Enid's conscience was not at rest. During her interviews with Mr. Evandale she was inclined to think that he knew everything, understood everything—even the difference between right and wrong—better than she herself knew and understood it; but when he was away her heart failed her. What if Hubert cared for her all the time? Would she not then be doing him a grievous wrong by forgetting that she had promised to marry him when she was twenty-one? The General's opposition to her engagement would probably vanish like a dream when she was a little older, if she and Hubert showed any inclination to each other. There was no real reason why they should not marry; and Hubert knew that. And what would he say when he heard that she had weakly fallen in love with another man, and wanted to break her word to himself?
Enid shrank back and blushed with shame at the prospect before her. It was all very well for Maurice to say that she must not sacrifice herself; but was it not a woman's duty to sacrifice herself for the good of others? She said so to Maurice; and his answer was very ready.
"For the good of others? But do you think it is for Hubert's good to marry a woman who does not love him, and especially if it is a woman whom he does not love?"
"Ah, if I could only be sure of that!" sighed Enid.
She was not long left in doubt. The General could not keep a secret; and, as soon as he and his wife returned to Beechfield, Enid felt that something was wrong—something which concerned herself. Flossy was very quiet; she eyed Enid strangely once or twice, but she did not tell her about the events of the past week. It was the General who sighed over her, petted her, kissed her at unusual times, and looked at her with an air of pity that the girl found almost intolerable. After three or four days of it, she broke through her usual rule of reserve, and asked Flossy what the General meant.
"You had better ask him," said Mrs. Vane, arching her delicate brows.
"I have asked him, and he will not tell me."
"I suppose it is simply that Hubert is ill. He thinks probably that you are distracted by anxiety about him."
Enid colored guiltily.
"But we have good accounts of him," she said, as if explaining away her own apparent indifference; "he is going on as well as we can expect. And I suppose you would be with him if he were dangerously ill?"
"I am not sure of that," said Flossy rather drily; but she would say no more.
It was after breakfast one morning that Enid insisted upon being satisfied. She and the General had, as usual, breakfasted together, and a letter had just been received from the Doctor in attendance on Hubert, over which the General coughed, fidgeted, sighed, and was evidently so much disturbed that Enid's attention was roused to the uttermost. For the earlier part of the meal she had been sitting with her hands clasped before her, not attempting to touch the food upon her plate. She had no appetite; she had passed a bad night, and was little inclined to talk. But the General's movements and gestures excited her curiosity.
"Have you had bad news, uncle Richard?"
"No, no, my dear! He's going on very well—very well indeed."
"You mean Hubert?"
"Yes—yes, of course! Whom else should I mean? You needn't be alarmed about him at all; he'll soon be about again."
There was a tone of mingled vexation and perplexity in the General's voice.
"Is he conscious now?" Enid asked eagerly.
"Well, no—not exactly—light-headed a little, I suppose. At least——"
"Who has written, uncle Richard? Can I see the letter?"
"No, no, no! Not for you to read, my dear! It's from the doctor—nothing much—nothing for you to see."
Enid was silent for a few minutes; then she spoke with sudden determination.
"Uncle Richard, you are treating me like a child! There is something that you are hiding from me which I ought to know—I am sure of it! Will you not tell me what it is?"
"You are quite mistaken, my dear! There is nothing to tell—nothing, that is, in the least particular—nothing that you need trouble about at all."
"There is something! Oh, uncle Richard"—and she rose from her seat and knelt down beside him, putting one arm around his neck and fixing her wistful blue eyes upon his weather-beaten countenance—"you do not know how much anxiety you cause me by being silent, when I am sure that there is something in your mind which concerns me, and which I am not to know! Even if it is a great misfortune—a great sorrow—I would rather know it than imagine all sorts of dreadful things, as I do now. Whatever it is, please tell me. It is cruel to keep me in ignorance!"
The General looked puzzled and troubled.
