"Shall I take off my hat before I sing?" said Miss West calmly.
She was in Hubert's sitting-room. Mr. Lepel had the drawing-room floor of a large and fine old house in Russell square—a floor which contained two drawing-rooms opening out of each other, a bed and bath-room, and a small den, generally called a smoking-room, although its master's pipes and cigars were to be found in all corners of the apartments. Hubert had partially furnished the rooms for himself, and thus done away with the bare and ungarnished appearance usually characteristic of a London lodging.
Miss West glanced around the room on her first entry with some astonishment largely commingled with admiration. The mixture of luxury and disorder which met her eyes might have surprised even persons more conversant with the world than Cynthia West. The golden-brown plush curtains between the rooms were half pushed back, and showed that the back-room had been turned into a library. Shelves crowded with books, tables heaped with them, a great writing-table and asecrétaireshowed that Mr. Lepel used the room for what might be called "professional" purposes. But in the front drawing-room there had been attempts—and not unsuccessful attempts—at more artistic decoration. The curtains were of exquisite brocade, some charming etchings adorned the walls, great porcelain bowls of flowers had been placed on the oddly-shaped little tables that stood about the room. A pianette had been pulled out from the wall, and an Algerian shawl glistening with gold was loosely thrown over its back. Other articles of decoration were suggestive of foreign travel. A collection of murderous-looking weapons had been fastened on the wall between the two windows, some Eastern embroideries were thrown here and there over the furniture, and an inlaid mother-o'-pearl stool, an enormous narghileh, and some Japanese kakemonos gave the room quite an outlandish air. In spite of its oddness,there was a brightness and pleasantness about the place, due to the gay tints of the Oriental stuffs, and the hue and fragrance of the flowers with which pots and bowls and vases were plentifully filled.
"Yes, take off your hat and cloak, please," said Hubert, "if you do not mind the trouble."
"It is no trouble at all; I can sing much better without my outdoor things," replied the girl promptly.
She took off her little black-and-white hat and her neat little jacket, and displayed herself in a closely-fitting black gown which suited her admirably, in spite of its plainness. There was no touch of color or sign of ornament; a rim of white collar around the neck and white cuffs at her wrists gave the only relief to the gown's sombre hue. And yet, with the vivid beauty of her face above the plain dark garment, it seemed as if she could not have found a garb that was more absolutely becoming. She stood beside the little piano for a moment with a roll of music in her hand, and looked at Hubert questioningly.
"Shall I play my own accompaniment?" she asked.
"I never thought of that; I could have judged better of your voice if we had had an accompanist," said her host. "I could play for you myself if you liked."
"No; I will do it," said Cynthia decidedly, "Go to the other end of the room, will you, please, Mr. Lepel? You will hear me better there."
There was a pretty air of command about her which amused Mr. Lepel. This young woman, he reflected, as he took up the position which she had recommended, was not one who would be contented with a secondary position anywhere. She evidently considered herself born to rule. Well, he would do her bidding; he had no objection to the rule of a pretty woman! He was not disposed to take Miss Cynthia West and her singing very seriously—as yet.
Cynthia seated herself at the piano, while Hubert flung himself into an easy-chair at the farther end of the room, and crossed his arms behind his head in an attitude of attention and endurance, which showed that he was not expecting much and was prepared to bear the worst. For the singing of an average girl of eighteen or nineteen, with an ambition to appear on a public stage, is apt to be trying to the sensibilities of the true music-lover; and Hubert Lepel was no mean critic of the art.
Cynthia played a few opening bars, and then began to sing a popular ballad of the day. When she had finished it, she did not look round, but went on fingering the notes, gliding gradually into another key. Then suddenly she broke out into a fine old Italian aria, which she sang with much fire and expression, availing herself of every opportunity offioritureandcadenzaafforded by the song. And thence, with only a few bars of symphony between, she launched herself upon one of Schubert's most passionate love-songs, and sang it in a style which brought the listener to his feet at its close in a musical rapture that almost defied expression.
"Why, good heavens," cried Hubert, with something not unlike a gasp, "who on earth taught you to sing like that? And your voice—do you know, Miss West, that your voice is simply magnificent?"
Cynthia kept her head down, and continued to finger the notes—mutely this time.
"I have been told that I might be able to sing at private concerts," she said demurely.
"Private concerts! You might sing at Her Majesty's or Covent Garden—with a little more training perhaps," said Hubert, trying to be cautious, but failing to hide the satisfaction which shone out of his eyes as he approached the piano. "Why have you never sung to any manager? At least you may have done so, but I never heard a word of it; and a voice like yours would be talked about; you know."
"I suppose it was old Lalli's fault," said Cynthia carelessly. "He always impressed upon me that I could not sing a bit, and that I must wait for years and years before I dare open my mouth in public."
"And who is old Lalli?" asked Hubert, gathering up her music and beginning to turn it over.
Cynthia crossed her white hands and looked down, a shadow flitting across her mobile face.
"He is dead," she said softly. "He was a very kind old friend. He lodged in the house where I am lodging now. As long as he lived I always had somebody to advise me—somebody to depend on."
Her voice faltered a little. Some moisture was visible on the long dark eyelashes as they hung over the fresh young cheeks. Hubert thought again that he had neverseen a woman half so beautiful. The touch of emotion softened her loveliness—made it more human, more appealing. His tone was less light, but more simply friendly, when he addressed her again.
"Was he a musician?"
"He was a violinist in the Frivolity orchestra. He had been a singer once, I believe; at any rate, he knew a great deal about singing, and he used to give me lessons. He used to tear his hair, and frown and stamp a great deal," said Cynthia, smiling tenderly; "but he was kind, and I loved him very much."
"You met with him at the boarding-house where you live, I suppose?" said Hubert carelessly.
Cynthia gave him a sudden glance. The color came into her face.
"No," she said slowly; "he took me there." She raised her right hand and struck a few soft notes with it before she resumed her speech. "You would like to know how it was perhaps?" She made long pauses between her sentences, as if she were considering what to say and what to leave unsaid. "I came to London about four years ago, in great trouble. I had lost all my friends—not because I had done anything wrong, because of—other things. I wanted to get something to do in a shop or as a servant-girl—I did not care what. I tried all day, but nobody would give me work. I slept in the Park at night. Next day I began to search all over again, and again it was of no use. I had no money; I was very hungry and tired. I sat down on a step and cried, and at last some one said to me, 'What is the matter, my poor child?' And I looked up, frightened, and saw an old man with a long gray beard and very dark eyes and a kind face stooping over me. That was Signor Guido Lalli, of the Frivolity."
