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DescriptionHyundai Forklift Trucks Service Manual PDF Updated 11.2023

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 CHAPTER XXIII.
CAPTAIN DUCHESNE.

Lesley's life seemed to her now much less lonely than it had been
at first. The consciousness of having made friends was pleasant to
her, although her affection for Ethel had been for a time
overshadowed by the recollection of Oliver's unfaithfulness. But
when this impression passed away, as it gradually did, after the
scene that had been so painful to her, she consoled herself with the
belief that Oliver's words and actions had proceeded from a
temporary derangement of judgment, for which he was not
altogether responsible, and that he had returned to his allegiance;
therefore she might continue to be friendly with Ethel without any
sensation of treachery or shame. An older woman than Lesley would
not, perhaps, have argued in this way: she would have suspected
the permanence of Oliver's feelings more than Lesley did. But, being
only an inexperienced girl, Lesley comforted herself by the fact that
Oliver now avoided her; and said that it could not be possible for her
to have attracted him away from Ethel, who was so winning, so
sweet, so altogether delightful.
Then, apart from the Kenyons, she began to make pleasant
acquaintances amongst her father's friends. Caspar Brooke's house
was a centre of interest and entertainment for a large number of
intellectual men and women; and Lesley had as many opportunities
for wearing her pretty evening gowns as she could have desired.
There were "at homes" to which her charming presence and her
beautiful voice attracted Caspar's friends in greater numbers than
ever: there were dinner-parties where her interest in the new world
around her made everything else interesting; and there was a
constant coming and going of people who had work to do in the
world, and who did it with more or less success, which made the
house in Woburn Place anything but a dull abode.
The death of her grandfather distressed her less from regret for
himself than from anxiety for her mother's future. Lady Alice's notes
to her were very short and somewhat vaguely worded. It was,
therefore, with positive joy that, one afternoon in spring, she was
informed by her maid that Captain Duchesne was in the drawing-
room, for she felt sure that he would be able to tell her many details
that she did not know. She made haste to go down, and yet, before
she went, she paused to say a word to Kingston, who had brought
her the welcome news.
"I wish you would go out, Kingston; you don't look at all well, and
this spring air might do you good."
It was certainly easy to see that Kingston was not well. During the
past few weeks her face had become positively emaciated, her eyes
were sunken, and her lips were white. She looked like a person who
had recently passed through some illness or misfortune. Lesley had
tried, delicately and with reserve, to question her; but Kingston had
never replied to any of her inquiries. She would shut up her lips, and
turn away with the look of one who could keep a secret to the grave.
"Nothing will do me good, ma'am," she answered dryly.
"Oh, Kingston, I am so sorry!"
"Go down to your visitor, ma'am, and don't mind me," said Kingston,
turning her back on the girl with unusual abruptness. "It isn't much
that I've got to be sorry for, after all."
"If there is anything I can do to help you, you will let me know, will
you not?" said Lesley.
But Kingston's "Yes, ma'am," fell with a despairing cadence on her
ear.
Kingston had been to her husband's lodgings only to find that he
had disappeared. He had left some of his clothes, and the few
articles of furniture that belonged to his wife, and had never said
that he was going away. The accident that had made Francis Trent a
patient at the hospital where Lady Alice visited was of course
unknown to his landlady, as also to his wife. And as his memory did
not return to him speedily, poor Mary Trent had been left to suffer all
the tortures of anxiety for some weeks. At first she thought that
some injury had happened to him—perhaps that he was dead: then
a harder spirit took possession of her, and she made up her mind
that he had finally abandoned her—had got money from Oliver and
departed to America without her. She might have asked Oliver
whether this were so, but she was too proud to ask. She preferred
to eat out her heart in solitude. She believed herself deserted
forever, and the only grain of consolation that remained to her was
the hope of making herself so useful and acceptable to Lesley
Brooke, that when Lesley married she would ask Mary Kingston to
go with her to her new home.
Kingston had made up her mind about the man that Lesley was to
marry. She had seen him come and go: she had seen him look at
her dear Miss Lesley with ardently admiring eyes: she believed that
he would be a true and faithful husband to her. But she knew more
than Lesley was aware of yet.