"You had better ask Flossy, dear," he said, pulling the ends of his long white moustache, and looking away from the pleading face before him. "If there's anything to tell, she could tell it better than I."
"I don't think so, uncle dear," said Enid softly. Her eyes filled with tears. "I would rather hear evil tidings from your lips than from those of any other person, because—because I know you love me and would not grieve me willingly. Is Hubert worse than I know? Is he—is he dead?"
"Bless my soul, no!" cried the General. "Why, what put that idea into your mind, child? No, no—he is going on as well as possible—upon my word, he is!"
"What is it then, dear uncle Richard?"
"It's his nurse," said the General desperately.
"His nurse?" Enid's eyes grew large with amazement.
"She isn't a proper, respectable, trained nurse at all. She is just an amateur—a young woman who has no business to be there at all—not much older than yourself, Enid, my dear. That is the reason that Flossy would not stay. We found this young person nursing him, and so we came away. Flossy was very much shocked—very much annoyed about it, I can tell you. I wrote to ask if she was still there, and the doctor says she is."
Enid's white cheeks had turned crimson, but more with surprise than with anger. The General crossed one leg over the other, and carefully averted his eyes as he went on—
"I don't mean to say anything against her. Flossy says—but you and I have nothing to do with that—she's not a very nice girl; that is all. These professional singers and actresses seldom are. You don't know anything about such people, my little girl, and it is all the better for you. But Hubert should not have friends among people of that kind. I am very much disappointed in Hubert—very much disappointed indeed!"
"This girl is a friend of Hubert's then?"
"I suppose so. Well—yes, of course."
"Who is she? What is her name?"
"She is a singer, my dear," said the General, putting his arm affectionately round the girl's shoulders, "and she is an uncommonly pretty girl—I don't deny that. Oh, of course there is nothing for you to be anxious about! Hubert befriended her, I believe; and she was grateful, and wanted to repay him—and—and all that, you know." The General was rather proud of having given this turn to the story.
"But I think that was very kind and good of her," said Enid, with kindling eyes. "Why are you so distressed about it, uncle Richard? I should like to have done the same for poor Hubert too. What is the girl's name?"
"They call her," said the General, looking very much abashed—"they call her Cynthia West. But that isn't her real name."
"Cynthia West?" said Enid, in a low tone. Then she was silent. She was recalling the day when she had questioned Hubert about Cynthia West. He had said that he knew her—a little. And this girl whom he knew "a little" had gone to nurse him in his hour of need! Well, was there anything particularly wrong in that?
The General, having once begun the story, could not keep it to himself.
"It is a most extraordinary thing," he said, "how Hubert came to know her at all. I should have thought that he would steer clear of her—as clear as of poison—when he was engaged to you and all."
"Oh, he would not think of me!" said Enid quietly. "Why should he have avoided Cynthia West?"
"Why?" said the General, bringing his fist down on the table with a bang that made the dishes rattle, and caused Enid to give a nervous start. "Why, because she is not Cynthia West at all! She is the daughter of that ruffian—that murderer—to whom your desolate orphaned condition is due, my darling! She is Westwood's child, the man who killed your dear father and ought to have been hanged for it long ago!"
Enid's hand slipped from her uncle's neck. She knelt on, looking up at him with dazed incredulous eyes and quivering white lips. The communication had given a great shock to her trust in Hubert.
"Perhaps—perhaps," she said at last, "Hubert did not know."
"Oh, but he did—he did!" said her uncle, whose memory for dates and details was generally at fault. "If not at once, he knew before very long; and he ought never to have spoken to her again when once he knew. As for all that stuff about his not being quiet unless she was in the room—about her being the only person who could manage him when he was delirious, you know—why, that was stuff and nonsense! They ought to have got a strait-waistcoat and strapped him down to the bed; that would surely have kept him as quiet as any Miss Cynthia West!"
The General said the name with infinite scorn.
