"Kind?" said her mother, with a sigh. "Oh, yes, perhaps he was kind--at first. Until he was tired of me, or I was tired of him. I don"t know on which side the disillusion was felt first. Think where I came from--from the dear old Castle, the moors, the lochs, the free fresh air of Scotland, to a dreary lodging of two little rooms in a dingy street, where I had to cut and contrive and economize to make ends meet. I was an ignorant girl, and I could not do it. I got into debt, and my husband was angry with me. Why should I tell you the petty, sordid details of my life? I soon found out that I was miserable and that he was miserable too."
Lesley listened breathlessly with hidden face. The story was full of humiliation for her. It seemed like a desecration of all that she had hitherto held dear.
"My father and my friends would not forgive me," Lady Alice went on. "In our direst straits of poverty, I am glad to say that I never appealed to them. We struggled on together--your father and I--until you were four years old. Then a change came--a change which made it impossible for me to bear the misery of my life. Your father----"
She came to a sudden stop, and sat with eyes fixed on the opposite wall, a curious expression of mingled desolation and contempt upon her cold, clear-cut face. For some reason or other Lesley felt afraid to hear what her mother had to say.
"Mamma, don"t tell me! Don"t look like that," she cried. "I can"t bear to hear it! Why need you tell me any more?"
"Because," said her mother, slowly, "because your father exacts this sacrifice from me: that I should tell you--_you_, my daughter--the reason why I left him. I promised that I would do so, and I will keep my promise. The thing that hurts me most, Lesley, is to think that I may be injuring you--staining your innocence--darkening your youth--by telling you what I have to tell. At your age, I would rather that you knew nothing of life but its brighter side--nothing of love but what was fair and sweet. But it is the punishment of my first false step that I should bring sorrow upon my child. Lesley, in years to come remember that I have warned you to be honest and true, unless you would make those miserable whom you love best. If I had never deceived my father, my husband would never perhaps have deceived me; and I should not have to tell my child that the last person in the world whom she must trust is her father."
There was a little silence, and then she continued in a strained and unnatural tone.
"There was a woman--another woman--whom he loved. That is all."
Lesley shivered and hid her face. To her mind, young and innocent as it was, the fact which her mother stated seemed like an indelible stain.
She hardly dared as yet think what it meant. And, after a long pause, Lady Alice went on quietly--
"I do not want to exaggerate. I do not believe that he meant to leave me--even to be untrue to me. I could not speak to you of him if I thought him so black-hearted, so treacherous. I mean simply this--take the fact as I state it, and inquire no further; I found that my husband cared for some one else more than he cared for me. My resolution was taken at once: I packed up my things, left his house, and threw myself at my father"s feet. He was good to me and forgave me, and since then ... I have never entered my husband"s house again."
"He must have been wicked--wicked!" said Lesley, in a strangled voice.
"No, he was not wicked. Let me do him so much justice. He was upright on the whole, I believe. He never meant to give me cause for complaint.
But I had reason to believe that another woman suited him better than I did ... and it was only fair to leave him."
"But did he--could he--marry her? I mean----"
"My poor Lesley, you are very ignorant," said Lady Alice, smiling a wan smile, and touching the girl"s cheek lightly with her hand. "How could he marry another woman when I was alive? Your father and I separated on account of what is called incompatibility of temper. The question of the person whom he apparently preferred to me never arose between us."
"Then, is it not possible, mamma, that you may have been mistaken?" said Lesley, impetuously.
Lady Alice shook her head. "Quite impossible, Lesley. I accuse your father of nothing. I only mean that another woman--one of his friends--would have suited him better than I, and that he knew it. I have no cause for complaint against him. And I would not have told you _this_, had I not felt it a duty to put in the strongest possible light my reasons for leaving him, so that a day may never come when you turn round upon me and blame me--as others have done--for fickleness, for ill-temper, for impatience with my husband; because now you know--as no one else knows--the whole truth."
"But I should never blame you, mamma."
"I do not know. I know this--that your father is a man who can persuade and argue and represent his conduct in any light that suits his purpose.
He is a very eloquent--a very plausible man. He will try to win you over to his side."
"But I shall never see him."
