A VAIN APPEAL.
Lesley went home to sleep, and learned from her aunt the details of her
father's arrest. "But he will be back in a few hours," said Miss Brooke,
obstinately. "They will be obliged to let him ago. They will accept
bail, of course. Mr. Kenyon thinks they will."
"Has Mr. Kenyon been here?"
"Oh, yes; he brought me a message from Caspar. What a horrible thing it
is! But the ridiculous--absurd--part of it is that your father should be
accused. Why, your father was very friendly with Oliver Trent--at least
he used to be!" Then Miss Brooke paused, and fired an unexpected
question at her niece. "Have you any reason to think he was not?"
Lesley winced and hesitated. "I don't think he liked Mr. Trent very
much," she said, at last; "but that is a different thing----"
"From killing him? I should think so!" said Doctor Sophy, in a high tone
of voice. She was in her dressing-gown, and sitting before the fire that
had been lighted in her own little sanctum upstairs; but she was not
smoking as she was usually at that hour. The occasion was too serious
for cigarettes: Doctor Sophy was denying herself. Perhaps that was the
reason why she looked so haggard and so angry, as she turned suddenly
and spoke to her niece in a somewhat excited way.
"What made him unfriendly? Do you not know? It was because you flirted
with Oliver Trent! I really think you did, Lesley. And I know your
father thought so too."
"Then he ought to have been vexed with me, not with Oliver," said
Lesley, standing her ground, but turning very pale.
"Yes, yes, but you are a girl, and he did not like to blame you. He
spoke rather strongly about Oliver Trent to me. However, it is no use
saying so now. We had better keep that phase of the matter as quiet as
we can."
"Aunt Sophy," said Lesley, in a tremulous tone, "you don't mean--you
don't think--that my--my _flirting_, as you call it, with Mr. Trent will
be spoken of and tend to hurt my father--my father's good name?"
Aunt Sophy stared at her. "Of course it would hurt your father's chances
if it _were_ talked about," she said, rather, sharply. "I don't see how
it could do otherwise. People would say that he might have quarrelled
with Oliver about you, you know. But we must try to keep the matter as
quiet as we can. _I'm_ prepared to swear that they were bosom-friends,
and that I never heard Caspar say a word against him; and you had better
follow my example."
"But, Aunt Sophy--if I can't----"
"If you want to come the Jeanie Deans' business, my dear," said Miss
Brooke, "you had better reflect that personal application to the Queen
for a pardon will not help you very much now-a-days. I must confess
that, although I admire Jeanie Deans very much, I don't intend to
emulate her. It's my opinion too that most women will tell lies for the
sake of men they love, but not for the sake of women."
"Oh, Aunt Sophy!"
"It is no good making exclamations," said Aunt Sophy, with unusual
irritability. "If you are different from all other women, I can't help
it. I once thought that I was different myself, but I find I am as great
a fool as any of them. There, go to bed, child! Things will turn out all
right by and by. Nobody could be so absurd as to believe ill of your
father."
"You think it will be all right?" said Lesley, wistfully.
"Don't ask me to believe in a God in heaven, if things go badly with
Caspar," said Miss Brooke, curtly. "Haven't I lived ten years in the
house with the man, and don't I know that he would not hurt a fly? He's
the gentlest soul alive, although he looks so big and strong: the
gentlest, softest-hearted, most generous----But I suppose it is no good
saying all that to your mother's daughter?"--and Miss Brooke picked up a
paper-covered volume that had fallen to her feet, and began to read.
"I am my father's daughter too," said Lesley, with rather tremulous
dignity, as she turned away. She was too indignant with Miss Brooke to
wish her good-night, and meant to leave the room without another word.
But Miss Brooke, dropping her book on her red flannel lap, and looking
uneasily over her shoulder at her niece's retreating figure, would not
let her go.
"Come, Lesley, don't be angry," she said. "I am so upset that I hardly
know what I am saying. Come here and kiss me, child, I did not mean to
vex you."
And Lesley came back and kissed her aunt, but in silence, for her heart
was sore within her. Was it perhaps true--or partially true--that she
had been the cause of the misery that had come upon them all? Indirectly
and partially, unintentionally and without consciousness of
wrong-doing--and yet she could not altogether acquit herself of blame.