"I remember him in the band quite well," said Hubert. "He had a good face."
"Had he not?" exclaimed the girl, with sudden passion. "He was the kindest, wisest, best man I ever knew! I could not help trusting him, he looked so good. He made me tell him all about myself, and then he took me with him to the boarding-house in Euston Road where he lived, and said that he would be responsible to the landlady for me until I got something to do. And Mrs. Wadsley was so fond of him that she took me on trust for his sake. Idon't believe she ever suspected how little he really knew about me. And next day he took me to some friends of his, and between them they got me a little engagement at a theatre; and then I had a small speaking part, and so on—you know as well as I do how young actresses go from step to step—so that I was able to support myself after a time, and be no longer a burden upon him."
"And would he not let you sing?"
"No; he gave me lessons every day, and made me practise a long time; but I had to promise him that I would not sing to anybody but himself unless—unless I were obliged. I used to be angry about it; but he was so good to me that I always gave in to him in the end. I fancy now that he had a purpose in it all. When I was sufficiently trained, he wanted to take me to Mapleson or some other greatimpresario, and get him to bring me out in opera."
"Very likely. But you say he died?"
"Yes," said the girl, with a sigh, "he died—suddenly too, so that he did not even say good-bye. He was found dead one morning in his bed. Since then I have been all alone in the world; and I think Mr. Ferguson knew it, and wanted to take advantage of my position."
"No doubt of it."
"So then, as I had no engagement at the theatre, I thought I would see whether my voice would do anything for me. And, as I told you last night, I made up my mind to speak to you."
Hubert had stood with his arms on the piano, looking gravely down on the girl's bent face as she told her story. As she paused, she raised her head, and her great dark eyes looked straight into his with an expression of mute appeal which stirred his feelings strangely. It moved him so much that he was forced to take down his arms and turn aside from the piano for a moment or two; he scarcely wanted her to see how deeply he was touched. He soon came back to her side, however, and said—
"If I had refused to listen to you, what would you have done?"
"I don't know," she answered meditatively.
"You would have gone to some manager—some celebratedimpresario?"
"And been snubbed and repulsed by one and all!" said, Cynthia, with sudden passion.
She rose from the music-stool and stood facing him; he saw her bosom rise and fall, he marked the varying color in her cheeks, the light and shadow in her troubled eyes, as she poured out the impetuous words with which her heart was charged.
"I could not have borne it! I do not know how to put up with insult and contempt. I feel that I hate all the world when it treats me in that way. I never could be meek and good like other girls. I don't mean that I want to be wicked—I hope I am not wicked—but, if you had failed me, I think that I should have gone straight away to London Bridge and thrown myself into the river—for I should have had no hope left."
"My dear girl," said Hubert, rather gravely, "with that voice of yours you would have been very wrong to feel so easily discouraged."
"Oh, what would the voice matter if I could get nobody to listen to it?" cried Cynthia, with fiery scorn. "I may have a fortune in my voice, but how will the fortune benefit me if I can't have it for the next five or ten years, and am starving in the meantime? I could not have stayed more than a few days at Mrs. Wadsley's, as I had no money, and was not likely to earn any. If I was turned out, where was I to go? It is winter now, not summer, as it was when I slept in the Park four years ago, and dear old Lalli found me crying on the steps. A night out of doors in this weather would not leave me much voice to sing with, I fancy! No; I had made up my mind, Mr. Lepel—if you would not listen to me, I would go to London Bridge. If you think me wicked, I can't help it; it was my last resource."
With her cheeks flaming, her eyes gleaming beneath her black brows, it was plain that she was dominated by passion of no common strength, by will and pride which made it well-nigh impossible for her to lead an ordinary woman's life. Hubert looked at her, stupefied, fascinated by her beauty; he was penetrated by an admiration that he had never felt for a woman in all his life before. And she was a mere girl yet! He knew that she would be ten times more beautiful in a few years' time.
"You were right to come to me," he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said as he gazed into the depths of the lustrous dark eyes. "You need have no fear—you will succeed."
Cynthia drew a long breath. Her attitude changed a little; limbs and features seemed to relax, the color died slowly out of her flushed cheeks.
"You mean," she said, in a lower voice, "that you do not think, after all, that I was very wrong—bold, unwomanly, I mean—to speak to you, when I did not know you, in the street last night?"
"Certainly not."
"I had no claim on you, I know," proceeded the girl, the light of excitement fading out of her face, and the perfect mouth beginning to quiver as she spoke. "It was only a fancy of mine that, as you had seemed to understand so well how dreadful it was to be alone—alone in this great terrible London—you would hold out a helping hand to a girl who only wanted work—just enough to gain her daily bread." She sobbed a little, and put her hand over her eyes.
"Miss West," said Hubert seriously, with a desperate effort to retain a composure which was very hard to keep, "I can only assure you that I shall consider it an honor to be allowed to help in bringing you to the notice of men, who will do far more for you than I can hope to do."
She withdrew her hand from her eyes and looked at him with a brilliant smile, though the tears were still wet on her eyelashes.
"You think I am worth helping?" she said. "And you will help me—you yourself?"
"I will not rest," answered Hubert. "I will work night and day, and give body and soul, and I'll see you aprima donnayet!"
They both laughed, and then, obeying an impulse which stirred their hearts alike, held out their hands to each other and exchanged a friendly grasp.
The little village of Beechfield, like all other villages, had its dark corners where vice and misery reigned supreme. In old times Mr. and Mrs. Rumbold—good people as they were in their own fashion—had been content to leave these darker places to themselves; the decent religious poor ofthe parish gave them enough to do. But under the new Rector's rule a new system had begun. The Reverend Maurice Evandale thought that his duty lay amongst the lost sheep as well as amongst those already in the fold. If he had been at Beechfield in the days before Sydney Vane's death, he would never have let poor Andrew Westwood and his child remain outcasts from the interests of religious life. He would have visited them, talked to them, persuaded the child to go to school, perhaps even induced the poacher to give up his vagrant ways; at any rate, he would not have let them alone, but would have grappled fearlessly with the difficulties of their position, and with that hostility which seemed to exist between Westwood and the rest of the village. Whether he would have been successful or not it were indeed hard to say, but that he would have made a great effort to be so there can be no manner of doubt.