"Yes, Lesley, you will. You are going to him to-morrow."
"I will not--I will not"--said the girl, springing from her knees, and involuntarily clenching her right hand. "I will not speak to him--if he treated my darling mother so shamefully he must be bad, and I will not acknowledge any relationship to him."
A look of apprehension showed itself in Lady Alice"s eyes.
"Darling," she said, "you must not let your generous love for me run away with your judgment. I am bound, and you must be bound with me.
Listen, when your father found that I had left him he was exceedingly angry. He came to your grandfather"s house, he clamored to see me, he attempted to justify himself--oh, I cannot tell you the misery that I went through. At last I consented to see him. He behaved like a madman.
He swore that he would have me back--tyrant that he was!"
"Mamma--perhaps he cared?"
"Cared! He cared for his reputation," said Lady Alice growing rather white about the lips. "For nothing else! Not for me, Lesley! When his violence had expended itself we came to terms. He agreed to let me live where I liked on condition that when you were eight years old you were sent to school, and saw me only during the holidays----"
"But why?"
"He said that he dreaded my influence on your mind," said Lady Alice.
"That you should be brought up at a good school was the first thing.
Secondly, that when you were nineteen you should spend a year with him, and then a year with me; and that when you were twenty-one you should choose for yourself with which of the two you preferred to cast in your lot."
"Oh, mamma, I cannot go to him now."
"You must go, Lesley. I am bound, and you are bound by my promise. Only for a year, my darling. Then you can come back to me for ever. I stipulated that I should see you first, and say to you what I chose."
"But cannot I wait a little while?"
"Twenty-four hours, Lesley; that is all. You go to your father to-morrow."
CHAPTER III.
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
The conversation between Lesley and her mother occupied a considerable time, and the sun was sinking westward when at last the two ladies left the Convent. Lesley"s adieux had been made before Lady Alice"s arrival, and the only persons whom she saw, therefore, after the long interview with her mother, were the Mother Superior, and the Sister who had summoned her to the parlor.
While Lady Alice and the Reverend Mother exchanged a few last words, Lesley drew close to Sister Rose"s side, and laid her hand on the serge-covered arm.
"You were right," she said. "Sister, I see already that I shall need patience and endurance where I am going."
"Gentleness and love, also," said the Sister. Then, as if in answer to an indefinable change in Lesley"s lips and eyes, she added gently, "We are told that peacemakers are blessed."
"I could not make peace----" Lesley began, hastily, and then she stopped short, confused, not knowing how much Sister Rose had heard of her mother"s story. But if Sister Rose were ignorant of it, her next words were singularly appropriate. For she said, in a low tone--
"Peace is better than war: forgiveness better than hatred. Dear child, it may be in your hands to reconcile those who have been long divided.
Do your best."
Lesley had no time to reply.
It was a long drive from the Convent of the Annonciades to the hotel where Lord Courtleroy and Lady Alice were staying. The mother and daughter spoke little; each seemed wrapped in her own reflections. There were a hundred questions which Lesley was longing to ask; but she did not like to disturb her mother"s silence. Dusk had fallen before their destination was reached; and Lesley"s thoughts were diverted a little from their sad bewilderment by what was to her the novel sight of Paris by gaslight, and the ever-flowing, opposing currents of human beings that filled the streets. Hitherto, when she had left the Sisters for her holidays, her mother had wisely kept her within certain bounds: she had not gone out of doors after dark, she had not seen anything but the quieter sides of life. But now all seemed to be changed. Her mother mentioned the name of the best hotel in Paris as their destination: she said a few words about shopping, dresses, and jewellery, which made Lesley"s heart beat faster, in spite of a conviction that it was very mean and base to feel any joy in such trivial matters. Especially under present circ.u.mstances. But she was young and full of life; and there certainly was some excitement in the prospect before her.
"I shall not need much where I am going, shall I?" she hazarded timidly.
"Perhaps not, but you must not be in any difficulty. There is not time to do a great deal, but you can be fitted and have some dresses sent after you, and I can choose your hats. And a fur-lined cloak for travelling--you will want that. We must do what we can in the time. It is not likely that your father sees much society."
"It will be very lonely," said Lesley, with a little gasp.