"AT YOUR SIDE."

Caspar Brooke was not as yet debarred the privilege of seeing his friends, and on the morning after his arrest he had a great many visitors, including, of course, Maurice Kenyon and his lawyer. Maurice was busying himself earnestly on his friend's behalf; and, considering the position that Brooke held, the esteem felt for him in high places, and the amount of interest that was being brought to bear on the authorities, there was little doubt but that he would be let out on bail in a day or two, even if the proceedings were not quashed altogether. Some delay, however, there was sure to be owing to the pertinacity of Mary Trent's assertion that she saw him struggling with Oliver on the stairs, but in the meantime his detention was allowed to press as lightly upon him as possible.

It was noon before Lesley saw him, and when she sprang to his side and threw her arms around his neck, with a new demonstrativeness of manner, she noticed that his brows lifted a little, and that he smiled with a look of positive pleasure and relief.

"So you have come?" he said, holding her to him as if he did not like to let her go. "I began to wonder if you had deserted me!"

"Oh, father! Why, I have been waiting ever so long for Mr. Grierson to go."

"And before that——?" he asked, in rather a peculiar tone.

"Before that—I went to see mamma." And Lesley looked bravely up into his face.

"That was an infringement of contract, as I suppose you know," said Caspar, smiling persistently. "But it does not matter very much. What did 'mamma' say to you?"

"I—don't—know," murmured Lesley, confused by the question. "Nothing very much."

"Nothing. Ah, I know what that means." He turned away from her, and, sitting down, leaned his elbows upon a table, and played with his beard. "It was useless, Lesley," he said, quietly, after a few minutes' silence. "Your mother is the last person whose sympathies will be enlisted on my side."

Lesley tried to speak but suddenly felt her voice fail her; so instead of speaking she knelt down by her father, leaned her head upon his shoulder, and burst into very heartfelt tears.

"Little one," said Caspar, "I'm afraid we have both got ourselves into a mess."

It did not sound comforting, but Lesley stayed her tears to listen.

"I have been talking to Grierson," her father continued, "and we have agreed that there must be no suppression of the truth. My dislike to Oliver Trent has been commented on already, and I must give a reason for it. Lesley, my dear, you will have to contribute your own evidence as to the reason."

Lesley looked up with terrified, wide-open eyes. "Do you mean that I shall have to say——"

"You will have to go into the witness-box and tell what you know, or rather answer the questions that are asked you."

"But will that be—best—for you?" She put the question with some difficulty.

"That is not the point. What we have to do is to tell the truth, and leave the result to others."

"—To God?" Lesley interposed, almost involuntarily. Caspar Brooke's lip moved with a grave smile.

"Well, yes, to God if you will have it so—we use different terms, but perhaps we have the same meaning. We must at any rate leave the result to the working of various laws which we cannot control, and to fight against these laws of nature is wrong-doing—or sin. Therefore, Lesley, you will have to tell the truth, whether it may seem to be for my good or my harm."

She glanced at him rather piteously, and her eyes filled with tears. Aunt Sophy's words recurred to her mind; but they seemed feeble and futile in the light of his courage and steadfastness. Aunt Sophy had been wrong—so much was clear to Lesley; and truth was best under all possible circumstances.

"It is for Ethel I am sorry," she murmured.

"Yes, poor Ethel. It is true then—what that woman said—that Oliver Trent was in love with you?"

"I could not help it, father. I don't think it was my fault. I did not know till it was too late."

"I am not blaming you, my dear. When I came into the drawing-room that day—do you remember?—what had happened then? Can you bear to tell me?"

She hid her face on his shoulder as she answered, "He was speaking foolishly. I think he wanted to—to kiss me.... I was very glad that you came in."

"Was that the first time?"

"Yes, the first. And I did not even see him again until that Saturday night, when he found me in the study—and——"

"And asked you to run away with him?"

"Yes. Indeed, I had not led him to think that I would do any such thing, father. I told him never to speak to me again. If it had not been for Ethel's sake, I think I should have called someone—but I did not like to make a disturbance."