Mr. Evandale's new system produced a great sensation in the parish—not altogether a favorable sensation either; for the villagers, who had gone on so long in quiet, comfortable, self-complacent ways, did not regard with a favorable eye the changes which the Rector introduced. All the old abuses which had slumbered peacefully in darkness for so many years were exposed relentlessly by this too energetic young man. He swept away the village band of stringed instruments from the church gallery; he erected an organ in the chancel, and set the schoolmistress to play it; he introduced new tunes into the choir, new doctrines into the pulpit; he played havoc amongst all that was fusty and musty and venerable in the villagers' eyes. He talked about drainage, and had an inspector down to investigate the state of the village water-supply; he waged war upon the publicans, set up an institute and a library for the village youths, taught the boys, played with them—thrashed them too occasionally—and made himself a terror to evil-doers and the idol of the young ladies of the place. Naturally much was said against him, especially behind his back. To his face, people did not venture to say much. The young Rector had such a fearless way of looking straight into people's eyes, of saying what he meant and expecting other people to do the same, that he inspired something like fear in the shiftier and less trustworthy part of the community. On the other hand, theweak, the sick, the very young, instinctively loved and trusted him. "He is beautiful in a sick-room," averred the elder women. Perhaps his words seemed beautiful to them because they felt that by some mysterious law of sympathy he understood their sorrows without having been a partaker in them, that he had an infinite pity for the erring and the suffering, and that he never felt himself less of a brother to his flock because so many of that flock were sinful and ignorant and degraded.
So, parson though he was, he became the friend and confidant of half the village; and strange tales were poured into his ear sometimes—tales which the tellers would formerly have laughed at the idea of relating to the Rector of the parish so long as Mr. Rumbold reigned supreme. But to Maurice Evandale nothing seemed to come amiss; he had interest and sympathy for all. Stern to impenitent sinners he certainly was—brutal men and idle lads cowered under the lash of his rebuke; but there was not a soul in the village who did not also know that a word of repentance, an act that showed a yearning after better things, was sufficient to melt the Rector's wrath and turn him from a judge and censor into a friend. Judging from the progress that Maurice Evandale had already made in the hearts of his people, there was a fair likelihood that if he stayed much longer he would be master of their affections and their intellects, in a way which was unprecedented indeed at Beechfield.
He was not often at Beechfield Hall. The General liked his society extremely, but Mrs. Vane declared that it fatigued her.
"The man is so oppressively blunt and downright," she said, "that one never knows what to expect from him next. He is a perfect bear."
"But, my dear Flossy, he comes of a very good family, and I have heard him praised on all sides for his distinguished manners," expostulated the General. "I never knew a young man so courteous, so polished!"
"I am spoiled for young men, General," said Flossy, extending her hand very graciously to her white-haired husband.
It was not often that she showed herself so actively amiable towards him. She was usually somewhat passive, receiving his attentions with a languid indifference whichwould have disconcerted some men, but which did not disconcert the unsuspicious old General. He was delighted with her little compliment, kissed her hand gallantly, and avowed that nobody should come near the house whom she disliked. So Maurice Evandale was not invited a second time to dinner.
Naturally Enid was not consulted in the matter. She never expressed any opinion at all concerning the new Rector. She had always been a regular church-goer, and, wet or fine, never failed to be present at the class over which she presided every Sunday afternoon. She was not a whit more regular in her attendance at church and school than she had been before, whereas giddy girls like the doctor's daughter and the lawyer's bevy of fair damsels, and even the members of a neighboring Squire's large family of girls, had all taken to attending Mr. Evandale's services and schools with unexampled regularity. Flossy, who seldom went to church herself, but always inquired diligently after the worshippers, and exacted an account of their names and number from her young kinswoman, used to utter sarcastic little jibs anent these young women's clearly-manifested preference for Mr. Evandale, and was heard to say rather sharply that, if Enid followed their example, it would be worth while to have the horses out on a Sunday and drive over to the cathedral of Whitminster, six miles away. But Enid never gave any sign of liking the new Rector any better than she had liked Mr. Rumbold; and, as to take the General away from the church in which he had knelt almost every Sunday since he came home from active service in India, after his old father's death, would have been to uproot one of the most deeply-rooted instincts in his life. Florence was wise enough to let the matter pass, and to content herself with wishing that the patron of the living had given it to an older man—or at least to a married man. There was always danger when a bachelor of eight-and-twenty, good-looking—indeed very handsome—and with a comfortable income, came into close contact with young and romantic girls. And Florence did not intend Enid to marry Mr. Evandale—she had other views for her.
It was strange to see how this white, silent, languid woman, whose only occupations in life seemed to be eating, sleeping, driving, and dressing, was able to mould thenatures and ambitions of others to her liking. Behind the mask of Flossy's pensive beauty lay a brain as subtle, a will as inflexible, a heart as cold as ever daring criminal possessed. Nothing daunted or repelled her, and in other circumstances and other times her genius might have made her a mark for the execration of all succeeding ages. But her sphere was not large; she had but indifferent material to work upon in the seclusion of a country home and the company of an old country gentleman and his niece; and she could but do her best to gain her ends, even though the path of them lay across bleeding hearts and lives laid waste by her cruelty.
Mr. Evandale had felt the same distaste for her society that she had expressed for his visits, and troubled himself not a little about the want of charity that he discovered in himself. To his clear and penetrating eyes there was a vein of falseness apparent in Mrs. Vane's most honeyed speeches; her narrowed eyes were too subtle for his taste; there were lines about her mouth which he had seen on faces of women whom he did not love. For the life of him he could not repress a certain honest gravity and even sternness of manner in addressing her; something in her revolted him—he did not know how or why. He almost pitied the General—the hearty, good old man who seemed so fond of his fair wife. And he was sorry for Enid too, not only on account of her sad story, but because she lived with this woman whom he distrusted, because she was ruled by her fancies and educated according to her desires. And he was even sorry—still without knowing why—for little Dick, whose quaint childish face always expanded into a broad smile at the sight of him, and whom he often met in the village, clinging fondly to Enid's hand.
