"No, indeed," she answered, vehemently; "I am not----"

And then, for some inexplicable reason, she stopped short.

"'Not in love with any one' was what she was going to say," said Caspar to himself, as he watched with keen eyes the changes of color and expression in her face. "And she does not dare to say it after all. What does that mean?" But he did not say this aloud.

"You don't care for Maurice, then?" he asked her.

She drew herself away from him and colored hotly, but made no other reply.

"My dear," said Caspar, half jestingly, half warningly, "you must let me remind you that silence is usually taken to mean consent."

And even then she did not speak.

"Really, of all incomprehensible creatures, women are the worst. Well, well! Tell me this, at any rate, Lesley: you have not given your heart to Oliver Trent?"

"Father! how can you ask?"

"Have you anything to complain of with respect to him? Has he always behaved to you with courtesy and consideration?"

"I would rather not say," Lesley answered, bravely. "He--spoke as I did not like--once--or twice; but it is his wedding-day to-morrow, and I mean to forget it all."

"Once or twice! When was the last time, child? On Sat.u.r.day? Here in this room? Ah, I see the truth in your face. Never mind how I know it. I want to know nothing more. Now you can go: I am busy, and shall probably have to be out late to-night."

With these words he led the girl gently out of the room, kissed her on the forehead before he shut the door, and then returned to his work. He did not dine with his sister and daughter, but sent a message of excuse.

Later in the evening, Sarah reported to Miss Brooke that "Master had gone out, looking very much upset about something or other; and he'd taken his overcoat and his big stick, which showed, she supposed, that he was off to the slums he was so fond of." Sarah did not approve of slums.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

ETHEL KENYON'S WEDDING-DAY.

The morning of Ethel Kenyon's wedding-day was as bright and sunny as any wedding day had need to be. The weather was unusually warm, and the trees were already showing the thin veil of green which is one of spring's first heralds in smoky London town. The window-boxes in the Square were gay with hyacinth and crocus-blossom. The flower-girls'

baskets were brilliant with "market bunches" of wall-flowers and daffodils--these being the signs by which the dwellers in the streets know that the winter is over, that the time of the singing of birds has come, and that the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. The soft breezes blew a fragrance of violets and lilac-blossom from the gardens and the parks. London scarcely looked like itself, with the veil of smoke lifted away, and a fair blue sky, flecked with light silvery cloud, showing above the chimney-tops.

Ethel was up at seven o'clock, busying herself with the last touches to her packing and the consideration of her toilet; for she was much too active-minded to care for the seclusion in which brides sometimes preserve themselves upon their wedding-mornings. Some people might have thought that it would not be a very festive day, for her brother was the only near relative who remained to her, and an ancient uncle and aunt who had been, as Ethel herself phrased it, "routed out" for the occasion, were not likely to add much to the gaiety of nations by their presence. Mrs. Durant, lately Ethel's companion, was to remain in the house as Maurice's housekeeper, and she had nominally the control of everything; but Ethel was still the veritable manager of the day's arrangements. She had insisted on having her own way in all respects, and Oliver was not the man to say her nay--just then.

Mrs. Romaine had offered to stay the night with her, and help her to dress; but Ethel had smilingly refused the companionship of her future sister-in-law. "Thanks very much," she had said, in the light and airy way which took the sting out of words that might otherwise have hurt their hearer; "but I don't think there's anything in which I want help, and Lesley Brooke is going to act as my maid on the eventful morn itself."

"Lesley Brooke?" said Mrs. Romaine. She could not altogether keep the astonishment out of her voice.

"Yes, why not?" asked Ethel, with just so much defiance in her voice as to put Mrs. Romaine considerably on her guard. "Have you any objection?"

"Dear Ethel, how can you ask such a thing? When you know how fond I am of Lesley."

"Are you?" asked Miss Kenyon lightly. "Do you know I should never have thought it, somehow. _I_ am exceedingly fond of Lesley, and so"--with a little more color in her face than usual--"so is Oliver."

Bravely as she spoke, there was something in the accent which told of effort and repression. Mrs. Romaine admired her for that little piece of acting more than she had ever admired her upon the stage. She was too anxious for her brother's prosperity to say a word to disturb Ethel's serenity, whether it was real or a.s.sumed.

"I am so glad, dear," she said, sweetly. "Lesley is a dear girl, and thoroughly good and loving. I am quite sure you could not have a better friend, and she will be delighted to do anything she can for you."

"I don't know about that," said Ethel, with a little pout. "I had a great deal of trouble to get her to promise to come. She made all sorts of excuses--one would have thought that she did not want to see me married at all."

Which, Rosalind thought, might be very true. She had so strong a faith in the power of her brother's fascinations that she could not believe that he had actually "made love," as he had threatened, to Lesley Brooke without success.