"Is that what they said—that he was quiet when she was there?" Enid inquired.
"So they said—so they said! I don't see the sense of it myself," replied the General, feeling that he had perhaps said a little too much.
"Then did he send for her?"
"No, my dear; he was unconscious when she came. I believe that his man Jenkins was at the bottom of it all. He went and told her that poor Hubert was ill."
"But I don't quite understand. If Hubert did not send for her, what right had she to come?"
"You may well ask that. What right indeed! An abominable thing, I call it, for Westwood's daughter to go and nurse one of our family! Don't grieve about it, my darling! If Hubert was led astray by her wiles for a little time, you may be sure that he will be ashamed of himself before very long. He has a good heart, and will not let you go; he loves you too sincerely for that, I am quite sure. So you must not fret."
"I don't; I shall not grieve—in that way, uncle," said Enid gravely, but with perfect calm. "You mean that Hubert cares for her, and that she loves him too?"
"I don't know what she does," said the General, with arather ominous growl. "I only know that there were some entanglement—understanding between them—a flirtation I dare say—young men are not always so careful as they ought to be—and perhaps the girl has taken it seriously."
"Poor girl," said Enid softly—"I am very sorry for her!"
"Sorry? Sorry for Westwood's daughter? Enid, you forget what is due to yourself and to your father! Do not speak of her! Forget her; and rest assured that when Hubert is better he will dismiss her with thanks—if thanks are necessary—and that we shall soon see him here at Beechfield again. And, my dear, when he is better, I will put no further obstacle in your way, if you still desire the—the engagement to go on."
"You forget, uncle Richard," said Enid very quietly, "that there was no real engagement."
She had always maintained to herself before that there was one. He looked at her with wonder.
"But, my dear, there was a sort of an understanding, you know; and Flossy always said that you were so fond of each other."
"Flossy did not know," Enid answered coldly. Then she withdrew herself from the General's encircling arm and rose to her feet. "You have not told me yet, uncle," she went on, "what news you had from the doctor this morning."
"Oh, nothing fresh!" said the General, in rather a guilty tone; and then, as she pressed him, he explained further. "You see, my dear child, we thought that this Miss West ought to go away, because none of us can go to see Hubert while she is there—if for no other reason, because she is that man's daughter; and I wrote to the doctor to inquire whether Hubert could not do without her now; and he says, No—that there would be danger of a relapse if she should go."
"Then of course you will say that she must be asked to stay until Hubert is better, uncle."
"Certainly."
"Do you think so, my dear?"
"But it is naturally very painful to you, and to all of us, to think that Hubert's recovery is dependent on that girl. I call it positively degrading!" cried the General, crumpling up his papers, and rising from his seat in a sudden fury.
"It is painful—yes," said Enid, with a heavy sigh; "but I suppose that it cannot be helped;" and she turned away, so that he might not see the quivering of her lip or the tear that rolled down her pale cheeks as she said the words.
She went out into the conservatory and sat down amongst the flowers. She had been too proud to show the General how much she was hurt; but, as a matter of fact, she was very deeply wounded by what she heard. Her affections were not bruised—she had never cared for Hubert so little in her life; but her pride had received a tremendous blow. Even if he had only "flirted" with Cynthia West, as the General had suggested, the flirtation was an insult to the girl whom he had asked in marriage. Indeed it seemed worse to Enid than agrande passionwould have seemed; for her readings in poetry and fiction had taught her that a genuine and passionate love sometimes caused people to forget the claims of duty and the bonds of a previous affection. But the General had not seemed to think that anything of this kind existed; although the fact that Hubert's delirium could not be quieted except in Cynthia's presence showed, even to Enid's innocent eyes, that some strong sympathy, some great mutual attraction, united them. If it were so, Enid asked herself, could she blame him? What had she herself done? Had she not given her heart away to Maurice Evandale, although her word was plighted to Hubert Lepel?
