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 b.u.t.terfly, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 n.o.body 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.

CHAPTER XI.

BROOKE'S DISCIPLE.

Lesley was sitting in a low chair near a small wood fire, which the chillness of the October day made fully acceptable. She had a book on her lap, but she did not look as if she were reading: her chin was supported by her hand, and her brown eyes were gazing out of the window, with, as Maurice Kenyon could not fail to see, a slightly blank and saddened look. The girl had been now a fortnight in London, and her face had paled and thinned since her arrival; there was an anxious fold between her brows, and her mouth drooped at the corners. If her old friends--Sister Rose of the convent, for instance--had seen her, they could hardly have recognized this spiritless, brooding maiden for the joyous "Lisa" of their thoughts.

Mr. Kenyon had only one moment in which to note the significance of her att.i.tude, for Lesley changed it as soon as she heard his name. He gave her Ethel's message at once and Ethel's parcel, and then stood, a little confused and unready for she had risen and was looking as if, when his errand was accomplished, he ought to go. Fortunately, Doctor Sophy came in and invited him cordially to sit down; rang for tea and scolded him roundly for not coming oftener; then suddenly remembered that one of her everlasting committees was at that moment sitting in a neighboring house, and started off at once to join her fellows, calling out to Lesley as she went to give Mr. Kenyon some tea, and tell her father, who was in the library.

"My father is out: Aunt Sophy does not know that," said Lesley to her visitor.

"Then I ought to go?" said Maurice, smiling.

"Oh, no!"--Lesley looked disturbed. "I did not mean to be so inhospitable. The tea is just coming up."

"Thank you," said Maurice, accepting the unspoken invitation and seating himself. "I shall be very glad of a cup."

She sat down too, veiling the real embarra.s.sment of a school-girl by an a.s.sumption of great dignity. Maurice looked at her and felt perplexed.

Somehow he could not believe that Brooke's daughter was such a very frivolous girl when he came to look at her. She had a fine brow, expressive eyes, a very eloquent mouth. He wondered what she was reading. Glancing at the t.i.tle of the book, his heart sank within him.

She had a yellow-backed novel in her hand, of a profoundly light and frivolous type. Maurice was fond of certain kinds of novels, but there were others that he disliked and despised, and, as it happened, Lesley had got hold of one of these.

"You are reading?" he said. "Am I interrupting you very much?"

"Oh, no," Lesley answered, smiling and shutting the book. "Tea is coming up, you see. I am falling into English habits, and beginning to love the hour of tea."

Sarah brought in the tea-tray as she spoke; and even Sarah's sour visage relaxed a little at the sight of the young doctor. She went downstairs, and presently returned with a plate of small, sweet cakes, which she placed rather ostentatiously upon the table.

"Sarah must have brought those cakes especially for me," said Mr. Kenyon lightly, when she had left the room. "She knows they are my especial favorites. And your father's too. I don't know how many dozen your father and I have not eaten, with our coffee sometimes in an evening! I suppose you are learning to like them for his sake!"

He was talking against time for the sake of giving her back the confidence that she seemed to have lost, for her face had flushed and paled again more than once since his entry. But perhaps he was wrong, for she answered him with a quietness of tone which showed no perturbation.

"These little macaroon things, you mean? I like them very much already.

I did not know that my father cared about them. I have been away so long"--smilingly--"that I know but little of his tastes."

"I could envy you the pleasure you will have, then?" said Maurice, quickly.

Lesley opened her brown eyes. "The--the pleasure?" she faltered in an inquiring tone.

"Yes, the pleasure of discovering what are the tastes and feelings of a man like your father," said Maurice.

Then, as she looked disconcerted still, and as if she did not know quite what he meant, he went on, ardently:

"You have the privilege, you know, of being the only daughter of a man who is not only very widely known, but very much respected and admired.

That doesn't seem much to you perhaps?"--for he thought he saw Lesley's lip curl, and his tone became a little sharp. "I a.s.sure you it means a great deal in a world like ours--in the world of London. It means that your father is a man of great ability and of unimpeachable honesty--I mean honesty of thought, honesty of purpose--intellectual honesty. You have no idea how rare that quality is amongst public men--or literary men--or journalists. Indeed it is a wonder that Brooke is so successful as he is, considering that he never wrote or said a word that he did not mean. No doubt that seems a small thing to you: it is not a small thing to say of a journalist now-a-days."

"I don't know much about journalists," said Lesley. "But all that you are saying would be taken as a matter of course amongst _gentlemen_."

There was a snub for Maurice, and a sly hit at her father, too. Maurice began to wax warm.

"Miss Brooke," he said, "you entirely fail to understand me; and I can imagine that you, perhaps, fail to understand your father also."

"If I do," said Lesley, proudly, "I hardly need to be set right by a stranger."