Brooke's Daughter Part 27

"What house is it? You never told me."

"It's Mr. Brooke's. Mr. Caspar Brooke--him as wrote 'The Unexplored.' I brought it to you to read, I remember--a good long time ago."

"Awful rot it was too!" said Francis, contemptuously. "However, I suppose it paid. What are you doing there? Wasn't it his wife who ran away from him? I remember the row some years ago--before I went under.

Is she dead?"

"No, she's living with her father, Lord Courtleroy. It's her daughter I've come to wait on: Miss Lesley Brooke."

"Brooke's daughter!" said Francis, thoughtfully. "I remember Brooke. Not half a bad fellow. Lent me ten pounds once, and never asked for it again. So it's _Brooke's_ daughter you--hm--live with. Sort of companion, you are, eh, Mary?"

"Maid," said Mary, stolidly. "Ladies' maid. And Miss Lesley's the sweetest young lady I ever come across."

Francis shrugged his shoulders. "Your employment is causing you to relapse into the manner--and grammar--of your original station, Mary.

May I suggest 'came' instead of 'come'?"

Mrs. Trent looked at him with a still disdain. "Suggest what you like,"

she said, "and think what you like of me. I never took myself to be your equal in education and all that. I may be your equal in sense and heart and morals; but of course that goes for nothing with such as you."

"Don't be savage, Mary," said Francis, in a conciliatory tone. "I only want you to improve yourself a little, when you can. You're the best woman in the world--n.o.body knows it better than I do--and you should not take offense at a trifle. So you like Brooke's daughter, eh?"

"Yes, I like her. But I don't like your brother Oliver."

"I know that. What is he doing at Brooke's house? Let me see--he isn't engaged to _that_ girl? It's the actress he's going to marry, isn't it?"

He had finished his meal by this time, and was smoking one of the cigars that his wife had brought him. She, meanwhile, turned up her sleeves, and made ready to wash the cups and plates.

"Tell me all about it," said Francis, who was now in high good humor.

"It sounds quite like the beginning of a romance."

"There's no romance about it that I can see," said Mrs. Trent, grimly.

"Your brother is engaged to Miss Kenyon--a nice, pretty young lady: rich, too, I hear."

"Yes, indeed! As you and I are going to find out by and by, old lady,"

and he chuckled to himself at the thought of his prospective wealth.

"And he ought to be content with that. Instead of which, he's never out of our place; and when he's there he never seems to take his eyes off Miss Lesley. Playing the piano while she sings, reading to her, whispering, sitting into her pocket, so to speak. I can't think what he's about, nor other people neither."

"What does Miss Kenyon say?" asked Francis, with sudden sharpness. For it occurred to him that if that match were broken off he would not get his two thousand pounds on Oliver's wedding-day.

"She doesn't seem to notice much. Once or twice lately I've seen her look at them in a thoughtful, puzzled kind of way, as if something had set her thinking. She looks at Miss Lesley as if she could not quite make her out--though the two have been friends ever since Miss Lesley came home from school."

"And the girl herself?" said Francis, with considerable and increasing interest. "What does she do?"

"She looks troubled and puzzled, but I don't think she understands.

She's as innocent as a baby," said Mrs. Trent, with compa.s.sion in her tone.

"I wonder what he's doing it for," soliloquized Francis. "He can't marry her."

Mary Trent paused for a moment in her housewifely occupations. "Why _can_ he not?"

"Because----well, I may as well tell you as not I've never mentioned it--I don't know why exactly--but I'll tell you now, Mary. A few weeks ago, when we were so down on our luck, you know--just before you began to work again--I met Oliver in Russell Square, and told him what I wanted and what I thought of him. I brought him to terms, I can tell you! He had just got himself engaged to Miss Kenyon; and she has twenty thousand pounds besides her profession; and he promised me two thousand down on his wedding-day. What do you say to that? And within six months, too! And if he doesn't keep his word, I shall not hold my tongue about the one or two little secrets of his that I possess--do you see?"