But then, she said to herself, she had never professed any great affection for Hubert; she had not taken the initiative in any way. He need not have asked her to marry him—he might have left her perfectly free. She felt indignantly that she had been trifled with—that he had asked her to be his wife without caring to make her so, and that he might perhaps have trifled in the same manner with Cynthia West. If that were the case, Enid Vane said to herself that she could never forgive him. He had profaned love itself—the holiest of earth's mysteries—and she resented the action, although she might gain by it her own freedom and happiness.
It was even possible that this gain might be denied to her. Suppose, when he was better, that he came back and claimed her promise, repudiated Cynthia's attempt to earnhis gratitude, and explained his conduct in such a manner that no fair-minded person could refuse him credence? What then could she do? Enid felt that she might not have the strength to fight against him unless Maurice were at her side; and Maurice had, unfortunately for her, been suddenly summoned to the North of England to attend his father's death-bed. He had left Beechfield with many fears for Enid's welfare; but he was of course obliged to go, and had had no opportunity of declaring himself to the General as a suitor for Enid's hand before his departure. For the moment therefore Enid was quite alone; and, seeing the net in which she was caught—a net of fraud and trickery and lies—her heart failed her, and she felt herself helpless indeed.
She was in far more danger than she guessed; for Mrs. Vane looked upon her as a deadly enemy, and was resolved that she should never have the chance of confiding what she knew to another person. From what Hubert had said, the girl had made up her mind to tell him all she knew when once she was his wife. To tell Hubert was what Flossy was resolved that Enid should never do. She should never marry Hubert or any other man; sooner than betray Flossy's secrets, Enid Vane should die. The white still woman with the brown eyes and yellow hair was ready to face the chances of detection—ready to take life, if necessary, rather than see her plans defeated and herself disgraced. With Enid out of the way, she might not be safe; but she would be safer than she was now.
She took note however of the warning that Parker had given her. She had been going too fast; she must be more careful for the future. She must proceed by such slow degrees that Mr. Ingledew himself should be deceived. And she must change her plans also; for she found that Enid no longer touched the cooling drinks that were placed beside her every night—the girl said that she did not care for them, and sent them away untouched. But surely there were plenty of other ways!
Mr. Evandale had said a few guarded words to Mr. Ingledew about his treatment of Miss Vane, and his remarks had caused the surgeon to send a simple tonic mixture instead of the soothing draughts which had formerly excited some surprise and even some indignation in the Rector's mind. He did not much believe in soothingdraughts, as he soon elicited from Mr. Ingledew that they had been made up in conformity with Mrs. Vane's views of the case rather than according to what Mr. Ingledew himself thought necessary; and a word from the Rector, whose medical knowledge was really considerable, caused Mr. Ingledew to change his opinions very speedily. At the same time, tonics, like other things, could be doctored; and, as Mr. Evandale was out of the way, Enid's welfare lay, for the time being, at Flossy's mercy.
She began to suffer in the old way—from dizziness and nausea and pains for which she could not account, with an utterly inexplicable weakness and languor, different from all her former symptoms. Perhaps Mrs. Vane had altered her treatment. At any rate, it was certain that some mysterious factor was at work stealing the girl's energy away from her, diminishing her vitality, bringing her, in short, to the very gates of death. And so insidiously did the work proceed that even Parker, who had had suspicions of her mistress, scarcely noticed the advance of Enid's malady. There were no more fainting-fits—nothing definitely alarming; but day by day the girl grew weaker, and no one noticed or guessed the reason why.
Enid's nights were restless; but she had not been disturbed since Flossy's return from London by the white figure which she had seen at her bedside. She told herself that Maurice was right—that her nerves had played her false, and that the appearances had been a mere phantasm of her imagination. She quite lost her fear of seeing it again; and, although she had held no further conversation with the Rector after Mrs. Vane's arrival in the house, she was reassured and strengthened by the remembrance of his words. When she awoke in the night-time now, she knew no fear.