Had she been more reserved, more guarded in her behavior, Oliver Trent
would never have fallen in love with her. Would this have mended
matters? If, as she gathered, the sole reason of her father's visit to
the Trents had been to assure himself of the true nature of her
relations with Oliver--her cheeks burned as she put the matter in that
light, even to herself--why, then, she could not possibly divest herself
of responsibility. Of course she could not for one moment imagine that
her father had lifted his hand against Oliver; but his visit to the
house shortly before the murder gave a certain air of plausibility to
the tale: and for this Lesley felt herself to blame.
She went to her own room and lay down, but she could not sleep. There
was a hidden joy at the bottom of her heart--a joy of which she was half
ashamed. The relief of finding that Maurice was still her friend--it was
so that she phrased it to herself--was indeed very great. And there was
a strange and beautiful hope for the future, which she dared not look at
yet. For it seemed to her as if it would be a sort of treason to dream
of love and joy and hope for herself when those that she loved best--and
she herself also--were involved in one common downfall, one common
misfortune of so terrible a kind. The thought of her father--detained,
she knew not where: she had a childish vision of a felon's cell, very
different indeed from the reality of the plain but fairly comfortable
room with which Mr. Caspar Brooke had been accommodated, and she
shuddered at the thought of the days before him, of the public
examinations, of the doubt and shame and mystery in which poor Oliver
Trent's death was enwrapped. She thought of Ethel, now under the
influence of a strong narcotic, from which she would not awake until the
morning; and she shrank in imagination from that awakening to despair.
And she thought of others who were more or less concerned in the
tragedy; of Mary Kingston--though she could not remember her without a
shudder--of Mrs. Romaine, who had loved her brother so tenderly; and of
Lady Alice, the woman whose husband was in prison for a crime of which
Lesley was willing to swear that he was innocent.
When her thoughts once reached her mother, they stayed and would not be
diverted. She could not sleep: she could think of nothing but the mother
and the father whom she loved. And she wept over the failure of her
schemes for their reunion. All hope of that was at an end. It was
impossible that Lady Alice should not believe him guilty. She had always
judged him harshly, and taken the worst possible view of his behavior.
Lesley remembered that she had not--in common parlance--"had a good word
to say for him," when she spoke of him in the convent parlor. What would
she say now, and how could Lesley make her see the truth?
The fruit of her reflections became evident at breakfast-time next
morning. Lesley came downstairs with her hat on and a mantle over her
arm.
"Where are you going?" Miss Brooke asked. "Not to poor Ethel, I hope? I
am very sorry for her, but really, Lesley----"
"I am going to mamma," said Lesley.
"Going to----Well, upon my word! Lesley, I did think you had a little
more feeling for your father! Going----Well, I shall not countenance it.
I shall not let your boxes go out of the house. It is simply
disgraceful."
"But I don't want my boxes," said Lesley, rather forlornly helping
herself to a cup of coffee. "What have my boxes to do with it, Aunt
Sophy? I shall be back in an hour. Mr. Kenyon said we should be able to
see father to-day, and I do not want to be away when he comes."
"Then--then you don't mean to _stay_ with your mamma?" gasped Aunt
Sophy.
Lesley could not help a little laugh, but the tears came into her brown
eyes as she laughed. "Would you mind very much if I did, Aunt Sophy?"
she asked, setting down her cup of coffee.
"I should mind for this reason," said Miss Brooke, stoutly, "that if you
ran away from your father's house now, people would say that you thought
him guilty. It would go against him terribly. Sooner than that, I would
lock you into your own room and prevent your going by main force."
"I believe you would," said Lesley, "and so would I, in your place, Aunt
Sophy. But you need not be afraid. I am as proud of my father and as
full of faith in him as even you can be; and if I go to see my mother,
it is only that I may tell her so, and let her understand that she has
no cause to be afraid for him." The color came to her face as she spoke,
and she lifted her head so proudly that Aunt Sophy felt--for a moment or
two--slightly abashed.
"I will be back in an hour," Lesley went on, firmly, "and I hope that
Mr. Kenyon will wait for me if he comes before I return."
"Am I to tell him where you have gone?" asked Miss Brooke, with a slight
touch of sharpness in her voice.
And Lesley replied, "Certainly. And my father, too, if you see him
before I do. I am not doing anything wrong."
Greatly to her surprise, Miss Brooke got up and kissed her. "My dear,"
she said, "you are very like your father, and I am sure you won't do
anything to hurt his feelings; but are you quite sure that you need go
to Lady Alice just at present?"