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Trent, slowly, "he thinks he could manage to pay you the money even if he married Miss Brooke? So long as you get the two thousand, I suppose you don't mind which girl it is?"

"Not a bit," answered her husband frankly. "All I want is the money.

Then we'll go off to America, old girl, and have the farm you talk about. But Brooke's daughter won't have two thousand pounds, so if he marries her instead of Miss Kenyon, he'll have to look out."

Mrs. Trent had finished her work by this time. As she stood by the table drying her hands there was a look of fixed determination on her features which Francis recognized with some uneasiness.

"What do you think about it? What are you going to do?" he asked, almost timidly.

"I am not going to see Miss Lesley badly treated, at any rate."

"How can you prevent it?"

"I don't know, but I _shall_ prevent it, please G.o.d, if necessary. Your brother Oliver is engaged to one girl, and making love to another, that's the plain English of it; and sooner than see him break Miss Lesley's heart, I'd up and tell everybody what I know of him, and get him turned out of the house."

"And spoil my game?" cried Francis, rising to his feet. His faced had turned white with anger, and his eyes were aflame. She looked at him consideringly, as if she were measuring his strength against her own.

"Well--no," she said at length, "I won't spoil your game if I can help it--and I think I can get my own way without doing that. I want you to win your game, Francis. For you know"--with a weary smile--"that if you win, I win too."

Her husband's face relaxed. "You're not a bad sort, Polly: I always said so," he remarked. "Come and give me a kiss. You wouldn't do anything rash, would you? Choke Oliver off at Brooke's as much as you like; but don't endanger his relations with Ethel Kenyon. His marriage with her is our only chance of getting out of this accursed bog we seem to have stuck fast in."

"I'll be careful," said Mrs. Trent, drily.

Francis still eyed her with apprehension. "You won't try to stop that marriage, will you?"

"No, why should I? Miss Kenyon's nothing to me."

Francis laughed. "I didn't know where your sympathies might be carrying you," he said. "Brooke's daughter is no more to you than the other girl."

"I suppose not. But I feel different to her. You can't explain these things," said Mrs. Trent, philosophically, "but it's certain sure that you take a liking to one person and a hate to another, without knowing why. I liked Miss Lesley ever since I entered that house. She's kind, and talks to me as if I was a woman--not a machine. And I wouldn't like to see any harm happen to her."

"Oh, you may indulge your romantic fondness for Miss Brooke as long as you like, if you don't let it interfere with Oliver's marriage," said Francis, with a rather disagreeable laugh. "It's lucky that you did not go to live with Miss Kenyon instead of the fair Lesley. You might have felt tempted to tell _her_ your little story."

"Ay, so I might," said the woman, slowly. "For she's a woman, after all.

And a nice life she'll have of it with Oliver Trent. I'm not sure----"

She stopped, and a sombre light came into her deep-set eyes.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't get on that old grievance," said Francis, hastily, almost rudely. "Don't think about it--don't mention it to me.

It's all very well, Polly, for you to take on so much about your sister; and, indeed, I'm very sorry for her, and I think that Oliver behaved abominably--I do, indeed; but, my dear girl, it's no good crying over spilt milk, and Oliver's my brother, after all----"

"And he's going to pay you two thousand pounds on his wedding-day," said Mrs. Trent, with cruel curtness. "I know all about it. And I understand.

Why should I be above making my profit out of him like other people? All right, Francis: I won't spoil your little game at present. And now I must be getting back."

She took up her bonnet and shawl and began to readjust them. Francis watched her hands: he saw that they trembled, and he knew that this was an ominous sign. It sometimes betokened anger, and when she was angry he did not care to ask her to give him money. And he wanted money now.

But she was not angry in the way that he thought. For after a moment's silence her hands grew steady again, and her face recovered its usual calm.