And yet—it was about three weeks after the beginning of Hubert Lepel's illness—her heart gave a wild leap when she opened her eyes one night, and saw in her room, by the faint light of a glimmering taper, the ghostly figure of a woman clothed from head to foot in white. She stood, not by the bedside, but by the mantelpiece, with something—was it a medicine-phial?—in her hand. What the visitant was doing Enid could not exactly see; but she started up, and at the movement the white woman turned and showed her face.
Enid uttered an exclamation—a sort of gasp of terror—for her worst fears were realised. The phantom which she had dreaded had come to her again in spite of Maurice's promises of aid. He had forgotten to pray for her perhaps—a childish notion crossed her mind that perhaps because of his forgetfulness the ghost was there.
But was it a ghost—a phantom of the senses, and not a living woman after all? For the face which met the girl's eyes was not one that she could easily mistake—it was the face of Florence Vane.
At that moment Enid recalled, by one instinctive flash of memory, the words that Maurice Evandale had said to her. If ever she saw "the ghost" again, she was to speak to it—she was not to be afraid. God would take care of her. With a sort of mental clutch at the strength residing in those words, she maintained herself in a sitting posture and looked the white woman full in the face. Yes, it was Flossy's face; but was it Flossy herself? For the figure made a strange threatening gesture, and glided smoothly towards the door as if to disappear—though in natural and not very ghost-like fashion, for the door stood wide open, and it was the soft cool night-breeze of summer that had opened Enid's slumbering eyes. In another moment the visitor would be gone, and Enid would never know whether what she saw was a reality or a dream.
That should not be. Strength and courage suddenly returned to her, inspired by the remembrance of her lover and his words, she would speak.
"Why are you here?" she said.
Still no answer. The figure glided onward, and its eyes—glittering and baleful—were never once removed from Enid's face. With one supreme effort, the girl sprang from the bed and threw herself in the strange visitor's way. The figure halted and drew back. Enid laid a hand upon its arm. Ah, yes, thank Heaven, she felt the touch of flesh and blood! No weird reflected image of a wandering brain was before her; a woman—only a wicked desperate woman—stood in her way. Enid was not afraid.
"Florence," she said, "why are you here?"
The woman dashed down the detaining hand. She knew that it was of no use to assume any longer the character with which she had hoped to impress the mind of the sensitive, nervous, delicate girl. She was no ghost indeed; she could figure no longer as a nightmare in Enid's memory. She stood revealed. But she did not lose her self possession. After a moment's pause, she spoke with dignity.
"I came here," she said, "to see whether you were sleeping quietly. Surely I may do so much for my husband's niece?"
"And what were you doing there?" said Enid, pointing to the mantelpiece. "Why were you tampering with what Mr. Ingledew sends me to take?"
"Tampering, you silly girl? You do not know the meaning of your own words!"
"Do I not? What have you in your hand?"
She grasped at the little phial which Flossy had half hidden in the white folds of her dressing-gown—grasped at it, and succeeded, by the quickness of her movement, in wrenching it from Mrs. Vane's hand. Then, even by the dim light of the candle, she could see that Flossy's color waned, and that her narrow eyes were distended with sudden fear.
"Why do you take that? Give it me back!"
"Yes," said Enid, upon whom the excitement had acted like a draught of wine, giving color to her face and decision to her tones—"yes, when I have found out what it contains."
"You little fool—you will not know when you look at it!"
"I will keep it and ask Mr. Ingledew or Mr. Evandale. You were pouring from it into the medicine that Mr. Ingledew gave me—for what purpose you know, not I."
A gasp issued from Flossy's pale lips. Her danger was clear to her now.
"Give it back to me!" she said. "I will have it—I tell you I will!"
Enid's hand was frail and slight; not for one moment could she have resisted Mrs. Vane's superior strength—for Flossy could be strong when occasion called for strength—and she did not try. With a quick sweep of her arm she hurled the little bottle into the grate! It broke into fragments as it fell, the crash striking painfully on the ear in the stillness of the night. The two women looked into each other's faces; and then Flossy quailed and fell back a step or two.
