"AT YOUR SIDE."
Caspar Brooke was not as yet debarred the privilege of seeing his
friends, and on the morning after his arrest he had a great many
visitors, including, of course, Maurice Kenyon and his lawyer. Maurice
was busying himself earnestly on his friend's behalf; and, considering
the position that Brooke held, the esteem felt for him in high places,
and the amount of interest that was being brought to bear on the
authorities, there was little doubt but that he would be let out on bail
in a day or two, even if the proceedings were not quashed altogether.
Some delay, however, there was sure to be owing to the pertinacity of
Mary Trent's assertion that she saw him struggling with Oliver on the
stairs, but in the meantime his detention was allowed to press as
lightly upon him as possible.
It was noon before Lesley saw him, and when she sprang to his side and
threw her arms around his neck, with a new demonstrativeness of manner,
she noticed that his brows lifted a little, and that he smiled with a
look of positive pleasure and relief.
"So you have come?" he said, holding her to him as if he did not like to
let her go. "I began to wonder if you had deserted me!"
"Oh, father! Why, I have been waiting ever so long for Mr. Grierson to
go."
"And before that----?" he asked, in rather a peculiar tone.
"Before that--I went to see mamma." And Lesley looked bravely up into
his face.
"That was an infringement of contract, as I suppose you know," said
Caspar, smiling persistently. "But it does not matter very much. What
did 'mamma' say to you?"
"I--don't--know," murmured Lesley, confused by the question. "Nothing
very much."
"Nothing. Ah, I know what that means." He turned away from her, and,
sitting down, leaned his elbows upon a table, and played with his beard.
"It was useless, Lesley," he said, quietly, after a few minutes'
silence. "Your mother is the last person whose sympathies will be
enlisted on my side."
Lesley tried to speak but suddenly felt her voice fail her; so instead
of speaking she knelt down by her father, leaned her head upon his
shoulder, and burst into very heartfelt tears.
"Little one," said Caspar, "I'm afraid we have both got ourselves into a
mess."
It did not sound comforting, but Lesley stayed her tears to listen.
"I have been talking to Grierson," her father continued, "and we have
agreed that there must be no suppression of the truth. My dislike to
Oliver Trent has been commented on already, and I must give a reason for
it. Lesley, my dear, you will have to contribute your own evidence as to
the reason."
Lesley looked up with terrified, wide-open eyes. "Do you mean that I
shall have to say----"
"You will have to go into the witness-box and tell what you know, or
rather answer the questions that are asked you."
"But will that be--best--for you?" She put the question with some
difficulty.
"That is not the point. What we have to do is to tell the truth, and
leave the result to others."
"--To God?" Lesley interposed, almost involuntarily. Caspar Brooke's lip
moved with a grave smile.
"Well, yes, to God if you will have it so--we use different terms, but
perhaps we have the same meaning. We must at any rate leave the result
to the working of various laws which we cannot control, and to fight
against these laws of nature is wrong-doing--or sin. Therefore, Lesley,
you will have to tell the truth, whether it may seem to be for my good
or my harm."
She glanced at him rather piteously, and her eyes filled with tears.
Aunt Sophy's words recurred to her mind; but they seemed feeble and
futile in the light of his courage and steadfastness. Aunt Sophy had
been wrong--so much was clear to Lesley; and truth was best under all
possible circumstances.
"It is for Ethel I am sorry," she murmured.
"Yes, poor Ethel. It is true then--what that woman said--that Oliver
Trent was in love with you?"
"I could not help it, father. I don't think it was my fault. I did not
know till it was too late."
"I am not blaming you, my dear. When I came into the drawing-room that
day--do you remember?--what had happened then? Can you bear to tell me?"
She hid her face on his shoulder as she answered, "He was speaking
foolishly. I think he wanted to--to kiss me.... I was very glad that you
came in."
"Was that the first time?"
"Yes, the first. And I did not even see him again until that Saturday
night, when he found me in the study--and----"
"And asked you to run away with him?"
"Yes. Indeed, I had not led him to think that I would do any such thing,
father. I told him never to speak to me again. If it had not been for
Ethel's sake, I think I should have called someone--but I did not like
to make a disturbance."
