"I love your daughter," said Maurice bluntly, "and I believe she would love me if you would let her."

"_Let_ her?" said Mrs. Brooke, with a smile.

"She made you some promises before she came to London----"

"Ah, not to become engaged before the year was out. Tell her that I absolve her from that promise, and--ask her again."

Maurice found that under these conditions Lesley's answer was all that could be desired.

CHAPTER XLI.

VALE!

"Now that Ethel has gone to the sea-side, I can have you to myself a little while," said Lady Alice to her daughter.

"Poor Ethel! But it is delightful to have you here, mamma: it is so home-like and comfortable."

"Ah, you will soon have to make a home for somebody else!"

Lesley grew red, but smiled. "We won't think of that yet," she said softly. "Mamma, I want to speak to you on a very serious subject."

"Well, my darling?"

"You won't be angry with me, will you? It is--about Mrs. Romaine."

Lady Alice's brow clouded a little. "Well, Lesley?" she said.

"Mamma, I can't bear Mrs. Romaine myself. Neither can you. Neither can papa. And it is very unchristian of all of us, to say the least.

Because----"

"Neither can papa," repeated Lady Alice, with raised brows. "My dear child, Mrs. Romaine is a great friend of your father's. He told me only the other day that she used to come here very often--to see your Aunt Sophy and yourself."

"So she did," said Lesley, lightly. "But, of course, she can't very well come now--at least, it would be awkward. Still I am sure papa does not like her, for he looked quite pleased the other day when I told him that she was going to give up her house, and said in his short way--'So much the better.'"

"Very slight evidence," said Caspar Brooke's wife smiling.

"Well, never mind evidence, mammy dear. What I want to say is that I feel very sorry for Mrs. Romaine. You see she must be feeling very much alone in the world. Oliver, whom she really cared for, is dead, and Francis is out of his mind, and Francis' wife"--with a little shudder--"cannot be anything to her--and then, don't you think, mamma, that when there has been _one_ case of insanity in the family, she must be afraid of herself too?"

"Not necessarily. Francis Trent's insanity was the result of an accident."

"Yes, but it is very saddening for her, all the same, and she must be terribly lonely in that house in Russell Square. I wanted to know if I might go and call upon her?"

"You, dear? I thought you did not like her."

"I don't," said Lesley, frankly, "but I am sorry for her. Ethel asked me why I did not go. She thought there must be something wrong, because Rosalind never came to see her after Oliver's death--never once. I believe she has scarcely been out of the house--not at all since the funeral, and that is a month ago. I have not heard that she was ill, so I suppose it is just that she is--miserable, poor thing."

Lady Alice stroked her daughter's hair in silence for a minute or two.

"I think I had better go instead of you, Lesley. There is no reason why she should feel she cannot see us. She was not to blame for that accusation--though I heard that she believed it. But I will see her first, and you can go afterwards if she is able to receive visitors."

"That is very good of you, mamma--especially as you don't like her,"

said Lesley. "I can't help feeling thankful that Ethel will have nothing to do with that family now. And since Maurice told her a little more about poor Mr. Trent, I think she sees that she would not have been very happy." She was silent for a little while, and then went on, trying to give an indifferent sound to her words:--"Captain d.u.c.h.esne's people live near Eastbourne, he told me; and Ethel has gone to Seaford."

"Not far off," said Lady Alice, smiling a little. "I hope that his sister Margaret will call on Ethel: I think they would like each other."

And no more was said, for it was as yet too early to wonder even whether Harry d.u.c.h.esne's adoration for Ethel Kenyon was ultimately to meet with a return.

True to her new tastes, Lady Alice had had cards printed bearing the name "Mrs. Caspar Brooke." She desired, she said, to be identified with her husband as much as possible: it was a great mistake to retain a mere courtesy t.i.tle, as if she had interests and station remote from those of her husband. Caspar had smilingly opposed this change, but Lady Alice had stood firm. Indeed, to her old friends she remained "Lady Alice" to the end of the chapter; but to the outer world she was henceforth known as Mrs. Brooke.