"No, dear, no. And you—yourself—you did not care for him?"

"Oh no, no, no!"

"It has been a terrible tangle—and the knot has been cut very rudely," said Mr. Brooke, in a musing tone. "Of one thing I am quite certain, we were not fit to have the care of you, Lesley—your aunt and I. You would never have been in this position, my poor child, if we had looked after you."

"It isn't that which troubles me," said Lesley, trying to steady her voice. "It is—that you have to bear the brunt of it all. If it had not been for me you would never have been here. It has been my fault!"

"Not your fault, child," said her father. "The fault did not lie with you, but with that unfortunate young man, for whom I am truly sorry. Don't be morbid, Lesley; look things straight in the face, and don't blame yourself unless you are perfectly sure that you deserve to be blamed."

And there the conference ended, for Miss Brooke arrived at that moment, and Lesley thought it advisable to leave the choice of a subject of conversation in her hands. Caspar had many visitors that day, and many letters of advice and condolence, for few men were blessed—or cursed—with as many friends as he. Among the letters that reached him was a note without signature, which he read hastily, and as hastily concealed when he had read it. This note was written in uneven, crooked characters, as if the writer's hand had shaken as she wrote, and ran as follows:—

"I ought not to write, but how can I keep silence? There is nothing that I am not capable of bearing for my friends. If you will but confide in me—I am ready to do, to bear, to suffer anything—to forgive anything. Let me see you: I can then speak more freely. If you should be set at liberty in a day or two, I shall hear. You can then come to me: if not, I will come to you. But you need have no fear for me: I shall take means to prevent recognition."

The envelope was plain and of common texture; but the note-paper was hand-made; with a faint, fine odor as of some sweet-smelling Eastern wood, and bore in one corner the letters "R. R.," intertwined in deep blue tints. There was no doubt in Caspar's mind as to the person from whom it came.

He received it about three o'clock in the afternoon. If he wished to decline the proposed interview, he knew that he must write at once. In his heart he knew also that it would be better for him and better for her that the interview should be declined. What had he to do with Rosalind Romaine? He was accused of murdering her brother: it was not seemly that she should see him—even although the world were not to know of the visit. The world would know sooner or later—that was the worst of it: ultimately, the world knows everything. But why should she wish to see him? Had she information to impart? If she had, it would be foolish, from merely conventional reasons, to refuse her admittance, supposing that she really wished to come. And in a day or two at most he would certainly be able to go, if necessary, to her.

But the fact was, he did not believe that she had any information to impart. She did not say so. Probably she only wished to express her faith in him, and to assure him of her friendship. Rosalind had been his friend through many a long year. She had always shown herself kind and sympathetic—in spite of one or two interludes of coldness and general oddity which Caspar had never felt able to understand. It would be pleasant enough to hear her say that she trusted him—he could not help feeling that. For, although he had passed the matter off very lightly when talking to Lesley, he was secretly hurt at the absence of any message from his wife. He could almost have worked himself into a rage at the thought of it. "Does she, too, think me guilty?" he asked himself. "She ought to know me better, although she does not love me! She ought to know. And she does know, but she is too cold and too proud to say so. Poor, warm-hearted Lesley has tried to win her sympathy for me and failed. Well, I never expected otherwise: she never gave me what I wanted—sympathy, understanding, or love! And how can she blame me"—the thought stole unawares into his mind—"if I turn for sympathy to one who offers it?"

Yes, Rosalind would sympathize, and there would be no harm in listening to her gentle words. He had the pen in his hand, paper and ink before him: a word would be enough, if he wished to stay her visit. But he would not write it: if she liked to come, she might come—he would be glad to see her. Besides, her letter wanted explanation: for what had she to forgive?

He pushed the writing materials away from him, and went to the fireplace, where a small fire was burning very dimly. The day was cloudy, and the afternoon was drawing in. He crushed the coal with the heel of his boot in order to make a flame leap up; then leaned his elbow on the narrow mantelpiece and gazed down into the glowing embers.

