"Gently, my child: why so impetuous?" she said, taking the girl's hand in her own. "Yes, madame has arrived: she is in the parlor, speaking to the Reverend Mother; and in five minutes you are to go to her."
"Not for five minutes?" said Lesley; and then, controlling herself, she added, penitently. "I know I am impatient, Sister Rose."
"Yes, dear child: you are impatient: it is in your nature, in your blood," said the sister, looking at her with a sort of pity in her eyes—a pity which Lesley resented, without quite knowing why. "And you are going into a world where you will find many things sadly different from your expectations. If you remember the lessons that we have tried to read you here—lessons of patience, endurance, resignation to the will of others, and especially to the will of God—you will be happy in spite of sorrow and tribulation."
The young girl trembled: it seemed as if the sister spoke with a purpose, as if she knew of some difficulty, some danger that lay before her. She had been trained to ask no questions, and therefore she kept silence. But her lips trembled, and her beautiful brown eyes filled with tears.
"Come, my dear child," said Sister Rose, taking her by the hand, after a short pause, "I will take you to your mother. She will be ready for you now. May God protect you and guide you in your way through the world!"
And Lesley lowered her head as if she had received a blessing. Sister Rose was a woman whom Lesley honored and revered, and her words, therefore, sank deep, and often recurred to the young girl's mind in days to come.
They went in silence to the door of the parlor. Here Sister Rose relinquished her pupil's hand, tapped three times on one of the panels, and signed to Lesley to open the door. With a trembling hand Lesley obeyed the sign; and in another moment she was in her mother's arms.
Lady Alice Brooke was a very attractive looking woman. She was tall, slight, and graceful, and although she must have been close upon forty, she certainly had not the appearance of a woman over four or five and thirty. Her complexion was untouched by time: her cheeks were smooth and fair, her blue eyes clear. Her pretty brown hair had perhaps lost a little of the golden tinge of its youth, but it was still soft and abundant. But the reason why people often turned to look at her did not lie in any measure of grace and beauty that she possessed, so much as in an indefinable air of distinction and refinement which seemed to pervade her whole being, and marked her off from the rest of the world as one made of finer clay than others.
Many people resented this demeanor—which was quite unconscious on Lady Alice's part—and thought that it signified pride, haughtiness, coldness of heart; but in all this they were greatly, if not altogether, mistaken. Lady Alice was not of a cold nature, and she was never willingly haughty; but in some respects, she was what the world calls proud. She was proud of her ancient lineage; of the repute of her family, of the stainlessness of its name. And she had brought up Lesley, as far as she could, in the same old tradition.
Lesley was like her mother, and unlike, too. She had her mother's tall, graceful figure; but there was much more vivacity in her face than there had ever been in Lady Alice's; much more warmth and life and color. There was more determination in the lines of her mouth and chin: her brow was broader and fuller, and her eyes were dark brown instead of blue. But the likeness was there, with a diversity of expression and of coloring.