"What good or harm will that do?" she asked slowly. "Why did you break it?"
"Better for it to be broken than used for others' harm."
"How do you know that it was meant to do harm?"
"I don't know it; I feel it—I am sure of it. If you lie and cheat and rob, where will you stop short? Is it likely that I of all people can trust you?"
Florence caught at the bed as if for support. She was trembling violently; but her face had all its old malignancy as she said—
"You are going to slander me to your uncle, I suppose? Every one knows that you would gain if I—I and little Dick were out of the way!"
Enid looked at her steadily.
"You are very clever, Florence," she said, "and it is exceedingly clever of you to mention little Dick to me. You know that I love him, although I do not love you. I shall do no harm to him that I can help. But this—this burden is more than I can bear alone! I shall go to another for help."
"You have promised to speak to nobody but Hubert on the subject," said Flossy, turning upon her with a look of tigress-like fury.
"To nobody but my husband or my promised husband."
"And that is Hubert."
"No; it is not Hubert."
"Not Hubert? Then who—who?"
"That is nothing to you. You will hear in good time. You have no right to question me; you lost your authority over me long ago."
"Not Hubert?" Flossy repeated once more, as if bewildered by the news. Then she burst into a low wild laugh. "You are right," she said. "He has replaced you already; he is desperately in love with Cynthia Westwood, the daughter of the man who murdered your father, and he has given you up. He never cared for you; he wanted your money only. Did that never occur to your innocent mind? As soon as he is better, he will make Cynthia his wife."
"He is free to do so if he pleases," said the girl, with a touch of scorn in her voice. "I am thankful to escape from you both. You will not expect me to live under the same roof with you again."
"Go where you please," returned Florence, "say and do what you please; I shall be only too glad to think that I shall never see your face again. I always hated you, Enid Vane; from the time that you were a child I hated you, as I hated your mother before you. Some day you will perhaps know why."
"I don't want to know. I have always felt that you hated me," said Enid, the hot color receding from her cheeks. She was one of those people on whom the consciousness of being disliked produces a chilling effect. "But I never hated you; I do not hate you now. Oh, Flossy, is there no way of setting things straight without letting anybody know?"
Florence sneered at the almost child-like appeal.
"For myself," she said, "I have a resource which will not fail me even if you do your worst. Do you think that I would ever live to bear public disgrace? Not for twenty-four hours! Remember this, Enid Vane—the day when the whole story, as we know it, comes to light will be my last. If you betray me, you will be my murderess. You will have killed me as truly as ever—as ever a cruel assassin killed your father Sydney Vane!"
With a gesture of her arm, as if to keep the girl from touching her, she swept towards the open door. Enid did not attempt to stop her. A sensation of awe, of affright even, seized her as she watched the white figure gliding steadily along the passage until the darkness hid it from her view. Then she sank down on the bed once more, trembling and afraid. The desperate boldness which had for a long time possessed her was succeeded by a reaction of horror and dismay. How could she hide herself from Flossy's hate—how save herself from Flossy's sure revenge?
As she thought of these things, she knew by certain well-marked symptoms that one of her old attacks of almost cataleptic stupor was coming upon her. In the old days she would have succumbed to it at once. But Evandale's words rang in her ears. What had he said? He thought that she might control herself—that she might prevent these nervous seizures from overcoming her. She sat up,and by a violent effort roused herself a little. Then she tried the experiment of walking across the room to the open window, where the fresh air revived her. A glass of water, a few turns across the room, and, quite suddenly, she was once more mistress of herself. She had conquered the feeling of faintness—conquered the terrible rigidity of limb which used to attack her at these times. The Rector's words had proved the tonic that her weakened nerves seemed to require. For the first time in her life she was a conqueror. There was no reason why she should not conquer again and again until her nerves recovered their tone and the fatal tendency was overcome.