When he dined at the Hall, he had scarcely seen Enid, for, on some plea of illness or fatigue, Mrs. Vane had kept her away from dinner, and her presence in the drawing-room for the last half hour of Evandale's stay had been a very silent one. But he often saw her in church. The Vanes' pew was just in front of the pulpit, and the Rector could not preach without noticing the steady attention given to him by the girl in the Squire's pew, could not fail to be struck by the sweetness of the fair uplifted face, the beauty of the pathetic eyes, in which there always lurked the shadow of some past or future pain. The Rector fellinto the habit of preaching to that fair young face. But, strangely enough, he did not preach as men usually preach to the young and innocent—his words were often of consolation for bitter grief, tender counsel for the afflicted, even of future hope and amendment for the guilty. Nothing less peculiarly appropriate to a young girl of seventeen than some of his sermons could be imagined—and yet they were all addressed to Enid Vane. It was as if he were trying to strengthen her for some dread conflict, some warfare of life and death, which his foreseeing eye discerned for her in days to come.
Enid was allowed to do a little district-visiting in the parish, and Mr. Evandale had often heard reports of her gentleness and goodness; but he had never personally encountered her on any of her errands of mercy. An exception to this rule, however, took place on a certain afternoon in November, a few weeks after Hubert Lepel's visit to Beechwood.
Mr. Evandale had on that day received information that one of his parishioners—a Mrs. Meldreth—was seriously ill and would like to see him. The informant added that she brought the Rector word of this, because Mrs. Meldreth's daughter Sabina was now at home, and seemed anxious to keep the clergyman away. The Rector's fighting instincts were at once aroused by this communication. He knew Sabina Meldreth by name only, and had not derived a very pleasant impression of her from all that he had heard. She had once been an under-housemaid at the Hall, but had been dismissed for misconduct—of what sort nobody could exactly say, although much was hinted at which the gossips did not put into words—and had left the village soon afterwards. Since that time she had been seen at Beechfield only at intervals; she came occasionally to see her mother, and stated that she was "engaged in a millinery business at Whitminster, and doing well." Certainly her airs and graces, her plumes and jewelry, seemed to betoken that her finances were in a flourishing condition. But she never came to church, and was reported to talk in an irreverent manner, which made the Rector long to get hold of her for five minutes. With his strong convictions, Maurice Evandale could not bear to hear without protest of the insolent and almost profane sallies of wit by which, to his mind, Sabina Meldreth dishonored her Creator. He had long resolved to speak to her on the subject when next she visited Beechfield. Perhaps her mother's illness would have softened her and would make the Rector's task less difficult—for it was not his nature to love the administration of rebuke, although he held it to be one of his essential duties, when occasion required.
Mrs. Meldreth was a respectable elderly woman, who kept a small shop for cheap groceries and haberdashery in the village. She did not do much business, but she lived in apparent comfort—probably, the neighbors said, because she was helped by her daughter's earnings. And then Mrs. Vane was unusually kind to her. Flossy did not interest herself much in the welfare of her poorer neighbors, but to Mrs. Meldreth she certainly showed peculiar favor. Many a gift of food and wine went from the Hall across Mrs. Meldreth's threshold; and it was noticed that Mrs. Meldreth was occasionally admitted to Mrs. Vane's own room for a private conference with the lady of Beechfield Hall herself. But those who commented wonderingly on that fact were reminded that Mrs. Meldreth added to her occupations that of sick-nurse, and that she had been in attendance on Mrs. Vane at the time of the young Squire's birth. It was natural that Mrs. Vane should be on more intimate terms with her than with any other of the village women.
Mrs. Meldreth was not an interesting person in the eyes of the world at large. She was a sad, silent, dull-faced individual, with blank looking eyes and a dreary mouth. There were anxious lines on her forehead and hollows in her pale cheeks, such as her easy circumstances did not account for. That she "enjoyed very poor health," according to the dictum of her neighbors, was considered by them to be a sufficient reason for Mrs. Meldreth's evident lack of peace of mind.
Mr. Evandale set off for his visit to the sick woman early in the afternoon. He was hindered on his way to her house by meeting with various of his friends of the humbler sort, whom he did not like to pass without a word, and it was after three o'clock before he reached Mrs. Meldreth's cottage. He entered the shop, which looked duller and more uninviting than ever, and found that it was tenanted only by a girl of thirteen—a girl whom he knew to be the stupidest in the whole of the village school.
"Well, Polly Moss," he said good-naturedly, "are you taking care of the shop?"
Polly Moss, a girl whose mouth looked as if it would never close, beamed at him with radiant satisfaction, and replied—
"Yes, sir—I'm minding the shop, sir. Did you want any groceries to-day, please, sir?"
"No, thank you," said the Rector, smiling. "I have come to see Mrs. Meldreth, who, I hear, is ill."
"Yes, sir," said Polly, in a tone of resigned affliction. "I thought p'r'aps you was going to buy something, sir. I hain't sold anythink the 'ole afternoon."
"Polly," said Mr. Evandale, "how often am I to tell you to say the 'whole' afternoon, not the ''ole'?" The unlucky man had even made war on the natives' practice of leaving out their "h's"! "'Whole,' with an 'h,' remember! Well, I will buy something—what shall it be?—a pound of tea perhaps. Ah, yes! Two shillings a pound, isn't it? Pack it up and send it to the Rectory to-night, Polly; and here are the two shillings to put into the till. Now will you ask if I can see Mrs. Meldreth?"
Polly's shining face suddenly fell.
"I daren't leave the shop, sir," she said. "I left it this morning just for a minute or two, and Miss Meldreth said she'd skin me alive if ever I did so again. Would you mind, sir"—insinuatingly—"just a-going up the stairs and knocking at the door atop o' them? They'll be glad to see you, I'm sure, sir; and I daren't leave the shop for a single minute."
"All right," said the Rector. He was used to entering sick-rooms, and did not find Polly Moss' request very much out of the way. "I'll go up."
