"It is something about Miss Brooke, is it?" said Maurice, with greater interest "I was afraid there was something----"

"Why?"

"Oh--well, you must excuse me for mentioning it--but wasn't she--wasn't she crying as she went out of the room? And she has not been looking well for the last month or so."

"I suppose you mean that she is not particularly happy here, with her father?"

Maurice elevated his eyebrows. "Brooke, old man, what have you got into your head?" he asked, kindly. "You look put out a good bit. Does she say she wants to leave you?"

"Oh, no, no, 'tisn't that. I daresay she does, though. You know the whole story--it is no good disguising the details from you. There's been a wretched little mistake--all my fault, no doubt, but not intentionally so: the girl came here with the idea that she might not write to her mother--some nonsense about 'no communication' between them stood in the way; and it seems she has been pining to do so ever since she came."

"And she never asked you? never complained, or said anything?"

"She broke down over it to-day. I'm ashamed to look her in the face,"

said Brooke, vehemently. "I'm ashamed to think of what they--their opinion of me is. A domineering, flinty-hearted, unnatural parent, eh, Maurice? Ogre and tyrant and all the rest of it. As if I ever meant to put a stop to her writing to her mother! I never heard of such an unjustifiable proceeding! I never thought of such an absurd idea!"

"Then weren't you very much to blame to allow the mistake to arise?"

asked Maurice, bluntly.

"Of course I was. That's the abominable and confounded part of it. Some hasty words of mine were misinterpreted, of course. I told you I had been an a.s.s."

"Well, I hope it is set straight now?"

"As far as I can set it straight. Probably nothing will undo the effect.

She'll think that I was cruel in the first instance if not in the last."

He sat staring at his boots, with a very discontented expression of countenance. But he did not get much sympathy from Mr. Kenyon.

"Well," he said, "I suppose you've yourself to blame. I've no doubt you have been very hasty, lots of times. It's my own idea that if you went into detail over a good many actions of your past life"--this was very significantly said--"you would find that you had been mistaken pretty often. We all do. And there's one mistake that I think I can point out to you."

Caspar looked at him hard for a moment from under his bushy eyebrows.

"One subject, Kenyon," he said, seriously, "I shall ask you to respect."

"All right," said Maurice. "I am only speaking of your daughter. You must allow me to say that I think you have misjudged her, ever since she has been in your house for the last three months. I did just the same, at first. You see, she came here, as far as I can make out, puzzled, ignorant of the world, deprived of her mother's help and care, thrown on the tender mercies of a father whom she did not know----"

"And whom she took to be an ogre," said Brooke, with a bitter, little laugh.

"Brought into a world that she knew nothing about, and amongst a set of people who could not understand why she looked sad and lonely, poor child!----"

"I say, Maurice, you are speaking of my daughter, remember."

"Don't be touchy, old man. I speak and I think of her with every respect. We have all misjudged and misunderstood her: she is a young girl, little more than a child, and a child astray, pining uncomplainingly for her mother, doing her best to understand the new world she was thrown into, devouring your writings and trying as hard as she could to a.s.similate every good and n.o.ble idea that she came across--I say that she's a saint and a heroine," said Maurice, with sudden pa.s.sion and enthusiasm, "and we've forgotten that not a girl in a thousand could have come through a trying ordeal so well!"

"She hasn't come out of her ordeal at all, Maurice: the ordeal of living in the house of a brutal father, who, in her view, probably broke her mother's heart: all that has to be proceeded with for nine months longer!"

"It need not be an ordeal if she knows that you love her: if she writes to her mother and gets the sympathy and aid she needs. Upon my soul, Brooke, it seems to me that you are hard upon your daughter!"

"Do you think I need to be taught my duty by you, young man?" said Caspar. He spoke with a smile, but his tone was undoubtedly sharp. His disciple was not so submissive as he had hitherto appeared to be.

"Yes, I do," said Maurice, undismayed. "Because I appreciate her and understand her, which you don't. I was dense at first as you are, but I have learnt better now--through loving her."

"Through _what_, man?"

"Through loving her. It's the truth, Brooke, as I stand here. I've known it for some little time. It is only because it may seem too sudden to her and to you that I haven't spoken before, and I did not mean to do so when I came here this afternoon. But the fact remains, I love Lesley, and I want her to be my wife."

"Heavens and earth!" said Caspar. "Is the man gone mad!"

CHAPTER XX.

LESLEY'S LETTER.

"Not a bit of it," said Maurice st.u.r.dily. "I speak the words of truth and soberness. I've thought about it for some time."

"A week?"

"I'm in earnest, Brooke. Do you consent?"

"My good man," said Caspar, slowly, "you forget that I am probably the last person in the world whose consent is of any value."

"Pooh!"

"You may say 'pooh' as much as you like, but the fact remains. When Lesley leaves me, say next August or September, she goes to her mother and her grandfather, who's an earl, more's the pity. They have the guardianship, you understand."

"But you have it legally still."

"Hum--no: we had a formal separation. I named the terms, certainly: I was angry at the time, and was inclined to say that if I might not bring up the child in my own way, neither should its mother. That was why we compromised by sending her to school--but it was to be a school of Lady Alice's choice. The year with me afterwards was a suggestion of mine, of course. But I can't alter what was agreed on then."

"Naturally. But----"

"And as to money affairs," said Caspar, ruthlessly cutting him short, "I have been put all along into the most painful and ridiculous position that a man can well be in. I offered to settle a certain income on my wife and daughter: Lady Alice and her father refused to accept any money from me. I have paid various sums into his bank for Lesley, but I have reason to believe that they have never touched a farthing of it. You see they've put me at a disadvantage all round. And what is to be done when she marries, unless she marries with their consent, I don't quite see.

She won't like to offend them or seem ungrateful when they have done so much for her; and I--according to the account that they will give her--I have done nothing. So I don't suppose I shall be consulted about her marriage."

"You are her father: you must be consulted."

"Well, as a matter of form! But I expect that she is destined to marry a duke, my dear fellow; and I call it sheer folly on your part to have fallen in love with her."

"But you don't object, Brooke?"

"I only hope that the destined duke will be half as decent a chap as you are. But I can't encourage you--Lesley will have to look out for squalls if she engages herself to you."

"May I not speak to her then?" inquired Maurice ruefully. "Not at once, perhaps, you know; but if I think that I have a chance?"

"Say what you like," said Brooke, with a genial smile; for his ill-humor had vanished in spite of his apparent opposition to Maurice's suit. "I should like nothing better--for my own part; but we are both bound to consider Lesley. You know you are a shocking bad match for her. Oh, I know you are the descendant of kings and all that sort of bosh, but as a matter of fact you are only a young medico, a general pract.i.tioner, and his lordship is bound to think that I am making something for myself out of the marriage."