New strength came to her with this consciousness. She lighted a lamp and donned a dressing-gown; then, after a little deliberation, she went to Parker's room. She found the maid up and partially dressed. There was a scared look on the woman's face which caused Enid to suspect that her conversation with Mrs. Vane had been partially if not altogether overheard. But this Enid resolved not to seem to know.
"Parker," she said quietly, "I am thinking of going to London. Will you come with me?"
"Yes, miss, that I will—to the end of the world if you like!" was the unexpectedly fervent response.
But Enid showed no surprise.
"Can you tell me about the trains? What is the earliest?"
"There's one at six, miss; but you wouldn't start so early as that, would you?"
"The sooner the better, I think. I will dress now, and call you presently to pack my bag. The boxes can be sent afterwards."
"Yes, miss."
"And, Parker, if you come with me, you must remember that you are quitting Mrs. Vane's service. She will never take you back if you leave her now."
"I wouldn't come back—not if she paid me double!" cried Parker, honest tears starting to her beady eyes. "I don't care what she does; but I'll never work for her again—not after what I have heard and seen!"
"You must not speak either to me or any one else about what you have heard or seen," said Enid gravely, "particularly in the house to which we are going. Will you remember that?"
"Oh, yes, miss—I'll not say a single word! And you have settled where to go, miss, if I may make so bold as to ask?"
"I am going to my aunt—Miss Vane," said Enid briefly; and Parker retired, not daring to ask any more questions, being a little overawed by the growth of some new quality in the girl's nature—some novel development of strength and character which imposed silence on her companion in this self-enforced exile.
The dawn was breaking when Enid began to make her preparations for departure. The faint yellow light of day stole into the room when she drew back the window-curtains and stood looking—perhaps for the last time, she thought—upon the flower-gardens and the lawn, upon the sheet of water in the distance, the beech woods, and the distant hills—spots that she had known from childhood, and which were dearer to her than any new scenes could ever be. And yet she did not falter in her purpose. Even to herself she did not seem the same gentle submissive maiden that she had hitherto been considered. Some new strength had passed into her veins; she was eager to act as became the woman who was one day to be the wife of Maurice Evandale.
She had one task to perform that was very hard to her. She could not go without writing a farewell letter to the General, who had always been so kind and good to her. She made it as short and simple as possible, and she explained nothing. Without consulting Mr. Evandale, and perhaps her aunt Leo, of whom she was genuinely fond, she felt that she was not free to speak.
"Dearest uncle Richard," she wrote—"I think it best to go to London to-day and see aunt Leo. I am taking Parker with me. Forgive me if I say that I do not think I can ever come back again. I hope you will not look on me as ungrateful for all your kindness to me. I will write again, and shall hope to see you in London. Your loving niece,Enid."
"Dearest uncle Richard," she wrote—"I think it best to go to London to-day and see aunt Leo. I am taking Parker with me. Forgive me if I say that I do not think I can ever come back again. I hope you will not look on me as ungrateful for all your kindness to me. I will write again, and shall hope to see you in London. Your loving niece,Enid."
She placed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and left it in a conspicuous position on the dressing-table. Then she put on her hat and cloak, and asked Parker whether she was ready to leave the house. The clock had struck five, and they had some distance to walk beforethey could reach a railway-station. Parker prevailed upon her to eat and drink before they started; but the girl's appetite was small, and she left her biscuits almost untouched upon the plate.
As the two stole silently down the corridor, Enid noticed that the door of Dick's night-nursery was half open. She hesitated, then with a mute sign to Parker to go on, she entered the room and made her way to the child's bedside. Parker lingered long enough to see her kneel down beside it, and lay her face for a few moments on the pillow beside the sleeping boy. She kissed him very gently; and when, with a sleepy movement, he turned and put his arm round her, as if to hold her there, the tears began to fall down her pale cheeks. But she dared not stay too long. She rose presently, put his hand back under the coverlet, and kissed him once again.