"No, dear, no. And you--yourself--_you_ did not care for him?"
"Oh no, no, no!"
"It has been a terrible tangle--and the knot has been cut very rudely,"
said Mr. Brooke, in a musing tone. "Of one thing I am quite certain, we
were not fit to have the care of you, Lesley--your aunt and I. You would
never have been in this position, my poor child, if we had looked after
you."
"It isn't _that_ which troubles me," said Lesley, trying to steady her
voice. "It is--that you have to bear the brunt of it all. If it had not
been for me you would never have been here. It has been my fault!"
"Not your fault, child," said her father. "The fault did not lie with
you, but with that unfortunate young man, for whom I am truly sorry.
Don't be morbid, Lesley; look things straight in the face, and don't
blame yourself unless you are perfectly sure that you deserve to be
blamed."
And there the conference ended, for Miss Brooke arrived at that moment,
and Lesley thought it advisable to leave the choice of a subject of
conversation in her hands. Caspar had many visitors that day, and many
letters of advice and condolence, for few men were blessed--or
cursed--with as many friends as he. Among the letters that reached him
was a note without signature, which he read hastily, and as hastily
concealed when he had read it. This note was written in uneven, crooked
characters, as if the writer's hand had shaken as she wrote, and ran as
follows:--
"I ought not to write, but how can I keep silence? There is nothing that
I am not capable of bearing for my friends. If you will but confide in
me--I am ready to do, to bear, to suffer anything--to forgive anything.
Let me see you: I can then speak more freely. If you should be set at
liberty in a day or two, I shall hear. You can then come to me: if not,
I will come to you. But you need have no fear for me: I shall take means
to prevent recognition."
The envelope was plain and of common texture; but the note-paper was
hand-made; with a faint, fine odor as of some sweet-smelling Eastern
wood, and bore in one corner the letters "R. R.," intertwined in deep
blue tints. There was no doubt in Caspar's mind as to the person from
whom it came.
He received it about three o'clock in the afternoon. If he wished to
decline the proposed interview, he knew that he must write at once. In
his heart he knew also that it would be better for him and better for
her that the interview should be declined. What had he to do with
Rosalind Romaine? He was accused of murdering her brother: it was not
seemly that she should see him--even although the world were not to know
of the visit. The world would know sooner or later--that was the worst
of it: ultimately, the world knows everything. But why should she wish
to see him? Had she information to impart? If she had, it would be
foolish, from merely conventional reasons, to refuse her admittance,
supposing that she really wished to come. And in a day or two at most he
would certainly be able to go, if necessary, to her.
But the fact was, he did not believe that she had any information to
impart. She did not say so. Probably she only wished to express her
faith in him, and to assure him of her friendship. Rosalind had been his
friend through many a long year. She had always shown herself kind and
sympathetic--in spite of one or two interludes of coldness and general
oddity which Caspar had never felt able to understand. It would be
pleasant enough to hear her say that she trusted him--he could not help
feeling that. For, although he had passed the matter off very lightly
when talking to Lesley, he was secretly hurt at the absence of any
message from his wife. He could almost have worked himself into a rage
at the thought of it. "Does she, too, think me guilty?" he asked
himself. "She ought to know me better, although she does not love me!
She ought to know. And she does know, but she is too cold and too proud
to say so. Poor, warm-hearted Lesley has tried to win her sympathy for
me and failed. Well, I never expected otherwise: she never gave me what
I wanted--sympathy, understanding, or love! And how can she blame
me"--the thought stole unawares into his mind--"if I turn for sympathy
to one who offers it?"
Yes, Rosalind would sympathize, and there would be no harm in listening
to her gentle words. He had the pen in his hand, paper and ink before
him: a word would be enough, if he wished to stay her visit. But he
would not write it: if she liked to come, she might come--he would be
glad to see her. Besides, her letter wanted explanation: for what had
she to forgive?
He pushed the writing materials away from him, and went to the
fireplace, where a small fire was burning very dimly. The day was
cloudy, and the afternoon was drawing in. He crushed the coal with the
heel of his boot in order to make a flame leap up; then leaned his elbow
on the narrow mantelpiece and gazed down into the glowing embers.