"Quite sure, Aunt Sophy." And then Miss Brooke sighed, shook her head,
and let her go, with the air of one who sees a person undertake a
hopeless quest. For she fancied that Lesley was going to make an attempt
to reconcile the husband and wife who had been so long separated, and
she did not believe that any such attempt was likely to succeed. But she
had not fathomed Lesley's plan aright.
The girl took a hansom and drove at once to her mother's house. She knew
well where it was situated, but she had never visited it before. It was
a small house, but in a good position, close to the Green Park, and at
any other moment Lesley would have been struck by the air of
distinction that it had already achieved. It was painted differently
from the neighboring houses: the curtains and flower-boxes in the
windows were remarkably fresh and dainty, the neat maid who opened the
front door was neater and smarter than other people's maids. Lesley was
informed that her ladyship was not up yet; and the servant seemed to
think that she had better go away on receiving this information.
"I will come in," said Lesley, quietly. "I am Miss Brooke. You can take
my name up to her first, if you like, but I want to see her at once."
The maid looked doubtful, but at this moment Mrs. Dayman was seen
crossing the hall, and her exclamation of mingled pleasure and dismay
caused Lesley to be admitted without further parley.
Lady Alice was up, but not fully dressed; she was breakfasting in a
dressing-room or boudoir, which opened out of her own sleeping
apartment. As soon as Lesley entered she started up; and the girl
noticed at the first glance that her mother was looking ill, but perhaps
the richly-tinted plush morning-gown, that fell round her slender figure
in long straight folds, made her look taller and thinner than usual.
Certainly her face was worn, and her eyelids were reddened as if from
weeping or sleeplessness.
"Lesley! my darling! have you come back to me?"
She folded the girl in her arms and pressed her lips to the soft cheek,
a little sob breaking from her as she spoke.
"Only for half an hour, mamma. Just to speak to you for a few minutes
about _him_."
"Him! Your father! Oh, Lesley, what does it all mean?"
"Poor mamma! it must have been a great shock to you. Sit down, and I
will tell you all that I know."
And gently pressing Lady Alice back into a seat, Lesley took a footstool
at her mother's knee and told her the story. Lady Alice listened in
silence. With one hand she stroked Lesley's hair; with the other she
held Lesley's fingers, and Lesley noticed that it twitched from time to
time as if in nervous agitation. Otherwise, however, she was very calm.
"And so," she said, at last, "you came to tell me the story as you know
it.... But, my child, you have told me very little that I did not know
already. Even in last night's papers the relationship between Oliver
Trent and these people in Whitechapel was commented on. And your own
name, my darling--that did not escape. Did you think I should
misunderstand you?"
"Oh, no, mamma--not misunderstand _me_, but I was afraid lest you might
misunderstand some one else."
Lady Alice was silent.
"I was afraid," said Lesley, softly, "lest the years that have gone by
should have made you forget his gentleness and nobleness of soul--lest
for one moment you should think him capable of a mean or vile action. I
came to tell you, dearest mother, how impossible it was for us--who
_know_ him--to credit for one moment an accusation of this kind. If all
the world said that he was guilty, you and I, mamma, would know that he
was not."
"My child, my darling, you must speak for yourself. Do not try to speak
for me!"
"Mother, won't you give me a message for him?"
"Are you going to see him, Lesley?"
"I hope so. Mr. Kenyon said he would take me."
There was a short silence, and then Lesley lifted her eyes to her
mother's face. She was not encouraged by what she saw there. It was
pale, sad, immobile, and, as it seemed to Lesley, very cold.
"Mother, I must go. Won't you send him a message?"
"I have no message, Lesley."
"Not one little word?"
"Not one." And then, as if trying to excuse herself Lady Alice added,
hurriedly, "there is nothing that I can say which would please him. He
would not care for any message from me."
"He would care to hear that you trusted him!"
"I do not think so," said Lady Alice, with a little shake of her head.
Lesley rose to her feet, silenced for the moment, but not altogether
vanquished. She put her arms round her mother's neck.
"But you do trust him, mamma? Tell me that, at any rate."
For almost the first time within Lesley's memory Lady Alice made a
gesture of impatience.
"I cannot be catechised; Lesley. Let me alone. You do not understand."
And Lesley was obliged to go away, feeling sorrowfully that she had
failed in her mission. Perhaps, however, she had succeeded better than
she knew.