She opened the door with her latch-key, and, to her great surprise, was confronted at once by Sarah, her face swollen, and her eyes red with weeping.

"Sarah! why--have you heard the dreadful news already?" said Miss Brooke.

"Have _you_ heard it, is more the question, I'm thinking?" said Sarah, grimly.

"Of course you mean--about poor Mr. Trent?"

"More than that, ma'am. However, here's a letter from master to you, and that'll tell you more than I can do." And Sarah, handed a note to her mistress, and retired to the back of the hall, sniffing audibly.

Miss Brooke walked into the dining-room and opened the note. Caspar had gone out, she gathered from the fact of his having written to her at all: perhaps he had heard of Oliver Trent's death, and had gone to offer his services to Maurice, or to a.s.sist in discovering the murderer. So she thought to herself; and then she began to read the note.

In another minute Sarah heard a strange, m.u.f.fled cry; and running into the room found that Miss Brooke had sunk down on the sofa, and was trembling in every limb. Her brother's letter was crushed within her hand.

"What does it mean, Sarah?--what does it mean?" she stammered, with a face so white and eyes so terror-stricken that Sarah took her to task at once.

"It means a great, big lie, ma'am, that's all it means. Why, you ain't going to be put about by that, I hope, when master himself says--as he said to me--that he'd be home afore night! I'm ashamed of you, looking as pale as you do, and you a doctor and all!"

"Did he say to you he would be home before night?" said Miss Brooke collecting herself a little, but still looking very white.

Sarah took a step nearer to her, and spoke in a low voice. "n.o.body else in the house knows where he's gone," she said, "but I know, for master called me himself, and told me what they wanted him for. It was two men in plain clothes, and there was a cab outside and a p'liceman on the box. 'Of course it's all a mistake, Sarah,' he said to me, as light-hearted as you please, 'and don't let Miss Lesley or your Missus be anxious. I dare say I shall be back in an hour or two.' And then he asked the men if he might write a note, and they let him, though they read it as he wrote, the nasty wretches!"--and Sarah snorted contemptuously, while she wiped away a tear from her left eye with her ap.r.o.n.

"But it is so extraordinary--so ridiculous!" said Miss Brooke. And then, with a little more color in her face, she read her brother's letter over again.

It consisted only of these words--

"DEAR SOPHY,--Don't worry yourself. The police have got it into their wise heads that I had something to do with poor Trent's tragic end. I dare say I shall be back soon, but I must go and hear what they've got to say. Take care of Lesley--C. B."

"Take care of Lesley! As if _she_ wanted taking care of!" said Miss Brooke, with sudden energy. "Sarah, go over at once to Mr. Kenyon's, and tell Miss Lesley to come home. She can't stay _there_ while this is going on. It isn't decent."

Sarah was rather glad to execute this order. She was of opinion that Miss Lesley needed to be taken down a bit, and that this was the way in which the Lord saw fit to do it. And it never occurred to Miss Brooke to caution the woman against startling Lesley or hurting her feelings. She had been startled certainly, and almost overcome; but she belonged to that cla.s.s of middle-aged women who think that their emotions must necessarily be stronger than those of young people, because they are older and understand what sorrow means, whereas the reverse is usually the case. Besides, Miss Brooke quite underrated the warmth of Lesley's attachment to her father, and was not prepared to see her experience anything but shallow and commonplace regret.

So Sarah went to the house opposite and knocked at the door. She had to knock twice before the door was opened, for the whole household was out of joint. The maids were desperately clearing away all signs of festivity--flowers, wedding-cake, the charming little breakfast that had been prepared for the guests--everything that told of wedding preparation, and had now such a ghastly look. Under Mrs. Durant's direction the servants were endeavoring to restore to the rooms their wonted appearance. Ethel's trunks had been piled into an empty room: she would not want her trousseau now, poor child. The uncle from the country was pacing up and down the deserted drawing-room; the aunt was fussing about Ethel's dressing-room, nervously folding up articles of clothing and putting away trifles. All the blinds were down, as if for a funeral.

And in Ethel's own room, the girl lay on her bed, white and rigid as a corpse, with half-shut eyes that did not seem to see, and fingers so tightly closed that the nails almost ran into her soft palms. Since she had been laid there she had not spoken; no one could quite tell whether she were conscious or not; but Lesley, who sat beside her, and sometimes laid her cheek softly against the desolate young bride's cold face, or kissed the ashen-grey lips, divined by instinct that she was not unconscious although stunned by the force of the blow--that she was thinking, thinking, thinking all the time--thinking of her lost lover, of her lost happiness, and beating herself pa.s.sionately against the wall of darkness which had arisen between her and the future that she had planned for herself and Oliver.

Sarah asked at once for Miss Lesley Brooke, and Mrs. Durant came out of the dining-room to speak to the messenger.

"Is Miss Brooke wanted very particularly?" she asked. "Miss Kenyon will not have anyone else with her."