The door opened and closed again behind him, but at first he did not
look up. He thought that the attendant had come to light the gas or
bring him some tea. But when he heard no further sound, he suddenly
stirred and looked up; and in the dim light he saw beside him the figure
of a woman, cloaked and veiled.
Was it Rosalind? No, it was too tall for Rosalind Romaine. Not
Lesley?--though it had a look of her! And then his heart gave a
tremendous leap (although no one would have suspected it, for his
massive form and bearded face remained as motionless and calm as ever),
for it dawned upon him that the visitor was none other than Lesley's
mother, his wife, Alice Brooke, who had quitted him in anger twelve
years before.
"I beg your pardon," he said, courteously. "I did not see--I had no idea
who it was. Will you not sit down?"
He handed her a chair, with a bow as formal as that of a complete
stranger. Perhaps the formality was inevitable. Lady Alice put her hand
on the back of the chair, and felt that she was trembling.
"I hope I am not intruding," she said, in a voice as formal as his own.
"Not at all. It was most kind of you to come. Pray sit down."
She seated herself in silence, and then put up her veil. He remained
standing, and for a moment or two the husband and wife looked each other
steadily in the face, with a sort of curiosity and with a sort of wonder
too. The years had not dealt unkindly with either of them. Lady Alice
had kept her slender grace of figure and her gentleness of expression,
but the traces of sorrow and anxiety were so visible upon her delicate
face that Caspar felt a sudden impulse of pity towards the woman who had
suffered in her loneliness more than he had perhaps thought possible. As
she sat and looked at him, a certain pathetic quality showing itself
with more than usual vividness in her soft eyes and drooping mouth, he
was conscious of a desire to take her in his arms and console her for
all the past. But he caught back the impulse with an inward laugh of
scorn. She had no doubt come to run needles into him, as she used to do
in those unlucky days of poverty and struggle. She had a knack of
looking pretty and sweet while she was doing it, he remembered. It would
not do to show any weakness now.
And she--what did she think of him? She was less absorbed with the
consideration of any change in him than with what she intended to say.
What impressed her most were the inflections of his quiet, musical
voice--a voice as unroughened and as gentle as when it wooed her in her
father's Northern Castle years before! She had forgotten its power, but
it made her tremble now from head to foot with a sort of terror that was
not without charm. It was so cold a voice--so cold and calm! She felt
that if it once grew tender and caressing her strength would fail her
altogether. But there was not much fear of tenderness from him--to her.
After that involuntary and rather awkward pause, Lady Alice recollected
herself; and spoke first.
"You must be very much surprised to see me?"
"I am delighted, of course. I could wish"--with a slight smile--"that
the apartment was more worthy of you, and that the circumstances were
less disagreeable; but I am unfortunately not able to alter these
details."
"And it is exactly to these details that you owe my visit," said Lady
Alice, with unexpected calmness.
"Then I ought to be grateful them, no doubt."
She moved uneasily, as if the studied conventionality of his tone jarred
on her a little; and then she said, with an effort that made her words
sound brusque,
"I mean that under ordinary circumstances I should not have come to see
you. But these are so strange--so extraordinary--that you will perhaps
pardon the intrusion. I felt--on reflection--that it was only right for
me to come--to express----"
She faltered, and he took advantage of her hesitation to say, with a
quiet smile--
"I am very much obliged to you. But you should not have taken all this
trouble. A note would have answered the purpose just as well. I suppose
you wish to express your indignation at the little care I seem to have
taken of Lesley. You cannot blame me more severely than I blame myself.
If she had been under your care I have no doubt we should not be in our
present dilemma; but it is no use fretting over what is past--or
inevitable. I can only say that I am exceedingly sorry. Will you not
loosen your cloak? This room is rather warm. I can't very well ring for
tea, I am afraid. You should call on me at Woburn Place, if you want
tea."
She loosened her cloak a little at the throat as he suggested. She had
taken off her gloves, and he could see that her slender white hands were
trembling. Somehow it occurred to him that he had spoken unkindly--but
he did not know how or why. His words were commonplace enough. But it
was his tone that had been cruel.
"I did not come to make any reproaches or complaints," she said at last,
in a low voice.