The door opened and closed again behind him, but at first he did not look up. He thought that the attendant had come to light the gas or bring him some tea. But when he heard no further sound, he suddenly stirred and looked up; and in the dim light he saw beside him the figure of a woman, cloaked and veiled.

Was it Rosalind? No, it was too tall for Rosalind Romaine. Not Lesley?—though it had a look of her! And then his heart gave a tremendous leap (although no one would have suspected it, for his massive form and bearded face remained as motionless and calm as ever), for it dawned upon him that the visitor was none other than Lesley's mother, his wife, Alice Brooke, who had quitted him in anger twelve years before.

"I beg your pardon," he said, courteously. "I did not see—I had no idea who it was. Will you not sit down?"

He handed her a chair, with a bow as formal as that of a complete stranger. Perhaps the formality was inevitable. Lady Alice put her hand on the back of the chair, and felt that she was trembling.

"I hope I am not intruding," she said, in a voice as formal as his own.

"Not at all. It was most kind of you to come. Pray sit down."

She seated herself in silence, and then put up her veil. He remained standing, and for a moment or two the husband and wife looked each other steadily in the face, with a sort of curiosity and with a sort of wonder too. The years had not dealt unkindly with either of them. Lady Alice had kept her slender grace of figure and her gentleness of expression, but the traces of sorrow and anxiety were so visible upon her delicate face that Caspar felt a sudden impulse of pity towards the woman who had suffered in her loneliness more than he had perhaps thought possible. As she sat and looked at him, a certain pathetic quality showing itself with more than usual vividness in her soft eyes and drooping mouth, he was conscious of a desire to take her in his arms and console her for all the past. But he caught back the impulse with an inward laugh of scorn. She had no doubt come to run needles into him, as she used to do in those unlucky days of poverty and struggle. She had a knack of looking pretty and sweet while she was doing it, he remembered. It would not do to show any weakness now.

And she—what did she think of him? She was less absorbed with the consideration of any change in him than with what she intended to say. What impressed her most were the inflections of his quiet, musical voice—a voice as unroughened and as gentle as when it wooed her in her father's Northern Castle years before! She had forgotten its power, but it made her tremble now from head to foot with a sort of terror that was not without charm. It was so cold a voice—so cold and calm! She felt that if it once grew tender and caressing her strength would fail her altogether. But there was not much fear of tenderness from him—to her.

After that involuntary and rather awkward pause, Lady Alice recollected herself; and spoke first.

"You must be very much surprised to see me?"

"I am delighted, of course. I could wish"—with a slight smile—"that the apartment was more worthy of you, and that the circumstances were less disagreeable; but I am unfortunately not able to alter these details."

"And it is exactly to these details that you owe my visit," said Lady Alice, with unexpected calmness.

"Then I ought to be grateful them, no doubt."

She moved uneasily, as if the studied conventionality of his tone jarred on her a little; and then she said, with an effort that made her words sound brusque,

"I mean that under ordinary circumstances I should not have come to see you. But these are so strange—so extraordinary—that you will perhaps pardon the intrusion. I felt—on reflection—that it was only right for me to come—to express——"

She faltered, and he took advantage of her hesitation to say, with a quiet smile—

"I am very much obliged to you. But you should not have taken all this trouble. A note would have answered the purpose just as well. I suppose you wish to express your indignation at the little care I seem to have taken of Lesley. You cannot blame me more severely than I blame myself. If she had been under your care I have no doubt we should not be in our present dilemma; but it is no use fretting over what is past—or inevitable. I can only say that I am exceedingly sorry. Will you not loosen your cloak? This room is rather warm. I can't very well ring for tea, I am afraid. You should call on me at Woburn Place, if you want tea."

She loosened her cloak a little at the throat as he suggested. She had taken off her gloves, and he could see that her slender white hands were trembling. Somehow it occurred to him that he had spoken unkindly—but he did not know how or why. His words were commonplace enough. But it was his tone that had been cruel.

"I did not come to make any reproaches or complaints," she said at last, in a low voice.

