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?"