She sent up one of her new cards when she called upon Mrs. Romaine. She paid this visit with considerable shrinking of heart. She had bitter memories connected with Mrs. Romaine. Since the day on which she had been reconciled to her husband, she had cast from her all suspicion of his past--cast it from her in much the same arbitrary and unreasoning manner as she had first embraced it. For, like most women, she was governed far more by her feelings and instincts than by the laws of evidence. As Rosalind had once told her brother, Lady Alice had accidentally seen and intercepted a letter of hers to Caspar; and Lady Alice had then rushed to the conclusion that it was part of a long continued correspondence and not a single communication. And now--now----what did she think? She hardly knew; of one thing only was she certain that Caspar had never been untrue to her, had never cared for any woman but herself.

She was not at all sure that Mrs. Romaine would receive her: she knew that she had written to her in a tone that no woman, especially a woman like Mrs. Romaine, is likely to forgive; but time, she thought, blunts the memory of past injuries, and if Rosalind chose to forget the past, she would forget it too. It was with a soft and kindly feeling, therefore, that Lady Alice asked for admittance at Mrs. Romaine's door, and learned that Mrs. Romaine was at home and would see her.

Before she had been in the drawing-room five minutes, it dawned on Lady Alice's mind that there was something odd in her hostess' manner and even in her appearance. Of course she was prepared for a change; in the twelve years or more that had elapsed since they had met she herself must have also changed. But, as a matter of fact, Lady Alice's long, elegant figure, shining hair and delicate complexion showed the ravages of time far less distinctly than she imagined; while Mrs. Romaine was a mere wreck of what she had been in her youth. During the last few weeks, Rosalind had grown thin: her features were sharpened, her hands white and wasted: her eyes seemed too large for her face, and were surmounted by dark and heavy shadows. Lady Alice was reminded of another face that she had last seen relieved against the whiteness of a pillow, of eyes that had gleamed wildly as they looked at her, of a certain oddness of expression that in her own heart she called "a mad look."

Yes, there was certainly a likeness between her and her brother Francis, and it was the sort of likeness that gave Lady Alice a shock.

For a few minutes the two women talked in plat.i.tudes of indifferent things. Lady Alice noticed that after every sentence or two Mrs. Romaine let the subject drop and sat looking at her furtively, as if she expected something that did not come. Was it sympathy that she wanted?

It was with difficulty that Lady Alice could approach the subject. After a longer pause than usual, she said softly--

"You must let me tell you how sorry I am for the sorrow that has come upon you--upon us all."

Mrs. Romaine stared at her for a moment; an angry light showed itself in her eyes.

"You have come to tell me that?" she said, with chill disdain.

"I came to say so--yes," Lady Alice answered, in her surprise.

"I am very much obliged to you, I am sure." The tone was almost insolent, but the woman was herself again. The oddness, the awkwardness of manner had pa.s.sed away, and her old grace of bearing had come back.

Even her beauty returned with the flush of crimson to her face and the l.u.s.tre of her eyes. The prospect of combat brought back the animation and the brilliancy that she had lost.

"There were other things I thought that you had perhaps come to say--repet.i.tions of what you said to me years ago--before you left your husband."

Lady Alice rose at once. "I think you had better not touch on that subject," she said gently but with dignity. "I did not come here with any such intention. I hoped all that was forgotten by you--as it is by me."

"I have not forgotten," said Mrs. Romaine, rising also, and fixing her eyes on Lady Alice's face.

"I am sorry for it. You will allow me----"

"No, do not go: stay for a minute or two, I beg of you. I am not well--I said more than I meant--do not leave me just yet." She spoke now hurriedly and entreatingly.

These extraordinary changes of tone and manner impressed Lady Alice disagreeably. And yet she hesitated: she did not like to carry out her purpose of leaving the house at once, when she had been entreated to remain. Looking at her, Mrs. Romaine seemed to make a great effort over herself, and suddenly put on the air that she used most to affect--the air of a woman of the world, with peculiarly engaging manners.

"Don't hurry away," she said. "I really have something particular to say to you. Will you listen to me for two minutes?"

"Yes--if you wish it."