The woman looked at him with hard, defiant eyes. "Yes, me," she said.

"You ought to know that I couldn't do anything else."

He stood looking at her with a frown.

"This is the last place where you ought to have come," he said.

"Because they are friends of yours?" she asked. "I can't help that. I didn't know it when I came, but I know it now."

"Then leave," said Oliver, still in the lowest possible tone, but also with all possible intensity. "Leave as soon as you can. I'll find you another place. It is the worst thing you can do for your own interest to remain here, where you may be recognized."

"I can take care of that," said Mary Kingston, icily. "I'll think over it."

Oliver put his hand into his pocket as if in search of a coin. But Kingston suddenly shook her head. "No," she said, quickly, "I don't want it. Not from you."

And then Lesley's foot was heard upon the stairs. Oliver looked up to Ethel's balcony. Yes, she was there, her hand upon the railing, her eyes fixed on him with what was evidently a puzzled stare. Oliver smiled and raised his hat. Ethel nodded and smiled in return. But he fancied--though, of course, at that distance he could not be sure--that she still looked puzzled as she returned his bow and smile.

He walked on with Lesley. But his good-humor was gone: the usual suavity of his manner was a little ruffled. His recognition of Mary Kingston had evidently been displeasing as well as embarra.s.sing to him.

CHAPTER XIV.

"HOME, SWEET HOME."

Mrs. Romaine and Oliver Trent attributed Lesley's desire to see Macclesfield Buildings to a young girl's curiosity, and, perhaps, to a desire for Oliver's company. They had no conception of the new fancies and feelings, aims and interests, which were developing in her soul.

Only so much of these were visible as to lead Oliver to say to his sister before they sallied forth that afternoon--

"I fancy she is getting up an enthusiasm for her father. Won't that be awkward for you?"

Mrs. Romaine was silent for a moment. Then she answered, with perfect quietness--

"I think it will be more awkward for Lady Alice. It may be rather convenient for us."

And Oliver noticed that for the rest of the afternoon she took every opportunity of indirectly and directly praising Mr. Brooke, his works and ways. But he could not see that Lesley looked pleased--perhaps Mrs.

Romaine's words had rather an artificial ring.

Somehow, it seemed to Lesley as if she hated the expedition on which she came. Was it not a little too like spying upon her father's work? He had never invited her to Macclesfield Buildings. And he would never know the spirit in which she came: it would seem to him as though she had been brought in Mrs. Romaine's train, perhaps against her will, to laugh, to stare, to criticize. She would rather have crept in humbly, and tried to understand, by herself, what he was trying to do. What would he think of her when he saw her there that afternoon?

She was morbidly afraid of him and of his opinion. Caspar Brooke would have been as much hurt as astonished if he knew in what ogre-like light she regarded him.

Ethel joined them before they started for Macclesfield Buildings, and as rain was beginning to fall, Oliver insisted that they should take a cab. It was for his own sake, as Rosalind reminded him, rather than for theirs. He had a profound dislike of dirty streets, dirty people, unpleasant sights and sounds. And there were plenty of these to be encountered in the North London district to which they were bound that afternoon.

The three Londoners--for such they virtually were--could hardly refrain from laughing when they saw Lesley's horrified face as the cab drove up to the block of buildings in which the club was situated. "But this is a prison--a workhouse--a lunatic asylum!" she exclaimed. "People do not live here--do they--in this dreary place?"

Ah, me, and a dreary place it was! Three lofty blocks of building, all of the same drab hue, with iron-railed balconies outside the narrow windows, and a great court-yard in which a number of children romped and howled and shrieked in play: it was perhaps the most depressingly ugly bit of architecture that Lesley had ever seen. In vain her friends told her of the superior sanitary arrangements, the ventilation, the drainage, the pure water "laid on;" all she could do was to clasp her hand, and say, with positive tears in her bright eyes, "But _why_ could it not all have been made more beautiful?" And indeed it is hard to say why not.

"Now we are going down into a coal hole," said Oliver, as he helped the ladies to alight. "At least it was once a coal hole. Yes, it was. These four rooms were used as storehouses for coals and vegetables until your father rented them: you will see what they look like now."

"Lesley is horrified," said Ethel, with a little laugh. "Not at the coal-hole," Lesley answered, trying also to be merry, "but at the ugliness of it all. Don't you think this kind of ugliness almost wicked?"

"Oliver thinks all ugliness wicked," said Mrs. Romaine, maliciously.

"Then _we_ ought to be very good," said Ethel. But Oliver did not answer: he was looking at Lesley, whose face had grown pale.

"Are you tired?--are you ill?" he asked her, in the gentlest undertones.