Lesley went slowly down into the drawing-room. She remembered
Captain Duchesne very well, and she was glad to think of seeing him
again. And yet there was an indefinable shrinking—she did not know
how or why. Harry Duchesne was connected with her old life—with
the Paris lights, the Paris drawing-rooms, the stately old grandfather,
the graceful mother—the whole assembly of things that seemed so
far away. She did not understand her whole feeling, but it suddenly
appeared to her as if Captain Duchesne's visit was a mistake, and
she had better get it over as soon as possible.
It must be confessed that this sensation vanished as soon as she
came into the actual presence of Captain Duchesne. The young
man, with his grave, handsome features, his drooping, black
moustache, his soldierly bearing, had an attraction for her after all.
He reminded her of the mother whom she loved.
It was not very easy to get into conversation with him at first. He
seemed as ill at ease as Lesley herself had been. But when she fell
to questioning him about Lady Alice, his tongue became unloosed.
"She does not know exactly what to do. She talks of taking a house
in London—if you would like it."
"Would mamma care to live in London?"
"Not for her own sake: for yours."
"But I—I do not think I like London so much," said Lesley, with a
swift blush and some hesitation. Captain Duchesne looked at her
searchingly.
"Indeed? I understood that you had become much attached to it. I
am sure Lady Alice thinks so."
"I do love it—yes, but it is on account of the people who live in
London," said Lesley.
"Ah, you have made friends?"
"There is my father, you know."
"Yes." And something in his tone made Lesley change the subject
hurriedly. Captain Duchesne would never have been so ill-bred as to
speak disparagingly of a lady's father to her face; and yet she felt
that there was something disparaging in the tone.
"Have you seen the present Lord Courtleroy?" she asked.
"Yes; I have met him once or twice. He is somewhat stiff and rigid in
appearance, but he is very courteous—more than courteous, Lady
Alice tells me, for he is kind. He wishes to disturb her as little as
possible—entreats her to stay at Courtleroy, and so on; but naturally
she wishes to have a house of her own."
"Of course. But I thought that she would prefer the South of
France."
"If I may say so without offence," said Captain Duchesne, smiling,
"Lady Alice's tastes seem to be changing. She used to love the
country and inveigh against the ugliness of town; but now she
spends her time in visiting hospitals and exploring Whitechapel——"
Lesley almost sprang to her feet. "Oh, Captain Duchesne, are you in
earnest?"
"Quite in earnest."
"Oh, I am so glad!"
"Why, may I ask?" said Duchesne, with real curiosity. But Lesley
clasped her hands tightly together and hung her head, feeling that
she could not explain to a comparative stranger how she felt that
community of interests might tend to a reconciliation between the
long separated father and mother. And in the rather awkward pause
that followed, Miss Ethel Kenyon was announced.
Lesley was very glad to see her, and glad to see that she looked
approvingly at Captain Duchesne, and launched at once into an
animated conversation with him. Lesley relapsed almost into silence
for a time, but a satisfied smile played upon her lips. It seemed to
her that Captain Duchesne's dark eyes lighted up when he talked to
Ethel as they had not done when he talked to her; that Ethel's
cheeks dimpled with her most irresistible smile, and that her voice
was full of pretty cadences, delighted laughter, mirth and sweetness.
Lesley's nature was so thoroughly unselfish, that she could bear to
be set aside for a friend's sake; and she was so ingenuous and
single-minded that she put no strained interpretation on the honest
admiration which she read in Harry Duchesne's eyes. It may have
been partly in hopes of drawing her once more into the conversation
that he turned to her presently with a laughing remark anent her
love of smoky London.
"Oh, but it is not the smoke I like," Lesley answered. "It is the
people."
"Especially the poor people," put in Ethel, saucily. "Now, I can't bear
poor people; can you, Captain Duchesne?"
"I don't care for them much, I'm afraid."
"I like to do them good, and all that sort of thing," said Ethel. "Don't
look so sober, Lesley! I like to act to them, or sing to them, or give
them money; but I must say I don't like visiting them in the slums,
or having to stand too close to them anywhere. I am so glad that
you agree with me, Captain Duchesne!"
And not long afterwards she graciously invited him to call upon her
on "her day," and promised him a stall at an approaching matinee,
two pieces of especial favor, as Lesley knew.