He passed through the shop and ascended the stairs, with every step of which he was familiar, as he had already visited Mrs. Meldreth during one or two previous attacks of illness, and was heard to knock at the sick woman's bed-room door.
"Oh, my," exclaimed Polly, as soon as he was out of reach, "and if I didn't go for to forget to tell him as 'ow Miss Enid was up there! Oh, my! But I don't suppose he'll mind! He's only the parson, after all."
When Mr. Evandale knocked at Mrs. Meldreth's door, he was aware of a slight bustle within, followed by the sound of voices in low-toned conference; then came a rather sharply-toned "Come in!". As, however, the Rector still hesitated, the door was flung open by a young woman, whose very gestures seemed to show that she acted under protest, and would not have admitted him at all if she had had her own way. She was a fair-complexioned woman of perhaps thirty years of age, tall, well made, robust, and generally considered handsome; she had prominent light-blue eyes, and features which, without being badly cut, were indefinably common and even coarse-looking. In her cheeks a patch of exceptionally vivid red had so artificial an appearance, that the Rector could not believe it to be genuine; but later he gained an impression that it proceeded from excitement, and not from any adventitious source. The eyes of this woman were sparkling with anger; there was defiance in her every movement, even in the way in which her fingers were clenched at her sides or clutched the iron rail of the bed on which her mother lay. The Rector wondered at her evident disturbance; it must have proceeded from something, that had occurred before his entrance, he concluded, and he looked towards the bed as if to discover whether the cause of Sabina Meldreth's anger could be found there.
But no—surely not there! The Rector thought that he had seldom seen a fairer picture than the one which met his eyes. Goodness, gentleness, youth supporting age, beauty unabashed by feebleness and ugliness—these were the characteristics of the scene on which he looked. Poor Mrs. Meldreth lay back upon her pillows, her face wan and worn, her eyes wandering, her gray hair escaping from her close cap and straying over her forehead. But beside her knelt Enid Vane. The girl's arm was beneath the old woman's bowed shoulders; it was evident that in this position the invalid could breathe better and was more atease. The sweet fair face, with its slight indefinable shadow deepened at this moment into a look of perfect pity, was bent over the wrinkled, withered countenance of the sick woman. Never, the Rector thought, had he seen a lovelier picture of youth ministering to the wants of age.
But a sense of incongruity also struck him, and he turned rather quickly to Miss Meldreth, whose defiant eyes had been fixed upon him from the first moment of his entrance into the room.
"You are Mrs. Meldreth's daughter?" he said, in a quick but not unkindly undertone. "Why do you let the young lady there wait upon your mother? Can you not nurse her yourself, my good girl?"
Sabina Meldreth curtseyed, but in evident mockery, for the color in her cheeks grew higher, and her tone was anything but respectful when she spoke.
"Of course I can nurse my mother, sir, and of course a young lady like Miss Vane didn't ought to put her finger to anything menial," she said, with a sharpness which took the Rector a little by surprise. "I'm quite well aware of the difference between us. And"—anger now evidently gaining the upper hand—"if you'd tell Miss Vane to go, sir, I'd be obliged to you, for she is only exciting mother, and doing her no good."
"Your mother shows no symptoms of excitement," said the Rector quietly; "and I must say, Miss Meldreth, that your words do not evince the gratitude that I should have expected you to feel for the young lady's kindness."
"Kindness! Oh, kindness is all very well!" said Miss Meldreth, with an angry toss of her fair head. "But I don't know what kindness there is in disturbing my poor mother—reading hymns and psalms, and all that sort of thing!"
Mr. Evandale had hitherto wondered whether or no Miss Vane heard a word of Sabina Meldreth's acid utterances, but he had henceforward no room for doubt. The girl raised her head a little and spoke in a low but penetrating tone.
"Miss Meldreth," she said, "excuse me, but you yourself are disturbing your mother far more than I have done. See—she is beginning to be restless again; she cannot bear loud talking or altercation."
The Rector was astonished by the firmness of her tone.She was so graceful, so slight, so fragile-looking, that he had not credited her with any great strength of character, in spite of his admiration for her beauty. But what she said was perfectly true, and he hastened to lend her his support.
"Quite so," he said approvingly. "Mrs. Meldreth should be kept quiet, I can see"—for the old woman had begun to moan and to move her head restlessly from side to side when she heard her daughter's rasping voice. "Perhaps you would step into another room with me, Miss Meldreth, and tell me how this attack came on—if, at least, Miss Vane does not mind being left with Mrs. Meldreth for a few minutes, or if she is not tired."
Enid answered with a faint sweet smile.
"I am not tired," she said. "And poor nurse wants to speak to me when she is able. She sent to tell me so. I can stay with her quite well."
But the proposition seemed to excite Sabina Meldreth almost to fury.
"If you think," she said, "that I am going to leave my mother alone with anybody—gentleman or lady—you are mistaken. If you want her to be quiet, leave her alone yourselves—she'll stay quiet enough if she's left to me."
"Sabina," said Enid, with a gentle dignity of tone which commanded the Rector's admiration and respect, "you know that your mother wanted me to come."
"I know that she's off her head!" said Sabina angrily. "She doesn't know what she says or what she wants. It's nonsense, all of it! And meaning no disrespect to you, Miss Vane"—in a lower but sulkier tone—"if you would but go away and leave her to me, she'd be all the better for it in the end."
"Hush!" said Enid, raising her hand—the serenity of her face was quite undisturbed by Sabina's expostulation. "She is coming to herself again—she is going to speak."
There was a moment's silence in the room. The sick woman was lying still; her eyes wandered and her lips moved, but as yet no articulate sound issued from them. In apparently uncontrollable passion, Sabina stamped violently and shook the rail of the iron bedstead with her hands.
"She ain't going to speak; she is off her head, I tell you! She ain't got anything to say."
The Rector looked at her steadily. For the first time it occurred to him that the younger woman had some unworthy motive in her desire to silence her mother and to get the listeners out of the room. Dislike of interference, jealousy, and bad temper would not entirely account, he thought, for her intense and angry agitation. Had Mrs. Meldreth and her daughter some secret which the mother would gladly confess and the girl was fain to hide?