They were still picking their way over the muddy stones of the court-yards, and rough children ran up to them now and then, and clamored for a penny. "Is the sight of this place too much for you?"

"Oh, no," said Lesley, with a sudden, inexplicable flush of color: "It is not that--it is ugly, of course; but I do not mind it at all."

Oliver glanced round suspiciously, as if to discover why she had blushed. All that he could see was the tall figure of Maurice Kenyon, who was standing in a doorway talking to somebody on the stairs. Even if Lesley had seen him, she surely would not blush for that! What chance had Kenyon had of becoming acquainted with her? Oliver forgot that other sisters besides his own might send their brothers on messages.

Down a flight of stone steps, through a low doorway, and into a dark little corridor, was Lesley conducted. She noticed that Mrs. Romaine and Ethel were quite accustomed to the place. "We have often been before, you know," Ethel explained. "It's your father's hobby, you know; his doll's house, or Noah's Ark, or whatever you like to call it--his pet toy. I always call it his Noah's Ark myself. The animals walk in two by two. The men may bring their wives on Sundays. Oh, by the bye, Lesley, I hope you don't mind smoke. The men have their pipes, you know."

And then Lesley, dazzled and confounded by her surroundings, found herself in a brilliantly lighted room of considerable size--really two ordinary rooms thrown into one. Immediately the squalor and ugliness of the outer world were thrown into the background. The walls of the room were distempered--Indian red below, warm grey above; and on the grey walls were hung fine photographs of well-known foreign buildings or of celebrated paintings. In one part of the room stood a magnificent billiard-table, now neatly covered with a cloth. A neat little piano was placed at the other end of the room, near a large table covered with a scarlet cloth, strewn with magazines, papers, and books, and decorated with flowers. The chairs were of solid make, seated with red leather ornamented with bra.s.s nails. In fact, the whole place was not only comfortable, but cheery and pleasant to the eye. Lesley was told that there was also a library, beside a kitchen and pantry, whence visitors could get tea or coffee, "temperance drinks," and rolls or cakes.

A few women in their "Sunday best" were looking at the books and periodicals, or gossiping together, but they were not so numerous as the men--respectable working-men for the most part; some of them smoking, some reading or talking, without their pipes. In one little group Lesley recognized, with a start, that her father was the centre of attraction. He was sitting, as the other men were, and he was talking: the musical notes of his cultivated voice rose clearly above the hum of rougher and huskier voices. Lesley gathered that some proposition had been made which he was combating.

"No," he said, "I won't have it. Look here--did you open this club, or did I?"

"You did, guv'nor," said one of the men.

"Then I'll have my say in the management. Some of you want the women turned out, do you? It's the curse of modern life, the curse of English and all other society, that you do want the women turned out, you men, where-ever you go. And the reason is that women are better than you are.

They are purer, n.o.bler, more conscientious than you, and therefore you don't want them with you when you take your pleasures. Eh?"

There was a melodious geniality about the last monosyllable which made the men smile in spite of themselves.

"'T'ain't that," said one of them, awkwardly. "It's because they're apt to neglect their 'omes if they come out of an afternoon or an evening like we do."

"Not they!" said Mr. Brooke. "To come out now and then is to make them love their homes, man. They'll put more heart in to their work, if they have a little rest and enjoyment now and then, as you do.

Besides--you've got hold of a wrong principle. The women are not your slaves and servants; they ought not to be. They are your companions, your helpers. The more they are in sympathy with you, the better they will help you. Don't keep your wives out of the brighter moments of your lives, else they will forget how to feel with you, and help you when darker moments come!"

There was a pause; and then a man, with rather a sullen face--evidently one of the malcontents--said, with a growl,

"Fine talk, gov'nor. It'll end in our wives leaving us, like they say yours done."

There was an instant hiss and groan of disapproval. So marked, indeed, that the man rose to shoulder his way to the door. Evidently he was not a popular character.

"We'll pay him out, if you like, sir," said a youth; and some of the older men half rose as if to execute the threat.

"Sit down: let him alone," said Mr. Brooke, sharply. "He's a poor fool, and he knows it. Every man's a fool that does not reverence women. And if women would try to be worthy of that reverence, the world would be better than it is."

He rose as he spoke, with apparent carelessness, but those who knew him best saw that the taunt had stung him. And as he moved, he caught Lesley's eye. He had not known that she was to be there; and by something in her expression--by her heightened color, perhaps, or her startled eye--he saw at once that she had heard the man's rude speech and his reply.

He stopped short, grasped at his beard as his manner was, especially when he was perplexed or embarra.s.sed; then crossed over towards her, laid his hand on her arm, and spoke in a tone of unusual tenderness.

"_You_ here, my child?"