Captain Duchesne sat on as if fascinated by the brilliant little vision
that had charmed his eyes; and not until an unconscionable time
had elapsed did he seem able to tear himself away. When he had
gone, Ethel expressed herself approvingly of his looks and manners.
"I like those soldierly-looking men," she said. "So well set up and
distinguished in appearance. Is he an old friend of yours, Lesley?"
"No, I have met him only once before. In Paris, he dined with us—
with my grandfather, my mother, and myself."
"And he comes from Lady Alice now?"
"Yes, to bring me news of her."
Ethel nodded her bright little head sagaciously.
"It's very plain what Lady Alice wants, then?"
"What?" said Lesley, opening her eyes in wide amaze.
"She wants you to marry him, my dear."
"Nonsense!"
"It's not nonsense: don't get so red about it, you silly girl. What a
baby you are, Lesley."
"I am sure mamma never thought of anything of the kind," said
Lesley, with dignity, although her cheeks were still red.
"We shall see what we shall see. Well, I won't put my oar in—isn't
that kind of me? But, indeed, your Captain Duchesne looks
thoroughly ripe for a flirtation, and it will be as much as I can do to
keep my hands off him."
"How would Mr. Trent like that?" said Lesley, trying to carry the war
into the enemy's camp.
"He would bear it with the same equanimity with which he bears the
rest of my caprices," said Ethel, merrily; but a shade crossed her
brow, and she allowed Lesley to lead the conversation to the subject
of her trousseau.
Captain Duchesne did not seem slow to avail himself of the favor
accorded to him. He presented himself at Ethel's next "at home;"
and devoted himself to her with curious assiduity. Even the discovery
of her engagement to Mr. Trent did not change his manner. It was
not so much that he paid her actual attention, as that he paid none
to anybody else. When she was not talking to him, he kept silence.
He seemed always to be observing her, her face, her manner, her
dress, her attitude. Yet this kind of observation was quite respectful
and unobtrusive: it was merely its continuity that excited remark.
Oliver noticed it at last, and professed himself jealous: in fact he was
a little bit jealous, although he did not love Ethel overmuch. But he
had a pride of possession in her which would not allow him to look
with equanimity on the prospect of her being made love to by
anybody else.
Ethel enjoyed the attentions, and enjoyed Oliver's jealousy, in her
usual spirit of childlike gaiety. She was quite assured of Oliver's
affection for her now; and she looked forward with shy delight to the
day of her wedding, which had been fixed for the twentieth of
March.
Meanwhile, Oliver was devoured with secret anxiety. For what had
become of Francis, and when would he appear to demand the
money which had been promised to him on the day when the
marriage should take place?
 CHAPTER XXIV.
MR. BROOKE'S DESIRES.

Lady Alice's movements were not without interest to Caspar

Brooke, although Lesley did not suspect the fact. It was quite a
surprise to her when he entered the library one day, with apparently
no other object than that of saying abruptly,
"What is your mother going to do, Lesley?"
"To do?" said Lesley, flushing slightly and looking astonished.
"Yes"—impatiently. "Where is she going to live? What will become of
her? Do you want to go to her? I wish to hear what you know about
her arrangements."
He planted himself on the hearth-rug in what might be termed an
aggressive attitude—really the expression of some embarrassment of
feeling. It certainly seemed hard to him at that moment to have to
ask his daughter these questions.
"I think," said Lesley, with downcast eyes, "that she is trying to find
a house to suit her in Mayfair."
"Mayfair. Then half her income will go in rent and taxes. Will she live
there alone?"
"Yes. At least—unless—until——"
"Until you join her: I understand. Will"—and then he made a long
pause before continuing—"if she wants you to join her at once; and
you wish to go, don't let this previous arrangement stand in the way.
I shall not interfere."
His curtness, his abruptness, would once have startled and terrified
Lesley. She had of late grown so much less afraid of him, that now
she only lifted her eyes, with a proud, grieving look in them, and
said,
"Do you want me to go away, then?"
"Want you to go? Certainly not, child," and Mr. Brooke stretched out
his hand, and drew her to him with a caressing gesture. "No: I like
to have you here. But I thought you wanted to go to her."
"So I do," said Lesley, the tears coming to her eyes. "But—I want to
stay, too. I want"—and she put both hands on his arms with a
gesture as affectionate as his own—"I want my father and mother
both."