"No. That was very good of you. I have to thank you, then, for your forbearance."

There was still coldness, still something perilously like scorn, in his tone. It was unbearable to Lady Alice.

"Why do you talk in that way?" she broke out, suddenly. "I came to say something quite different; and you speak as if you wanted to taunt me—to insult me—to hurt me in every possible way? I do not understand what you mean."

"You never did," said Caspar. The scorn had gone now, and the voice had grown stern. "It is useless for us to talk together at all. You have made intercourse impossible. I have no desire to hurt or taunt or insult you, as you phrase it; but, if I am to speak the truth, I must say that I feel very strongly that it is to you and your behavior that we owe the greater part of this trouble. If you had been at my side, if Lesley had been under a mother's wing, sheltered as only a mother could shelter her, there never would have been an opportunity for that man Trent's clandestine approaches, which will put a stigma on that poor child for the rest of her life, and may—for aught I know—endanger my own neck! I could put up with the loss and harm to myself; but once and for all let me say to you, Alice, that you have neglected your duty as a mother as much as I have neglected mine as a father; and that if you had been in your proper place all this ruin and disgrace and misery might never have come about."

The broken and vehement tones of his voice showed that his feelings were powerfully affected. Lady Alice listened in perfect silence, and kept silence for some minutes after the conclusion of his speech. Caspar, leaning with one shoulder against the mantelpiece, looked frowningly before him, as if he were unconscious of the fact that she had taken her handkerchief out of her muff, and was pressing it to her cheeks and eyes. But in reality he was painfully alive to every one of her movements, and expected a plaintive rejoinder to his accusations. But none came. The silence irritated him, as it had formerly irritated him with Lesley. He was obliged at last to ask a question.

"Since you say you did not come to reproach me, may I ask the motive of your visit?" he asked.

"I scarcely think that it is of any use to tell you now," said his wife, quietly. She had got rid of her tears now, and had put her handkerchief away. "I had a sort of fancy that you might like me to tell you with my own lips something that I felt rather strongly, but you would probably resent it—and it is only a trifle after all."

She rose from her chair and drew her fur-lined cloak closely round her, as if preparing to depart.

"I should like to hear it—if I am not troubling you too much," said Caspar.

She averted her eyes and began slowly to draw on her gloves. "It is really nothing—I came on a momentary impulse. I have not seen you for a good many years, and we parted with very angry words on our lips, did we not?—but I wanted to say that—although you were sometimes angry—I never knew you do a cruel thing—you were always kind—kindest of all to creatures that were weak (except, perhaps to me); and I am quite sure—sure as that I stand here—that you never did the thing of which they are accusing you. There!"—and she looked straight into his face—"it is a little thing, no doubt: you have hosts of friends to say the same thing to you: but my tribute is worth having, perhaps, because, after all, I am your wife—and in some ways I do understand!"

Caspar's face worked strangely: he bit his lip hard as he looked at her.

"You are generous, Alice," he said, in a low voice, after a pause that seemed eternal to her.

"Oh, no. Why should you call it generous? I only wanted to say this—and also—that if I can be of any use to you now, I am ready. A little thing sometimes turns the course of public opinion. If I were to go to Woburn Place—to stay with Lesley, for instance—so that all the world could see that I believed in you——"

"But—I shall be at Woburn Place myself in a day or two, on bail; and then——"

"I could stay," said Lady Alice, again looking at him. Then her eyes dropped and the color mounted to her forehead. He made a sudden step towards her.

"Alice—is it possible—after all these years——"

"No, it is not possible," she said, with a little laugh which yet had something in it of a sob, "and I don't think we should ever get on together—and I don't love you at all, except for Lesley's sake—but just until this horrible affair is over, if I might show everybody that I have all possible faith in you, and that I know you to be good and upright and honorable—just till then, Caspar, I should like to be at your side."

But whether Caspar heard the whole of this speech must remain for ever doubtful, as, long before its close, he had taken her in his arms and was sealing the past between them with a long kiss which might verily be called the kiss of peace.