A feeble voice sounded from the bed.
"Is it Miss Enid?" said Mrs. Meldreth. "Has she come?"
"No," said Sabina boldly and loudly. "You go to sleep, mother, and don't you bother about Miss Enid."
"Miss Meldreth, how dare you try to deceive a dying woman?" said the Rector, so sternly that even Sabina quailed a little before the deep low tones of his voice. "Yes, Mrs. Meldreth, Miss Enid Vane is here, and you can say all that you wish to say to her."
"I am here, nurse," said Enid gently—she had always been in the habit of addressing Mrs. Meldreth by that title. "Do you want me?"
"Oh, my dearie," said the old woman dreamily, "and have you come to me after all? Sabina there, she tried to keep you away; but I had my will at last. Polly told you that I wanted you, didn't she, Miss Enid dear?"
"Yes, nurse, she told me."
"I'll pay Polly Moss out for that!" Sabina was heard to mutter between her closed teeth. But Enid took no notice of the words.
"I'd something to say to you, my dearie," said Mrs. Meldreth, whose voice, though feeble, was now perfectly distinct; "and 'dearie' I must call you, although I haven't the right to do it now. I held you in my arms, my dear, five minutes after you came into this here wicked world, and I've allus looked on you as one o' my own babies, so to speak."
The delicate color had flushed Enid's cheeks a little, but she answered simply, "Yes, dear nurse;" and, leaning down, she kissed the old woman's forehead.
The caress moved the Rector strangely. His heart gave an odd bound, the blood began to course more rapidly through his veins. He was a clergyman, and he was in thepresence of a dying woman; but he was a man for all that, and at the moment when Enid's pure lips were pressed to her old nurse's brow, his whole being was stirred by a new emotion, which as yet he did not suspect was known amongst men by the name of love.
Sabina Meldreth had withdrawn from her station at the foot of the bed; she had moved softly to the side, and now stood by her mother's pillow, opposite to Enid, with her eyes fixed watchfully, balefully, upon her mother's face. But Mrs. Meldreth seemed unconscious of her daughter's gaze.
"I've something to say to you, my pretty," she said, with long pauses between the sentences—longer and longer as the laboring breath became more difficult and the task of speech more painful. "Sabina would nigh kill me if she knew. But I can't die with this thing on my mind. If I've wronged you and yours, and my own flesh and blood as well, I want to make amends."
"Is she—does she know what she is saying?" said Enid, raising her eyes to the Rector's face, with a touch of doubt and alarm in their pensive depths.
Before Mr. Evandale could answer Sabina broke in wildly.
"No, she don't—she don't know what she's saying; I told you so before! She's got her head full of mad fancies; she's not responsible, and you've no business to listen to her ravings. It ain't fair—it ain't fair—it ain't fair!" She concluded with a sob of passion that broke, in spite of her efforts to control herself, from her whitening lips, but which brought no tears with it to her eyes.
"Control yourself," said the Rector gravely. "We shall make all allowance for your mother's state of mind. But, if there is anything that she ought to confess, any act of dishonesty or unfaithfulness while she served Miss Vane's parents or uncle, then let her speak and humble herself in the sight of God, in whose very presence she, like all of us, will shortly stand."
The Rector's solemn tones awed Sabina into momentary quiescence, and reached even the dying woman's dulled ears.
"It is the parson," she said feebly. "Yes, I'm glad he's here, and Miss Enid too. I can't go into the Almighty's presence with a lie on my lips—can I, parson? It would weigh me down—down—down to hell. I must confess!"
"You've nothing to confess," said Sabina, almost fiercely; "lie still and hold your tongue, mother! You'll only bring shame on us both; and it's not true—not true!"
"You know then that your mother has something on her mind? In God's name be silent and let her speak!" said Mr. Evandale.
Enid looked up at her with wondering pity. Indeed Sabina Meldreth presented at that moment a strange and even tragic appearance. The hot unnatural color had left her cheeks, her ashy lips were strained back from her clenched teeth, her eyes were wide with an unspoken fear. Whatever she might say or leave unsaid, neither of those two persons who looked at her could doubt for another moment that Sabina Meldreth had a secret—a guilty secret—weighing heavily upon her mind.
Mrs. Meldreth's weak voice once more broke the silence.
"I never thought of its harming you, my dear," she said. "I thought you was rich and would not want houses and lands. And, when Mrs. Vane that now is came to me and said——"
She did not achieve her sentence. Sabina Meldreth had flown like a tigress at her mother's throat.
But, fortunately for Mrs. Meldreth, a strong and resolute man was in the room. He had already drawn nearer to Sabina, with a feeling that she was not altogether to be trusted, and, as soon as she made her first savage movement—so like that of a wild beast leaping on its prey—his hands were upon her, his strong arms holding her back. For a minute there was a frightful struggle. The Rector pinioned her arms; but she, with the ferocity of an undisciplined nature, flung her head sideways and fastened her teeth in his arm. Her strength and her agility were so great that the Rector could not easily disengage himself; and, although the cloth of his coat-sleeve prevented her attempt to bite from doing any great injury, the assault was sufficiently painful and sufficiently unexpected to protract the struggle longer than might have been anticipated. For, as she was a woman, Maurice Evandale did not like to resort to active violence, and it was with some difficulty that he at last mastered her and placed her in a chair, where for a few minutes he had to hold her until her struggles ceased and were succeeded by a burst of convulsive sobs. Then he felt that he might relax his hold, she ceased to be dangerous when she began to cry.
Enid had involuntarily withdrawn her arm from Mrs. Meldreth's shoulders, and sprung to her feet with a low cry when she saw the struggle that was taking place; but in a second or two she conquered her impulse to fly to the Rector's aid, and with rare self-control bent once more over the dying woman, who needed her help more than Mr. Evandale could. Poor Mrs. Meldreth was almost unconscious of the disturbance. Her eyes were glazing, her sight was growing feeble, the words that fell from her lips were broken and disconnected. But still she spoke—still she went on pouring her story into Enid's listening ears.
When the Rector at last looked round, he saw an expression on Enid's face which chilled him to the bone. It was a look of unutterable woe, of grief, shame, agony, and profound astonishment. But there was no incredulity. Whatever Mrs. Meldreth had told her Enid had believed. The Rector made one step towards the bed.