"I'm afraid that is an impossible wish."
"But why should it be?" said Lesley, looking up into his face
beseechingly.
His features twitched for a moment with unwonted emotion. "You
know nothing about it," he said—but he did not speak harshly. "You
can't judge of the circumstances. What can I do? Even if I asked her
she would not come back to me."
And then he put his daughter gently from him and went down to his
study, where he paced up and down the floor for a good half-hour,
instead of settling down as usual to his work.
But Lesley's words were not without their effect, although he had
put them aside so decidedly. With that young, fair face looking so
pleadingly into his own, it did not seem impossible that she should
form a new tie between himself and his wife. Of course he had
always known that children were conventionally supposed to bind
the hearts of husband and wife to each other; but in his own case
he had not found that a daughter produced that result. On the
contrary, Lesley had been for many years a sort of bone of
contention between himself and his wife; and he had retained a
cynical sense of the futility of such conventional utterances, which
were every day contradicted by barefaced facts.
But now he began to acknowledge that Lesley was drawing his heart
closer to his wife. The charm of a family circle began to rise before
him. Pleasant, indeed, would it be to find that his dingy old house
bore once more the characteristics of a home; that womankind was
represented in it by fairer faces and softer voices than the face and
voice even of dear old Doctor Sophy, with her advanced theories, her
committees, and her brisk disregard of the amenities of life. Yes, he
would give a good deal to see Alice—it was long since he had
thought of her by that name—established in his drawing-room
(which she should refurbish and adorn to her heart's content), with
Lesley by her side, and himself at liberty to stroll in and out, to be
smiled upon, and—yes, after all, this was his dearest wish—to dare
to lavish the love of which his great heart was full upon the wife and
child whose loss had been the misfortune of his life.
As he thought of the past years, it seemed to him that they had
been very bleak and barren. True, he had done many things; he had
influenced many people, and accomplished some good work; but
what had he got out of it for himself? He was an Individualist at
heart, as most men are, and he felt conscious of a claim which the
world had not granted. It was almost a shock to him to feel the
egoistic desire for personal happiness stirring strongly within him;
the desire had been suppressed for so long, that when it once
awoke it surprised him by its vitality.
The outcome of these reflections was seen in a letter written that
day after his talk with Lesley. He seated himself at last at his writing-
table, and after some minutes' thought dashed off the following
epistle. He did not stop for a word, he would not hesitate about the
wording of sentences: it seemed to him that if he paused to
consider, his resolution might be shaken, his purpose become
unfixed.
"My Dear Alice," he wrote—"I hear from Lesley that you are looking for a house. Would it
not be better for us all if you made your home with me again? Things have changed since
you left me, and I might now be better able to consult your tastes and wishes than I was
then. We are both older and, I hope, wiser. Could we not manage to put aside some of our
personal predilections and make a home together for our daughter? I use this argument
because I believe it will have more weight with you than any other: at the same time, I
may add that it is for my own sake, as well as for Lesley's, that I make the proposition.
Your affectionate husband,
"Caspar Brooke."

It was an odd ending, he thought: he had certainly not shown

himself an affectionate husband to her for many years. But there
was truth in the epithet: little as she might believe it, or as it might
appear. He would not stop to re-read the letter: he had said what he
wanted to say, and she could read his meaning easily enough. He
had held out the olive branch. It was for her to accept or reject it, as
she would.
Lesley could not understand why he was so restless and apparently
uneasy during the next few days. He seemed to be looking for
something—expecting something—nobody knew what. He spent
more time than usual with her, and took a new interest in her affairs.
She did not know that he was trying to put himself into training for
domestic life, and that he found it unexpectedly pleasant.
"What's this?" he said one day, picking up a scrap of paper that fell
from a book that she held in her hand. "Not a letter, I think? Have
you been making extracts?"
"No," said Lesley, blushing violently, but not trying to take the paper
from him.
"May I see it? Oh, a sort of essay—description—impressions of
London in a fog." He murmured a few of the words and phrases as
he went on. "Why, this is very good. Here's the real literary touch.
Where did you get this, Lesley? It's not half bad."
As she made no answer, he looked up and saw the guilty laughter in
her eyes, the conscious blushes on her cheeks.
