friends?"
"There is my father, you know."
"Yes." And something in his tone made Lesley change the subject
hurriedly. Captain Duchesne would never have been so ill-bred as to
speak disparagingly of a lady's father to her face; and yet she felt
that there was something disparaging in the tone.
"Have you seen the present Lord Courtleroy?" she asked.
"Yes; I have met him once or twice. He is somewhat stiff and rigid in
appearance, but he is very courteous--more than courteous, Lady Alice
tells me, for he is kind. He wishes to disturb her as little as
possible--entreats her to stay at Courtleroy, and so on; but naturally
she wishes to have a house of her own."
"Of course. But I thought that she would prefer the South of France."
"If I may say so without offence," said Captain Duchesne, smiling, "Lady
Alice's tastes seem to be changing. She used to love the country and
inveigh against the ugliness of town; but now she spends her time in
visiting hospitals and exploring Whitechapel----"
Lesley almost sprang to her feet. "Oh, Captain Duchesne, are you in
earnest?"
"Quite in earnest."
"Oh, I _am_ so glad!"
"Why, may I ask?" said Duchesne, with real curiosity. But Lesley clasped
her hands tightly together and hung her head, feeling that she could not
explain to a comparative stranger how she felt that community of
interests might tend to a reconciliation between the long separated
father and mother. And in the rather awkward pause that followed, Miss
Ethel Kenyon was announced.
Lesley was very glad to see her, and glad to see that she looked
approvingly at Captain Duchesne, and launched at once into an animated
conversation with him. Lesley relapsed almost into silence for a time,
but a satisfied smile played upon her lips. It seemed to her that
Captain Duchesne's dark eyes lighted up when he talked to Ethel as they
had not done when he talked to _her_; that Ethel's cheeks dimpled with
her most irresistible smile, and that her voice was full of pretty
cadences, delighted laughter, mirth and sweetness. Lesley's nature was
so thoroughly unselfish, that she could bear to be set aside for a
friend's sake; and she was so ingenuous and single-minded that she put
no strained interpretation on the honest admiration which she read in
Harry Duchesne's eyes. It may have been partly in hopes of drawing her
once more into the conversation that he turned to her presently with a
laughing remark anent her love of smoky London.
"Oh, but it is not the smoke I like," Lesley answered. "It is the
people."
"Especially the poor people," put in Ethel, saucily. "Now, I can't bear
poor people; can you, Captain Duchesne?"
"I don't care for them much, I'm afraid."
"I like to do them good, and all that sort of thing," said Ethel. "Don't
look so sober, Lesley! I like to act to them, or sing to them, or give
them money; but I must say I don't like visiting them in the slums, or
having to stand too close to them _anywhere_. I am so glad that you
agree with me, Captain Duchesne!"
And not long afterwards she graciously invited him to call upon her on
"her day," and promised him a stall at an approaching _matinee_, two
pieces of especial favor, as Lesley knew.
Captain Duchesne sat on as if fascinated by the brilliant little vision
that had charmed his eyes; and not until an unconscionable time had
elapsed did he seem able to tear himself away. When he had gone, Ethel
expressed herself approvingly of his looks and manners.
"I like those soldierly-looking men," she said. "So well set up and
distinguished in appearance. Is he an old friend of yours, Lesley?"
"No, I have met him only once before. In Paris, he dined with us--with
my grandfather, my mother, and myself."
"And he comes from Lady Alice now?"
"Yes, to bring me news of her."
Ethel nodded her bright little head sagaciously.
"It's very plain what Lady Alice wants, then?"
"What?" said Lesley, opening her eyes in wide amaze.
"She wants you to marry him, my dear."
"Nonsense!"
"It's not nonsense: don't get so red about it, you silly girl. What a
baby you are, Lesley."
"I am sure mamma never thought of anything of the kind," said Lesley,
with dignity, although her cheeks were still red.
"We shall see what we shall see. Well, I won't put my oar in--isn't that
kind of me? But, indeed, your Captain Duchesne looks thoroughly ripe for
a flirtation, and it will be as much as I can do to keep my hands off
him."
"How would Mr. Trent like that?" said Lesley, trying to carry the war
into the enemy's camp.
"He would bear it with the same equanimity with which he bears the rest
of my caprices," said Ethel, merrily; but a shade crossed her brow, and
she allowed Lesley to lead the conversation to the subject of her
_trousseau_.
Captain Duchesne did not seem slow to avail himself of the favor
accorded to him. He presented himself at Ethel's next "at home;" and
devoted himself to her with curious assiduity. Even the discovery of her
engagement to Mr. Trent did not change his manner. It was not so much
that he paid her actual attention, as that he paid none to anybody else.
When she was not talking to him, he kept silence. He seemed always to be
observing her, her face, her manner, her dress, her attitude. Yet this
kind of observation was quite respectful and unobtrusive: it was merely
its continuity that excited remark. Oliver noticed it at last, and
professed himself jealous: in fact he was a little bit jealous, although
he did not love Ethel overmuch. But he had a pride of possession in her
which would not allow him to look with equanimity on the prospect of her
being made love to by anybody else.
Ethel enjoyed the attentions, and enjoyed Oliver's jealousy, in her
usual spirit of childlike gaiety. She was quite assured of Oliver's
affection for her now; and she looked forward with shy delight to the
day of her wedding, which had been fixed for the twentieth of March.
Meanwhile, Oliver was devoured with secret anxiety. For what had become
of Francis, and when would he appear to demand the money which had been
promised to him on the day when the marriage should take place?