"HER EYES WILL SEND ME MAD."

It was true, as Mrs. Trent had said, that Lesley's face often now wore a look of perplexity and trouble. This look had many differing causes; but amongst them, not the least was the behavior of Oliver Trent.

Oliver was betrothed to her friend, and she had so much faith in the honor and constancy of men, that it never occurred to her that he could prefer herself to Ethel, or that he should think of behaving as though Ethel were not the first person in the world to him. But as a matter of fact, he did not conduct himself to Ethel at all as a lover should have done. Assured of her love, he neglected her: he failed to appear at the Theatre in time to escort her home, he forgot his promises to visit her; he let her notes lie unanswered in his pocket. And when she pouted and remonstrated, he frowned her into silence, which was not at all the way in which her lover ought to behave.

Of course Lesley did not know this, for Ethel had not taken her into her confidence on the subject. But she knew very well where Oliver spent his time. Early and late, on small excuse or on no excuse at all, he presented himself at Mr. Brooke's house, and made himself Lesley's companion. At first Lesley did not dislike it. She supposed that Ethel must be busy with her theatrical studies, or at rehearsal, and that Oliver was in want of something to do. It was pleasant to have the companionship of some one younger and more congenial, perhaps, than her father or Miss Brooke; and she gained a great deal of interesting information from Oliver during the long hours that he spent with her in the drawing-room or library. He told her a great deal about London society, about modern literature, and the fashions of the day; and all this was as fascinating to Lesley as it was novel. He talked to her about plays and music and pictures; and he read poetry to her. Modern poetry, of course: a little Browning, and a good deal of Rossetti and Swinburne. For amorous and passionate poetry pleased him best; and he knew that it was likelier to serve his ends than verse of the more masculine and intellectual kind. Lesley rather preferred Browning and Arnold to Oliver's favorites, but she was never certain of her own taste, and was always humbly afraid that she might be making some terrible mistake in her preferences.

She certainly found Mr. Trent's aid very valuable in the matter of her singing. The best singing-mistress in London had been found for her, and she practised diligently every day; but it was delightful to find somebody who could always play her accompaniments, and was ready with discriminating praise or almost more flattering criticism. Oliver had considerable musical knowledge, and he placed it at Lesley's service. She made a much quicker and more marked advance in her singing than she could possibly have done without his assistance. And for this she was grateful.

At the same time she was uneasy. It was contrary to all her previous experience that a young man should be allowed to spend so much time with her. She did not think that her mother would approve of it. But she could not ask Lady Alice, because she had now no communication with her: a purely formal letter respecting her health and general welfare was all, she had been told, that she would be permitted to write. And sooner than write a letter of that kind Lesley had proudly resolved not to write at all. But she pined for womanly counsel and assistance in the matter.

Miss Brooke was certainly not proving herself an efficient chaperon. Aunt Sophy had never risen to a clear view of her duty in the matter. She herself had never been chaperoned in her life; but had gone about to lectures and dissecting rooms and hospitals with a fine indifference to sex. But then Doctor Sophy had never been a pretty woman; and no young man had shown a wish to spend his spare hours in her drawing-room. She had a strong belief in the wisdom and goodness of women—young and old—and declared that they could always take care of themselves when they chose. And nothing would induce her to believe that her niece, Lesley Brooke, required protection or guardianship. She would have thought it an insult to her own family to suggest such a thing.

So she treated Lesley's rather timidly worded suggestions on the subject with cheerful contempt, as the conventional notions of a convent-bred young woman who had not yet realized the strides made in the progress of mankind—and especially of womankind. And Lesley soon felt quite sure that any complaint or protest of hers would be dealt with simply as a sign of weak-mindedness—a stigma which she could not endure. So she said nothing, and submitted to Oliver Trent's frequent visits with resignation.

It must be said, however, that Aunt Sophy had not the least notion of the frequency of Oliver's visits. She was a busy woman, and a somewhat absent-minded one; and Mr. Trent often contrived to call when she was out or engaged. And when she asked, as she sometimes did ask of Sarah—"Any one called to-day?"—and received the grim answer "Only Mr. Trent, as usual"—she simply laughed at Sarah's sour visage, and did not calculate the number of these visits in the week. Mr. Brooke himself grew uncomfortable about the matter, sooner than did Miss Brooke.

"Sophy," he said, one day, when he happened to find her alone in the library, sitting at the very top of the library steps, with an immense volume of German science on her knees. "Sophy, have you noticed that young Trent has taken to coming here very often of late?"

"No," said Doctor Sophy, absently, "I haven't noticed." Then she went on reading.

"My dear Sophy," said her brother, "will you do me the kindness to listen to me for a moment?"

"Why, Caspar, I am listening as hard as I can!" exclaimed Miss Brooke, with an injured air. "What do you want?"

"I wish to speak about Lesley."

"Oh, I thought it was Mr. Trent."

