Brooke's Daughter Part 21

Lesley thrilled all over with the novel pleasure of what seemed to her like commendation. But she could not answer suitably.

"Mrs. Romaine brought me," she said.

"Ah! Mrs. Romaine?"--in quite a different tone. "Very kind of Mrs.

Romaine. By the bye, Maurice"--to Mr. Kenyon, who had just appeared upon the scene, and was looking with curiously anxious eyes at Lesley--"the music ought to begin now. Is Trent ready? And will Ethel recite something? That's all right--I suppose Miss Bellot will be here presently."

And leaving Lesley without another glance, he went to the piano and opened it. The audience settled itself in its place, and gave a little sigh of expectation. Mr. Brooke's Sunday afternoon "recitals," from four to five, always gave great satisfaction.

Oliver sang first, then Ethel recited something; then Mr. Brooke sang, and then Oliver played--he was a very useful young man in his way--and then there came a little pause.

"A certain Miss Bellot promised to come and sing, but she has not appeared," Ethel explained to her friend. "Lesley, you can sing: I know you can, for I saw a lot of songs in your portfolio the other day. Won't you give them something?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't!"

"It's not a critical audience," said Oliver, on her other side. "You might try. The people are growing impatient, and your father will be disappointed if things do not go well----"

Lesley flushed deeply. A week ago she would have thought--What is it to me if my father is disappointed? But she could not think so to-night.

"I have no music here. And I cannot sing properly when I play my own accompaniments."

"Tell me something you know and let me see whether I can play it," said Oliver.

She paused for a moment, then, with a smile in her eyes, she mentioned a name which made him laugh and elevate his eyebrows. "Do you know _that_?" she said.

"Rather! Is it not a trifle hackneyed? Ah, well, not for this audience, perhaps. Yes, I will play." And then, just as Caspar Brooke, with a slight gesture of annoyance, turned to explain to the people that a singer whom he expected had not come, Oliver touched him on the arm.

"Miss Brooke is going to sing, please," he said. "Will you announce her?"

Mr. Brooke stared hard for a moment, then bowed his head.

"My daughter will now sing to you," he said, curtly, and sat down again, grasping his brown beard with one hand.

"_Can_ she sing?" Mrs. Romaine said in his ear, with an accent of veiled surprise.

"I do not know in the least. I hope it will be English, at any rate.

These good people don't care for French and Italian things."

Mrs. Romaine saw that he looked undoubtedly nervous, and just then Oliver began the prelude to Lesley's song. It was certainly English enough. It was "Home, Sweet Home."

Every one looked up at the sound of the familiar air. "Hackneyed" as Oliver had declared it to be, it is a song which every audience loves to hear. And Lesley made a pretty picture for the eyes to rest upon while she sang. She was dressed from top to toe in a delicate shade of grey, which suited her fair skin admirably: the grey was relieved by some broad white ribbons and a vest of soft white silk folds, according to the prevailing fas.h.i.+on. A wide-brimmed grey hat, trimmed with drooping grey ostrich feathers, also became her extremely well. Mrs. Romaine noticed that Caspar Brooke looked at her hard for a minute or two, and then sat with his eyes fixed on the ground, his right hand forming a pillow for his left elbow, and his left hand engaged in stroking his big brown beard. What she did not notice was, that Maurice Kenyon had withdrawn himself to a post behind Mr. Brooke's chair, where he could see and not be seen; and that his eyes were riveted upon the fair singer with an expression which betokened more perplexity than admiration.

As Lesley's pure, sweet notes floated out upon the air, there was an instant stir of approbation and interest among the listeners. If the girl had been less intent upon her singing, the unmoved and unmoving stare of these men and women might have made her a little nervous. It was their way of showing attention. The men had even put down their pipes. But Lesley did not see them. She had chosen her song at haphazard, as one which these people were likely to understand; but its painful appropriateness to her own case, perhaps to her mother's case as well, only came home to her as she continued it.

"'Mid pleasures and palaces--though I may roam-- Be it never so humble, there's no place like home.