"No. That was very good of you. I have to thank you, then, for your
forbearance."
There was still coldness, still something perilously like scorn, in his
tone. It was unbearable to Lady Alice.
"Why do you talk in that way?" she broke out, suddenly. "I came to say
something quite different; and you speak as if you wanted to taunt
me--to insult me--to hurt me in every possible way? I do not understand
what you mean."
"You never did," said Caspar. The scorn had gone now, and the voice had
grown stern. "It is useless for us to talk together at all. You have
made intercourse impossible. I have no desire to hurt or taunt or insult
you, as you phrase it; but, if I am to speak the truth, I must say that
I feel very strongly that it is to _you_ and _your_ behavior that we owe
the greater part of this trouble. If you had been at my side, if Lesley
had been under a mother's wing, sheltered as only a mother could shelter
her, there never would have been an opportunity for that man Trent's
clandestine approaches, which will put a stigma on that poor child for
the rest of her life, and may--for aught I know--endanger my own neck! I
could put up with the loss and harm to myself; but once and for all let
me say to you, Alice, that you have neglected your duty as a mother as
much as I have neglected mine as a father; and that if you had been in
your proper place all this ruin and disgrace and misery might never have
come about."
The broken and vehement tones of his voice showed that his feelings were
powerfully affected. Lady Alice listened in perfect silence, and kept
silence for some minutes after the conclusion of his speech. Caspar,
leaning with one shoulder against the mantelpiece, looked frowningly
before him, as if he were unconscious of the fact that she had taken her
handkerchief out of her muff, and was pressing it to her cheeks and
eyes. But in reality he was painfully alive to every one of her
movements, and expected a plaintive rejoinder to his accusations. But
none came. The silence irritated him, as it had formerly irritated him
with Lesley. He was obliged at last to ask a question.
"Since you say you did not come to reproach me, may I ask the motive of
your visit?" he asked.
"I scarcely think that it is of any use to tell you now," said his wife,
quietly. She had got rid of her tears now, and had put her handkerchief
away. "I had a sort of fancy that you might like me to tell you with my
own lips something that I felt rather strongly, but you would probably
resent it--and it is only a trifle after all."
She rose from her chair and drew her fur-lined cloak closely round her,
as if preparing to depart.
"I should like to hear it--if I am not troubling you too much," said
Caspar.
She averted her eyes and began slowly to draw on her gloves. "It is
really nothing--I came on a momentary impulse. I have not seen you for a
good many years, and we parted with very angry words on our lips, did we
not?--but I wanted to say that--although you were sometimes angry--I
never knew you do a cruel thing--you were always kind--kindest of all to
creatures that were weak (except, perhaps to me); and I am quite
sure--sure as that I stand here--that you never did the thing of which
they are accusing you. There!"--and she looked straight into his
face--"it is a little thing, no doubt: you have hosts of friends to say
the same thing to you: but my tribute is worth having, perhaps, because,
after all, I am your wife--and in some ways I do understand!"
Caspar's face worked strangely: he bit his lip hard as he looked at her.
"You are generous, Alice," he said, in a low voice, after a pause that
seemed eternal to her.
"Oh, no. Why should you call it generous? I only wanted to say this--and
also--that if I can be of any use to you now, I am ready. A little thing
sometimes turns the course of public opinion. If I were to go to Woburn
Place--to stay with Lesley, for instance--so that all the world could
see that I believed in you----"
"But--I shall be at Woburn Place myself in a day or two, on bail; and
then----"
"I could stay," said Lady Alice, again looking at him. Then her eyes
dropped and the color mounted to her forehead. He made a sudden step
towards her.
"Alice--is it possible--after all these years----"
"No, it is not possible," she said, with a little laugh which yet had
something in it of a sob, "and I don't think we should ever get on
together--and I don't love you at all, except for Lesley's sake--but
just until this horrible affair is over, if I might show everybody that
I have all possible faith in you, and that I know you to be good and
upright and honorable--just till then, Caspar, I _should_ like to be at
your side."
But whether Caspar heard the whole of this speech must remain for ever
doubtful, as, long before its close, he had taken her in his arms and
was sealing the past between them with a long kiss which might verily be
called the kiss of peace.