"Does it not strike you that he comes here to see Lesley a great deal too often?"

"Rubbish," cried Miss Brooke, pushing up her eyeglasses. "Why, he's engaged to Ethel Kenyon."

"For all that," said Mr. Brooke, and then he paused for a moment. "Did it never strike you that he was here very often?"

"No," said Aunt Sophy, stolidly. "Haven't noticed. I suppose he comes to help Lesley with her singing. Good gracious, Caspar, the girl can take care of herself."

"I dare say she can, but I don't want any trifling—or—or flirtation—to go on," said Brooke, rather sharply. "We are responsible for her, you know: we have to hand her over in good condition, mind and body, at the end of the twelve months. And if you can't look after her, I must get her a companion or something. I've been inclined to come up and play sheep-dog myself, sometimes, when I have heard them practising for an hour together just above my head."

"If they disturb you, Caspar," began Miss Brooke, with real solicitude; but her brother did not allow her to finish her sentence.

"No, no, they don't disturb me—in the way you mean. I confess I should feel more comfortable if I thought that somebody was with the two young people, to play propriety, and all that sort of thing."

"I thought you were above such conventionalism," said Miss Brooke, glaring at him through her glasses from her lofty height upon the steps.

"Not at all. Not where my daughter is concerned. Children teach their father very new and unexpected lessons, I find; and I don't look with equanimity on the prospect of Lesley's being made love to by Oliver Trent, or of her going back to her mother and telling her that she was left so much to her own devices. I am sure of one thing—that Lady Alice would not like it."

"And am I to give up all my engagements for the sake of sitting with two silly young people?" said Miss Brooke, the very hair of her head seeming to bristle with horror at the idea.

"By no means. I don't see that you need be always there; but be there sometimes; don't give occasion to the enemy," said Mr. Brooke; turning to go.

"Who is the enemy?" said Doctor Sophy—a spiteful question, as she well knew.

"The world," said Caspar Brooke, quite quietly: he did not choose to see the spitefulness.

"Oh," said Miss Brooke. "I thought you meant your wife." But she did not dare to say this until he was well out of the room, and the door firmly closed behind him.

But Miss Brooke was neither malicious nor unreasonable. On consideration she came to the conclusion that her brother was substantially right—as a matter of fact she always came to that conclusion—and prepared to carry out his views of the matter. Only she carried them out in her own way. She made a point of being present on the occasion of Mr. Trent's next two calls, and although she read a book all the time, she was virtuously conscious of the fact that her mere presence "made all the difference." But on the third occasion she wanted to go out. What was to be done? Miss Brooke's mind was fertile of resource, and she triumphantly surmounted the difficulty.

"Kingston," she said to Lesley's maid, "I am obliged to go out, and I don't like leaving Miss Lesley so much alone. You may take your work down to the library and sit there, and don't go away if visitors come in. You can just draw the curtains, you know."

"Am I to stay all the afternoon, ma'am?" Kingston inquired, with surprise.

"Yes. I'll speak to Miss Lesley about it. I think she ought to have some one at hand when I am out so much." So Kingston—alias Mary Trent—took her needlework, and seated herself by the library window, whence the half-drawn curtains between library and drawing-room afforded her a complete view of all visitors to Miss Lesley.

Oliver Trent was distinctly annoyed by this proceeding, but Lesley, although puzzled, was equally well pleased. It was an arrangement all the more displeasing to Oliver because the waiting-woman who sat so demurely in the library, within earshot of all that he chose to say, was his brother's wife. He felt sure that she had contrived it all; that she was there simply to act as a spy upon his actions. Francis wanted that money, and would not get it until he married Miss Kenyon; and was evidently afraid—from information conveyed to him by Kingston—that he was going to break off his engagement. Oliver flew into a silent rage at the thought of this combination, which he was nevertheless powerless to prevent. He went away early that afternoon, and came again next day. Kingston was there also with her work. And though he sang and played the piano as usual with Lesley, although he chatted and laughed and had tea with her as usual, he felt Kingston's presence a restraint And for the first time he asked himself, seriously, why this should be.

"Why, of course," he said to himself, "I promised Rosalind to make love to her. And I can't make love to her when that woman's there. Curse her! she spoils my plans."

He had shut himself up in the luxurious little smoking-room which Mrs. Romaine had arranged for him. She knew the value of a room in which a man feels himself at liberty to do what he likes. She never came there without especial invitation: she always said that she preferred seeing her brother in her own drawing-room—that she was not like Miss Brooke, and did not smoke cigarettes. But that was one of the little ways in which Rosalind used to emphasize the difference between herself and the women whom she did not love.

At any rate, Oliver was alone. The curtains were drawn, the lamp was lighted, a bright fire burned in the grate. He had drawn up a softly-cushioned lounging chair to the fire, and was peacefully smoking a remarkably good cigar.

But his frame of mind was anything but peaceful. He had been troubled for some days, and he did not know what troubled him. He was now beginning to find out.