A charm from the heart seems to hallow it there, Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere."

If Lesley's voice faltered a little while singing words with which she herself felt forced to disagree, and to which her mother had given the lie by running away from the home Caspar Brooke had provided for her, the hesitation and tremulousness were set down by the hearers as a very pretty bit of artistic skill, which they were not at all slow to appreciate. Mrs. Romaine put up her eye-gla.s.s and looked narrowly at the girl during the last few notes.

"How well she sings!" she murmured in Mr. Brooke's ear. "Positively, as if she felt it!"

Caspar Brooke gave a little start, left off handling his beard, and sat up shrugging his shoulders. "A good deal of dramatic talent, I fancy,"

he observed. But he could say no more, for the people were clapping their hands and stamping with their feet, in their eagerness for another song; and he was obliged to be silent until the tumult abated.

"You must sing again?" said Oliver.

"Must I? Really? But--shall I sing what English people call a sacred piece? A Sunday piece, you know? 'Angels ever bright and fair'--can you play that?"

Oliver could play that. And Lesley sang it with great applause.

But, being a keenly observant young person, and also in a very sensitive state, she noticed that her father held aloof and did not look quite well pleased. And she, remembering her refusal to take singing lessons, felt, naturally, a little guilty.

She had not time, however, to dwell upon her own feelings. The a.s.sembly began to disperse, for Mr. Brooke did not let the hours of his "meeting"

encroach on church hours, and it was time to go. But almost every man, and certainly every woman, insisted on shaking hands with Lesley, most of them saying, with a friendly nod, that they hoped she'd come again.

"You're Mr. Brooke's daughter, ain't you, miss?" said a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, with honest eyes and a pleasant smile, which Lesley liked.

"Yes, I am."

"I hope you'll give us a bit of your singing another Sunday. 'Tis a treat to hear you, it is."

"Yes, I shall be glad to come again," said Lesley.

"That's like your father's daughter," said the man, heartily. "Meaning no disrespect to you, miss. But Mr. Brooke's the life and soul of this place: he's splendid--just splendid; and we can't think too high of him.

So it's right and fitting that his daughter should take after him."

Lesley stood confused, but pleased. And then the man lowered his voice and spoke confidentially.

"There was a bit of a breeze this afternoon, just after you came in, I think; but you mustn't suppose that we have trouble o' that sort every Sunday, or week-day either. It was just one low, blackguardly fellow that got in and wanted to make a disturbance. But he won't do it again, for we'll have a meeting, and turn him out to-morrow. I would just like you to understand, miss, that a good few of us in this here club would pretty nigh lay down our lives for Mr. Brooke if he wanted them--for myself I wouldn't even say 'pretty nigh,' for I'd do it in a jiffy.

He's helped to save some of us from worse than death, miss, and that's why."

"Come, Jim Gregson," said a cheery voice behind him, "you get along home to your tea. Time for shutting up just now. Good-bye."

And Caspar Brooke held out his hand for the workman to shake. He had only just come up, and could not therefore have heard what Gregson was saying; but Lesley preferred to turn away without meeting his eye. For in truth her own were full of tears.

She broke away from the little group, and went into the library, as if she wanted to inspect the books. But in reality she wanted a moment's silence and loneliness in which to get rid of the swelling in her throat, the tears in her eyes. These were caused partly by excitement, partly by an expression of feeling brought to her by the earnestness of Gregson's words, partly by penitence. And it was before she had well got rid of them that Maurice Kenyon put his head into the room and found her there.

"We are going now, Miss Brooke," he said. "Will you come? I--I hope I'm not disturbing you--I----"

"I am just coming," said Lesley, das.h.i.+ng the tears from her face. "I am quite ready."

"There is no hurry. You can let them go on first, if you like," said Maurice, partly closing the door. Then, in the short pause that followed, he advanced a little way into the room.

"Miss Brooke," he said, "I hope you will not mind my speaking to you again; but I want to say that I wish--most humbly and with all my heart--to beg your pardon. Will you forgive me?"

CHAPTER XV.