"You don't mean to say——"
"I only wrote it to amuse myself," said Lesley, meekly. "I've had so
little to do since I came here, and I thought I would scribble down
my impressions."
"My dear child," said Mr. Brooke, "if you can write as well as this,
you ought to have a career before you. Why," he added, surveying
her, "I had no idea of this. And I always did have a secret wish that
a child of mine should take to literature. My dear——"
"But I don't want to take to literature, exactly," said Lesley, with a
little gasp. "I only want to amuse myself sometimes—just when I
feel inclined, if you don't think it a great waste of time——"
"Waste of time? Certainly not. Go on, by all means. I shall only ask
to see what you do now and then; I might be able to give you a hint
—though I don't know. Your style is very good already—wants a little
compression, perhaps, but you can make sentences—that's a
comfort." And Mr. Brooke fell to reading the manuscript again, with a
very pleased look upon his face.
It was while he was still reading that a servant brought in some
letters which had just arrived. He opened the first that came to hand
almost unthinkingly, for his mind was quite absorbed in the discovery
which he had made. It was only when his eye rested on the first
page of the letter that memory came back to him. He gave a great
start, rose up, putting Lesley's paper away from him, and went to
the other side of the room to read his letter. It was as follows:—
"Dear Mr. Brooke,—
"I have already found a house that I think will suit me, and I hope that Lesley will join me
there as soon as you can spare her. I am afraid that it is a little too late to change our
respective ways of life. It would be no advantage to Lesley to live with parents who were
not agreed.
"Yours very truly,
"Alice Brooke."

Caspar Brooke turned round with a face that had grown strangely
pale, walked across the room to Lesley, and dropped the letter in her
lap.
"There!" he said. "I have done my uttermost. That is your mother's
reply to me."
He strode out of the room, without deigning to answer her cry of
surprise and inquiry, and Lesley took up the letter.
It was with a burst of tears that she put it down. "Oh, mother,
mother!" she cried to herself, "how can you be so unkind, so unjust,
so unforgiving? He is the best man in the world, and yet you have
the heart to hurt him."
She did not see her father again until the next day, and then,
although she made no reference in words to the letter which she
restored to him, her pale and downcast looks spoke for her, and told
the sympathy which she did not dare to utter. Mr. Brooke kissed her,
and felt vaguely comforted; but it began to occur to him that he had
made Lesley's position a hard one by insisting on her visit to his
house, and that it might have been happier for her if she had
remained hostile to himself, or ignorant of his existence. For now,
when she went back to her mother, would not the affection that she
evidently felt for him rise up as a barrier between herself and Lady
Alice? Would she not try to fight for him? She was brave enough,
and impetuous enough, to do it. And then Alice might justly accuse
him of having embittered the relation, hitherto so sweet, between
mother and daughter, and thereby inflicted on her an injury which
nothing on earth could repair or justify.
Could nothing be done to remedy this state of things? Caspar Brooke
began to feel worried by it. His mind was generally so serene that
the intrusion of a personal anxiety seemed monstrous to him. He
found it difficult to write in his accustomed manner: he felt a
diminution of his interest in the club. With masculine impatience of
such an unwonted condition, he went off at last to Maurice Kenyon,
and asked him seriously whether his brain, his heart, or his liver
were out of order. For that something was the matter with him, he
felt sure, and he wanted the doctor to tell him what it was.
Maurice questioned and examined him carefully, then assured him
with a hearty laugh that even his digestion was in the best possible
working order.
Brooke gave himself a shake like a great dog, looked displeased for
a moment, and then burst out laughing too.
"I suppose it is nothing, after all," he said. "I've been a trifle anxious
and worried lately. Nothing of any importance, my dear fellow. By
the by, have you been to see Lesley lately?"
"May I speak to her?" said Maurice, his face brightening. "I thought
——"
"Speak when you like," Caspar answered, curtly. "I almost wish you
would get if over. Get it settled, I mean."
"I shall get it settled as soon as I can, certainly," said Maurice.
And Mr. Brooke went away, thinking that after all he had found one
way of escape from his troubles. For if Lesley accepted Maurice, and
lived with him in a house opposite her father's, there would always
be a corner for him at their fireside, and he would not go to the
grave feeling himself a childless, loveless, desolate old man.