"If you have anything to confess, Mrs. Meldreth," he began; but Enid interrupted him.
"She has confessed," said the girl, turning her face to him with a strange look of mingled humiliation and compassion—"she has confessed—and I—I have forgiven. Nurse, do you hear? God will forgive you, and I forgive you too."
"God will forgive," murmured the woman.
A smile flickered over her pale face. Then a change came; the light in her eyes went out, her jaw fell. A slight convulsion passed through her whole frame, and she lay still—very still. The confession, great or small, that she had made had been heard only by Enid and her God.
"It is all over," said Maurice Evandale, looking gravely at the dead woman's face. "It is all over, and may God have mercy upon her soul!"
He left Sabina, who was sobbing hysterically as she sat huddled up in the chair on which he had placed her, and came to Enid's side. She turned to him with sorrowful appeal.
"Is she dead? Can nothing be done?"
"Nothing. Come away, Miss Vane; this is no place for you. One moment! Have you anything to say to this woman? Have you any charge to bring?"
He pointed to Sabina as he spoke, and she, roused for an instant, raised a mute terrified face from her hands, and seemed to shrink still lower in her chair, as if she would willingly have hidden herself and her secret, whatever it might be, out of sight of all the world. She waited—waited—evidently with dread—for the accusation that she expected from Enid's lips. The Rector waited also, but the accusation did not come. There was a moment's utter silence in the chamber of death.
"Have you anything to say?" asked Maurice Evandale at last.
Then Enid spoke.
"No," she answered, with quivering lips; "I can say nothing. I—I forgave her—before she died;" and then she turned away and went swiftly out of the room, leaving the others to follow or linger as they pleased.
Sabina rose from her chair and stood as if dazed, stupefied by her position. All her fierceness and defiance had left her; her face was white, her eyes were downcast, her hands hung listlessly at her sides. The Rector paused and spoke.
"You hear what Miss Vane said?"
She made no answer.
"I do not know what you or your mother may have done. Some secret guilt evidently weighed upon her soul. Whatever it may be, she confessed her guilt and received forgiveness. Sabina Meldreth, in the presence of your dead mother and of your living God, I call upon you to do the same. If you would find mercy in the hour of your own death, confess your sin, whatever it may be, and you shall be forgiven."
Still she stood silent and almost motionless, but her teeth gnawed at her white lips as if to bite them through.
"You will have no better time than the present," said the Rector. "If there is anything that you feel should be confessed, confess it now. It is God's voice calling to you, not mine. Your mother cleared her conscience before she died, do you the same. I bid you in God's name."
Maurice Evandale did not often speak after this fashion;he was no fanatic, no bigot, but he believed intensely in the great eternal truths which he preached, and in the presence of death—in the presence also, as he believed, of mortal sin—he could not do less than appeal to what was highest and best in the nature of the woman before him. What she had to accuse herself of he could not possibly imagine; but he knew that there was something. By the dead woman's incoherent words, by Sabina Meldreth's violence, by Enid's stricken look of perplexity and pain, he knew that something lay hidden which ought to be brought to light.
The winter's day was drawing to a close. Through the uncurtained window the light stole dimly, and the reddened coals in the tiny grate threw but a feeble gleam into the room. In every corner shadows seemed to cluster, and the dead woman's face looked horribly pale and ghastly in the surrounding gloom. The Rector waited with a feeling that the moment was unutterably solemn; that it was fraught with the destiny of a suffering, sinning human being—for aught he knew, with the destinies of more than one. Suddenly the woman before him threw up her hands as if to shut out the sight of her dead mother's face.
"I have nothing to tell you—nothing!" she cried. "What business have you here? You teased my mother out of her last few minutes of life, and now you want to get the mastery over me! It's my house now, my room—not my mother's—and you may go out of it."
"Is that all you have to say," asked the Rector gravely—"even in her presence, Sabina Meldreth?"
"Yes, that's all," she answered, the old fierceness creeping back into her tones. "What else should I have to say? I suppose you can have me taken up for assault; Miss Vane will bear witness in your favor fast enough, no doubt. I don't care!"
"Do you not care even when you think what I kept you back from?" said Mr. Evandale. "Your mother was old, weak, dying, and you threw yourself upon her with violence. You will remember that some day, and will bless me perhaps because I withheld your hand. Your attack upon me matters nothing. I am willing to believe that you did not know what you were doing. I will leave you know—it is not seemly that we should discuss this matter any further. But, if ever you want help or counsel—and the day maycome, my poor woman, when you may want both—then come to me."
He opened the door, went out, and closed it behind him, leaving Sabina Meldreth alone with the dead.
He found two or three women down-stairs already; Enid Vane must have told Polly, as she passed through the shop, that Mrs. Meldreth's end had come. As soon as he had gone, two of them went up-stairs to perform the necessary offices in the chamber of death. They found Sabina stretched on the floor in a swoon, from which it was long before she recovered.
"You wouldn't ha' thought she had so much feeling in her," said one of the women to the other, as they ministered to her wants.
Meanwhile the Rector strode down the village street, straining his eyes in the twilight, and glancing eagerly from side to side, in his endeavor to discover what had become of Miss Vane. He knew that she had probably never been out so late unattended in her life before; lonely as her existence seemed to be, she was well cared for, anxiously guarded, and surrounded by every possible protection. He had been surprised to find her in Mrs. Meldreth's cottage so late in the afternoon. Only the exigencies of the situation had prevented him from following her at once when she left the house—only the stern conviction that he must not, for the sake of Miss Vane's bodily safety and comfort, neglect Sabina Meldreth's soul. But, when he felt that his duty in the cottage was over, he sallied forth in search of Enid Vane. She had been wearing a long fur-lined cloak, he remembered, and on her head a little fur toque to match. The colors of both were dark; at a distance she could not be easily distinguished by her dress. And she had at least three-quarters of a mile to walk—through the village, down-hill by the lane, past the fir plantation where her father had been found murdered, and a little way along the high-road—before she would reach her own park gate. The Rector, like all strong men, was very tender and pitiful to the weak. The thought of her feeling nervous and frightened in the darkness of the lane was terrible to him; he felt as if she ought to be guarded and guided throughout life by the fearless and the strong.