"I think I must speak to Miss Lesley, ma'am; my mistress said I must,"

said Sarah, primly. Then, forgetting her loyalty to her employers in her desire to be communicative, she went on--"Maybe you haven't heard what's happened, ma'am. Mr. Brooke's been taken up on the charge of murder----"

This was not strictly true, but it was the way in which Sarah read the facts.

"And Miss Brooke says Miss Lesley _must_ come home, as it is not proper for her to stay."

The horror depicted on Mrs. Durant's face was quite as great as Sarah had antic.i.p.ated, and even more so. For Mrs. Durant, a conventional and narrow-minded woman, did not know enough of Caspar Brooke's character to feel any indignation at the accusation: indeed, she was the sort of woman who was likely to put a vulgar construction upon his motives, and regard it as probable that he had quarreled with Oliver for not wishing to marry Lesley instead of Ethel Kenyon. And she at once grasped the situation. Under the circ.u.mstances--if Caspar Brooke had killed Ethel's lover--it was most improper that Caspar Brooke's daughter should be staying in the house.

"Of course!" she said, with a shocked face. "Miss Lesley Brooke must go at once--naturally. How very terrible! I am much obliged to Miss Brooke for sending--as Ethel's chaperon I couldn't undertake----I'll go upstairs and send her down to you."

Sarah was left in the hall, while Mrs. Durant went upstairs. But after a time the lady came down with a troubled air.

"I can't get her to come," she said. "You must go up yourself, Sarah, and speak to her. She will come into the dressing-room, she says, for a minute, but she cannot leave Miss Kenyon for a longer time. You must tell her quietly what has happened, and then she will no doubt see the advisability of going away."

Sarah went upstairs, therefore, and entered the dressing-room, where the old aunt was still busy; and in a minute or two Lesley appeared.

"What is it?" she said, briefly.

"Your aunt sent me to say you must come home at once, miss."

"I cannot come just yet: Miss Kenyon wishes me to stay with her," said Lesley, with dignity.

"You'd better come, Miss Lesley. I don't want to tell you the dreadful news just now: you'd better hear it at home. Then you'll be glad you came. It's your pa, miss."

"My father! Oh, Sarah, what do you mean? Is he ill? is he dead? What is it?"

"He's been arrested, miss, for killing Mr. Trent."

Sarah spoke in a whisper, but it seemed to her hearers as if she had shouted the words at the top of her voice. Mrs. Durant pressed her hands together and uttered a little scream. Lesley turned deadly white, and laid one hand on the back of a chair, as if for support. And the old aunt immediately ran into the inner room, and burst into tears over Ethel's almost inanimate form, bewailing her, and calling her a poor, injured, heartbroken girl, until Ethel opened her great dark eyes, and fixed them upon the aged, distorted face with a questioning look.

"Lesley!" she breathed. "I want Lesley."

"Oh, my dearest child, you must do without Lesley now. It is not fit that she should come to you."

But Ethel's lips again formed the same sounds: "I want Lesley." And the old lady continued--

"She must not come, dear: you cannot see Lesley Brooke again. It is her father who has done this terrible thing--blighted your life--destroyed your happiness----"

And so she would have babbled on had not Ethel all at once raised herself in her bed, with white face and flaming eyes, and called in tones as clear and resonant as ever--

"Lesley! Lesley! come back!"

And then the old aunt was silent: silent and amazed.

From the next room Lesley came, softly and swiftly as was her wont. Her face was pale, but her eyes and lips were steady. She went straight to Ethel; was at once encircled by the girl's arms, and drew Ethel's head down upon her shoulder.

"Shall I go?" she whispered in Ethel's ear.

"No, no; don't leave me."

"You know what they say? Can you trust my father?"

"I trust you both. Stay with me."

Lesley raised her head and looked back at the little group of meddlesome women who had tried to tear her from her friend's side. At the look they disappeared. They dared not say another word after meeting the rebuke conveyed in Lesley's pale, set face and resolute eyes. They closed the door behind them, and left the two girls alone.

For a long time neither spoke. Ethel seemed to have relapsed once more into a semi-unconscious state. Lesley sat motionless, pillowing her friend's head against her shoulder, and stroking one of her hands with her own. Now and then hot tears welled over and dropped upon Ethel's dark, curly head, but Lesley did not try to wipe them away. She scarcely knew that she was crying: she was only aware of a great weight of trouble that had come upon her--trouble that seemed to include in its effects all that she held most dear. Trouble not only to her friend, but to her father, her mother, her lover. Not a shadow of doubt as to her father's innocence rested upon her mind: there was no perplexity, no shame--only sorrow and anxiety. Not many women could have borne the strain of utter silence with such a burden laid on them to bear. But to Lesley, even in that hour, Ethel's trouble was greater than her own.

An hour must have pa.s.sed away before Ethel murmured,