Ethel spoke truly when she said that she had had great difficulty in persuading Lesley to come. After what had pa.s.sed between herself and Oliver, Lesley felt herself a traitress in Ethel's presence. It seemed to her at first impossible to talk to Ethel about her pretty wedding gifts, her trousseau and her wedding tour, or to listen while she swore fidelity to Oliver Trent, when she knew what she did know concerning the bridegroom's faith and honor. On the Sunday after the Brookes' evening party she had a very severe headache, and sent word to Ethel that she could not possibly come to her on the morrow. But Ethel immediately came over to see her, and poured forth questions, consolations, and laments in such profusion that Lesley, half blind and dazed, was fain to get rid of her by promising again that nothing should keep her away. And on Monday the headache had gone, and she had no excuse. It was not in Lesley's nature to simulate: she could not pretend that she had an illness when she was perfectly well. There was absolutely no reason that she could give either to the Kenyons or to Miss Brooke for not keeping her promise to sleep at Ethel's house on the Monday night, and be present at her wedding on Tuesday morning.

So she wound herself up to make the best it. It seemed to her that no girl had ever been placed in so painful a position before. We, who have more experience of life than Lesley had, know better than that. Lesley's position was painful indeed, but it might in many ways have been worse.

But she, ignorant of real life, more ignorant even than most girls, because she knew so few of the pictures of real life that are to be found in the best kind of novels, had nothing but her native instincts of truth and courage to fall back upon, together with the strong will and power of judgment that she inherited from her father. These qualities, however, stood her in good stead that day. "It is no use to be weak," she said to herself. "What good shall I do to Ethel if I give her cause to suspect Oliver Trent's truth to her? The only question is--ought I to tell her--to put her on her guard? Oh, I think not--I hope not. If he marries her, he cannot help loving her; and it would break her heart--now--if I told her that he was not faithful. I must be brave and go to her, and be as sympathetic as usual--take pleasure in her pleasure, and try to forget the past! but I wish she were going to marry a man that one could trust, like my father, or like--Maurice."

She always called him Maurice when she thought about him now.

It took all the strength that she possessed, however, to go through the ordeal of those hours with Ethel. She managed to keep away until nearly nine o'clock on Monday night, and then--just after her father had gone out--she received a peremptory little note from Ethel. "Why don't you come? You said you would come almost directly after dinner, and it is ever so late now. Oliver has just left me: he has business in the city, so I shall not see him again until to-morrow. Do come at once, or I shall begin to feel lonely."

So Lesley went.

She had to look at the wedding-cake, the wedding-gown, the simple little breakfast table. She sat up with Ethel until two in the morning, helping her to pack up her things, and listening to her praises of Oliver. That was the worst of it. Ethel _would_ talk of Oliver, _would_ descant on his perfections, and, above all, on his love for her. It was very natural talk on Ethel's part, but it was indescribably painful and humiliating to Lesley. Every moment of silence seemed to her like an implicit lie, and yet she could not bring herself to destroy the fine edifice of her friend's hopes, although she knew she could bring it down to the ground with a touch--a word.

"And I am so glad there is not to be a fuss," Ethel said at last, when St. Pancras' clock was striking two: "for I always thought that a fussy wedding would be horrid. You see, Lesley, I have dressed up so often in white satin and lace, as a bride, or a girl in a ballroom, or some other character not my own, that I feel now as if there would be no reality for me in a wedding if I did not wear rather every-day clothes. In a bride's conventional dress, I should only fancy myself on the stage again."

"You don't call the dress you are to wear to-morrow 'every-day clothes,'

do you?" said Lesley, with a smiling glance towards the lovely gown in which Ethel had elected to be married, and then to wear during the first part of her wedding-journey.

"I call it just a nice, pretty frock--nothing else," said Ethel, complacently, "one that I can pay calls in afterwards. But I could not refuse the lovely lace Maurice insisted on giving me: so I shall wear a veil instead of a bonnet--it is the only concession I make to conventionality."

"I wish you would go to sleep, Ethel: you will look very pale under your veil to-morrow."

"Well, I will try; but I don't feel like it. I hope Maurice will be back in good time. It was very tiresome of that patient of his to send for him in such a hurry."

Then there was a silence, for both girls were growing sleepy; and it was with a yawn that Ethel at last inquired--

"Lesley, why won't your father come to my wedding?"

"Won't he?" said Lesley, with a little start.

"Not he: I asked him again on Sat.u.r.day, and he refused."

"Perhaps," said Lesley, not very steadily, "it gives him pain to be present at a wedding: he speaks sometimes--as if he did not like to hear of them."

"Oh, you poor, dear thing, I had forgotten all that trouble," said Ethel, giving her friend a hug which nearly strangled her; "but won't it come right in the end? Captain d.u.c.h.esne says that she is so sweet, so charming--and your father is just delightful."

"I think I can't talk about it," said Lesley, very quietly.

"Then we won't. Did you know I had asked Captain d.u.c.h.esne to the breakfast?"

"Oh, Ethel, how heartless of you!" Lesley said, laughing in spite of herself. For Captain d.u.c.h.esne's devotion was patent to all the world.