He walked down the street—it was a long straggling street such as often forms the main thoroughfare of acountry village—but he saw nothing of Enid. At the end of the street were some better-built houses, with gardens; then came the Rectory and the church. He paused instinctively at the churchyard gate. Surely he saw something moving amongst the tombs over there by the railed-in plot of ground that marked the vault, in which lay the mortal remains of Sydney and Marion Vane? Had she gone there? Was it Enid's slender form that crouched beside the railings in the attitude of helpless sorrow and despair?
The Rector did not lose a moment in finding out. He threw open the gate, dashed down the pathway, and was scarcely astonished to discover that his fancy was correct. It was Enid Vane who had found her way to her parents' grave, and had slipped down upon the frosted grass, half kneeling, half lying against the iron rails.
One glance, and Evandale's heart gave a leap of terror. Had she fainted, or was she dead? It was no warm, conscious, breathing woman whom he had found—it was a rigid image of death, as stiff, as sightless, as inanimate as the corpse that he had left behind. He bent down over her, felt her pulse, and examined the pupils of her eyes. He had had some medical training before he came to Beechfield, and his knowledge of physiological details told him that this was no common faint—that the girl was suffering from some strange cataleptic or nervous seizure, for which ordinary remedies would be of no avail.
The Rectory garden opened into the churchyard. Maurice Evandale had not a moment's hesitation in deciding what to do. He lifted the strangely rigid, strangely heavy figure in his arms, and made his way along the shadowy churchyard pathway to the garden gate. The great black yews looked grim and ghostly as he left them behind and strode into his own domain, where the flowers were all dead, and the leafless branches of the fruit-trees waved their spectral arms above him as he passed. There was something indefinably unhomelike and weird in the aspect of the most familiar places in the winter twilight. But Maurice Evandale, by an effort of his strong will, banished the fancies that came into his mind, and fixed his thoughts entirely upon the girl he was carrying. How best to restore her, what to do for her comfort and her welfare when she awoke—these were the thoughts that engrossed his attention now.
He did not go to the front-door. He went to a long window which opened upon the garden, and walked straight into his own study. A bright fire burned in the grate; a lamp was placed on the table, where books and papers were heaped in true bachelor confusion. A low broad sofa occupied one side of the room; the Rector deposited his burden upon it, and then devoted himself seriously to the consideration of the case before him.
Enid lay white, motionless, rigid, where he had placed her; her eyelids were not quite closed, and the eyes were visible between the lids; her lips were open, but the teeth were tightly closed; a slight froth showed itself about her mouth.
"It is no faint," the Rector said to himself. "It is a fit, a nervous seizure of some sort. If she does not revive in a minute or two, I shall send for Ingledew"—Ingledew was the village doctor—"and in the meantime I'll act on my own responsibility."
Certain reviving measures were tried by him, and apparently with success. The bluish whiteness of the girl's face changed to a more natural color, her teeth relaxed, her eyelids drooped. Evandale drew a quick breath of relief when he saw the change. He was able to pour a few drops of brandy down her throat, to chafe the unresisting hands, to bathe the cold forehead with some hope of affording relief. He did all as carefully and tenderly as if he had been a woman, and he did not seem to wish for any other aid. Indeed he had locked the door when he first came in, as if to guard against the chance of interruption.
Presently he heard her sigh; then tears appeared on her lashes and stole down her cheeks. Her limbs fell into their natural position, and she put up her hand at last with a feeble, uncertain movement, as if to wipe away her tears. Evandale drew back a little—almost out of her sight. He did not want to startle her.
"Where am I?" she said, in a tremulous voice.
"You are at the Rectory, Miss Vane," said Maurice Evandale quietly. "You need not be at all alarmed; you may have heard that I am something of a doctor, and, as I found that you did not seem well, I took the liberty of bringing you here."
"I don't remember," she said softly, opening her blue eyes and looking at him—without shyness, as he noticed,but with a kind of wistful trust which appealed to all the tenderness of his nature. "Did I faint?" There was a slight emphasis on the last word.
"You were unconscious for a time," said the Rector. "But I hope that you feel better now."
She gave him a curious look—whether of shame or of reproach he could not tell—then buried her face in the pillows and began to cry quietly, with her fingers before her eyes.
"My dear Miss Vane, can I not do anything for you? I will call the housekeeper," said the Rector, driven almost to desperation by the sight of her tears. It was always very painful to him to see a woman cry.
"No, no!" she said, raising her head for a moment. "No—don't call any one, please; I shall be better directly. I know what was the matter now."
She dried her eyes and tried to calm herself, while the Rector stood by the table in the middle of the room, nervously turning over books and pamphlets, and pretending not to see that she was crying still.
"Mr. Evandale," she said at length, "I don't know how to thank you for being so kind. I must tell you——"
"Don't tell me anything that is painful to you, Miss Vane."
"It will not be painful to tell you after your great kindness to me. I—I am subject to these attacks. The doctors say that they do not exactly understand the case, but they think that I shall outgrow them in course of time. I have not had one for six months till to-night." She burst into tears again.
"But, my dear child,"—he could not help saying it—the words slipped from his lips against his will—"there is nothing to be so troubled about; a little faintness now and then—many people suffer from it."
"Ah, you do not understand!" she said quickly. "It is not faintness at all. I am often quite conscious all the time. I remember now how you found me and brought me here. I was not insensible all the time, but I cannot move or speak when I am like that. It has been so ever since—ever since my father died." She lowered her voice, as if she were telling something that was terrible to her.
"I see," said Mr. Evandale kindly—"it is an affection of the nerves, which you will get over when you arestronger. I hope that you do not make a trouble of that?" His eyes looked steadily into hers, and he noted with pain the strange shadow that crossed them as he gazed.
"My uncle and his wife," she murmured, "will not let anybody know. They are—they are ashamed of it, and of me. If I do not get better, they say that I shall some day go out of my mind. Oh, it is terrible—terrible to feel a doom of this sort hanging over one, and to know that nothing can avert it! I had hoped that it was all over—that I should not have another attack; but you see—you see that I hoped in vain! It is like a black shadow always hanging over me, and nothing—nothing will ever take it away!"