"What are my plans, I wonder?" he reflected. "To make Lesley fall in love with me?—I wish I could! She is as cold as ice; as innocent as a child: and yet I think there is a tremendous capacity for passion in those dark eyes of hers, those mobile, sensitive lips! What lips to kiss! what eyes to flash back fire and feeling! what a splendid woman to win and show the world! It would be like loving a goddess—as if Diana herself had stooped from Olympus to grace Endymion!"

And then he laughed aloud.

"What a fool I am! Poetizing like a boy; and all about a girl who never can be my wife at all. That's the worst part of it. I am engaged—engaged! unutterably ridiculous word!—to marry little Ethel Kenyon, the pretty actress at the Novelty. The respectable, wealthy, well-connected actress, moreover—the product of modern civilization: the young woman of our day who aspires to purify the drama and vindicate the claims of histrionic art—what rubbish it all is! If Ethel were a ballet-dancer, or had taken to opera bouffe, she would be much more entertaining! But her enthusiasms, and her belief in herself and her mission, along with that mignonne, provoking, pretty, little face of hers, are altogether too incongruous! No, Ethel bores me, it must be confessed; and I have got to marry her—all for a paltry twenty thousand pounds! What a fool I was to propose before I had seen Brooke's daughter.

"If it weren't for Francis, I would break it off. But how else am I to pay that two thousand? And what won't he do if I fail to pay it? No, that would be ruin—unless I choke him off in some other way, and I don't see how I can do that. No, I must marry Ethel, I suppose, or go to the devil. And unless I could take bonny Lesley with me, that would not mend matters."

He threw his cigar into the fire, and stood for some minutes looking down at it, with gloom imprinted upon his brow.

"I must do something," he said at last. "It's getting too much for me: I shall have to stop going to Brooke's house. I suppose this is what people call falling in love! Well, I can honestly say I have never done it in this fashion before! I have flirted, I have made love scores of times, but I never wanted a woman for my own as I want her! And I think I had better keep out of her way—for her eyes will send me mad!"

So he soliloquized: so he resolved; but inclination was stronger than will or judgment. Day after day saw him at the Brookes' house; and day after day saw the shadows deepen on Ethel's face, and the fold of perplexity grow more distinct between Lesley's tender brows.

Kingston had been looking ill and uneasy for some days past, and one afternoon she begged leave to go out for an hour or two to see a friend. Miss Brooke let her go, and went out to a meeting with a perfectly contented mind. Even if Oliver Trent came to the house that afternoon it would not matter: it would be only "once in a way." And Lesley secretly hoped that he would not come.

But he came. A little later than usual—about four o'clock in the afternoon, when there was no light in the drawing-room but that of the ruddy blaze, and the tea-tray had not yet been brought up. When Lesley saw him she wished that she had sent down word that she was engaged, that she had a headache, or even that she was—conventionally—not at home. Anything rather than a tÊte-À-tÊte with Oliver Trent! And yet she would have been puzzled to say why.

His quick eye told him almost at once that she was alone. It told him also that she was decidedly nervous and ill-at-ease.

"We must have lights," she said. "Then you can see my new song. I had a fresh one this morning."

"Never mind the lights: never mind your song," he said, his voice vibrating strangely. "If you are like me, you love this delightful twilight."

"I don't like it," said Lesley, with decision. "I will ring for the lamps, please."

She moved a step, but by a dexterous movement he interposed himself between her and the mantelpiece, beside which hung the bell-handle.

"Shall I ring?" he asked, coolly. It seemed to him that he wanted to gain time. And yet—time for what? He had nothing to get by gaining time.

"Yes, if you please," Lesley said. She could not get past him without seeming rude. A slight tremor shook her frame; she shrank away from him, towards the open piano and leaned against it as if for support. The flickering firelight showed her that his face was very pale, the lips were tightly closed, the brows knitted above his fiercely flaming eye. He did not look like himself.

"Lesley," he said, hoarsely, and stretching forward, he put one hand upon her arm. But the touch gave the girl strength. She drew her arm away, as sharply as if a noxious animal had touched her.

"Mr. Trent, you forget yourself."

"Rather say that I remember myself—that I found myself when I found you! Lesley, I love you!"

"This is shameful—intolerable! You are pledged to my friend—you have said all this to her before," cried Lesley, in bitter wrath and indignation.

"I have said it, but I never knew the meaning of love till I knew you. Lesley, you love me in return! Let us leave the world together—you and I. Nothing can give me the happiness that your love would bring. Lesley, Lesley, my darling!"

He threw his arm round her, and tried to kiss her cold cheek, her averted, half-open lips. She would have pushed him from her if she had had the strength; but it seemed as if her strength was failing her. Suddenly, with a half-smothered oath, he let her go—so suddenly, indeed, that she almost fell against the piano near which she had been standing. For the door had opened, and the tall figure of Caspar Brooke stood on the threshold of the room.