It must be conceded that Mr. Brooke had sunk to a very low pitch of
dejection when he was dominated by such thoughts as these.
 CHAPTER XXV.
LESLEY'S PROMISE.

Maurice was no backward lover. He made his way to Lesley that

very day, and found her in the library—not, as usual, bending over a
book, but standing by the window, from which could be seen a piece
of waste ground overgrown with grass and weeds, and shaded by
some great plane and elm trees. There was nothing particularly
fascinating in the outlook, which partook of the usual grimness of a
London atmosphere; but the young green of the budding trees
spoke, in spite of the blackness of their branches, of spring and
spring's delight; and there was a brightness in the tints of the
tangled grass which gave a restful satisfaction to the eye. Lesley was
looking out upon this scene with a wistfulness which struck Maurice
with some surprise.
"You like this window?" he said, interrogatively, when they had
shaken hands and exchanged a word or two of greeting.
"Yes, it reminds me in some way of my old convent home; I don't
know why it should; but there are trees and grass and greenness."
"Ah, you love the country?"
"Do not you?"
"Yes, but there are better things in the world than even trees and
grass."
"Ah, yes," said Lesley, eagerly. Then, with a little smile, she added;
as if quoting—"Souls of men."
"I was thinking of their bodies," said the young doctor. "But that's as
it should be. You think of the spiritual, I only of the material side.
Both sides ought to be considered that is where men and women
meet, I take it."
"I suppose so," said Lesley, a little vaguely.
"I'm afraid," Maurice went on, "that it will be a long time before I
have a country house of my own: a place where there will be trees
and green meadows and flowers, such as one loves and sighs for. I
have often thought"—with a note of agitation in his voice—"how
much easier it would be to ask any one to share my life if I had
these good things to offer. My only chance has been to find someone
who cares—as I care—for the souls and bodies of the men and
women around us; who would not disdain to help me in my work."
"Who could disdain it?" asked Lesley, innocently indignant.
"Do you mean"—turning suddenly upon her—"that you don't
consider a hard working doctor's life something inexpressibly
beneath you?"
She drew back a little hurt, a little bit astonished.
"Certainly not. Why should I?"
"You are born to a life of luxury and self-indulgence."
"My father is a journalist," said Lesley with a smile, in which
amusement struggled with offence.
"But your grandfather was an earl! It is possible," with a touch of
raillery, "that you prefer earls to general practitioners."
"Of the two, it is the doctor that leads the better life, in my opinion,"
said Lesley, rather hotly; but immediately cooling down, she added
the remark—"My preferences have nothing much, however, to do
with the matter."
"Have they not? How little you know your own power!"
Lesley looked at him in much amaze. Whither this conversation was
tending it had not yet occurred to her to inquire. But something in
his look, as he stood fronting her, brought the color to her cheeks
and caused her eyes to sink. She became suddenly a little afraid of
him, and wished herself a thousand miles away. Indeed she made
one backward step, as if her maidenly instincts were about to
manifest themselves in actual flight. But Maurice saw the movement,
and made two steps forward, which brought him so close to her that
he could have touched her hand if he had wished.
"Don't you understand?" he said, in an agitated voice. "Don't you
see that your opinion—your preferences—are all the world to me?"
He paused as if expecting her to reply—leaning a little towards her
to catch the word from her lips. But Lesley did not speak. She
remained motionless, as pale now as she had been red before—her
hands hanging at her sides and her eyes fixed upon the ground. She
looked as if she were stricken dumb with dismay.
"I know that I have not recommended myself to you by anything
that I have said or done," Maurice went on. "I misjudged you once,
and I spoke roughly, rudely, brutally; but it was the way you took
what I said which made me understand you. You were so fine, so
noble, so sweet! Instead of making my stupidity an excuse for
shutting yourself away from what your father was doing, you
immediately threw yourself into it, you began to work with him and
for him—as of course I might have seen that you would do directly
you came to know him. I was a fool, and you were an angel—that
summarizes the situation."
A faint smile curled Lesley's lips, although she did not look up. "I am
afraid there is not much of the angel about me," she said.
"Ah, you can't see yourself as others see you," he answered, quite
ignoring the implication in her remark which a less ardent lover
might have resented. "To me, at any rate, you are the one woman in