"Dear little Dick," she murmured sorrowfully, "will you some day think that I did not love you, when you know what I have done, and what I shall have to do?"
When Enid rejoined Parker she was pale, but calm; the tears lingered on her eyelashes, but had been carefully wiped away from her cheeks. They left the house in silence by a side-door which could be easily unbolted; and for some time Parker did not venture to open her lips. Her young mistress looked like a different being with that grave determination on her face, that steady serious light in her sad but serene blue eyes.
Just when they reached the point from which the Hall could last be seen, Enid turned and looked at it for a moment. It was her last farewell; and the yearning tenderness that stole into her face as she gazed and gazed again brought the tears to Parker's eyes. The maid had taken a strong liking to Miss Enid Vane, and was ready to devote her whole strength to her service. At the same time, the thought of the revenge that Mrs. Vane might wreak upon her for this desertion was misery to Parker; for what should she do if her mother learned that she had once been dismissed from a situation in disgrace, or if she could not earn enough to keep her mother in the comfort to which she had grown accustomed? She was quite ready and willing to leave Mrs. Vane; but she was afraid when she considered the future; and, as she walked along the road beside her young mistress, the tears now andthen brimmed over, and had to be surreptitiously wiped away.
"If you are regretting what you have done, Parker," said Enid at length, "you are quite at liberty, you know, to go back to Beechfield Hall."
"Oh, no, miss—I wouldn't go back for anything! There's some things that even a servant can't bear to see going on. It's only my poor mother, miss, that I'm thinking about."
"Why?" said Enid gently—at that moment it was easy to her to sympathise with sorrow. "Is it your wages that you are thinking of? I am sure that you will not be a loser by coming with me."
"It's not the money, miss, thank you—it's—it's my character," said Parker, with a sudden gush of tears—"it's what my mother may hear of me that I care about! I wouldn't deceive you, miss, for the world! I'll tell you about it, if you'll kindly hear."
And then, as the two women walked along the lonely country road in the shining freshness of the early summer morning, Parker made her confession. She told the story of her disgrace and summary dismissal, of Mrs. Vane's apparent kindness to her, and of the way in which she had been used as a tool in the furtherance of Mrs. Vane's designs. Enid turned a shade paler as she heard of how she had been tracked, watched, spied upon; but there was no anger in her voice as she replied.
"I think we ought both to be thankful, Parker, to get away just now from Beechfield Hall. It will be better for us if we never see Mrs. Vane again. I do not think that she will hurt you however, or tell your story to your mother. She will have other things to think about just now."
Parker wondered vaguely what those other things were; but she did not say a word. For a minute or two Enid also was silent, and thought of Flossy. What was she doing? Of what was she thinking now?
As a matter of fact, Flossy was at that moment just awakening to a sick shuddering consciousness of what had happened. She had gone to her room and fallen to the floor in a death-like swoon. When she was able to move, she crept to the bell and rang again and again for Parker. But Parker of course did not come; and little by little Mrs. Vane became aware that she was deserted, that Enidand her maid had left the house, and that, for all she knew, instant ruin and disgrace hung like an inevitable fate above her head.
When Enid spoke, it was in kindly tones.
"You must forget the past and start afresh, Parker. We all have to do that, you know, Mr. Evandale says. We will make a new beginning."
"I have often thought, miss, that I should like to tell Mr. Evandale all about it, and hear what he would say."
"You shall do so, Parker. We shall see Mr. Evandale in London very likely." Enid paused a little, and then said, in her even, serious voice, "I will tell you what I have told to no one else, Parker, because you have trusted me—I am going to marry Mr. Evandale."
"Are you, miss? I'm sure I'm very glad to hear it! We all thought, miss, that it was Mr. Lepel."
"No; I shall never marry Mr. Lepel."
"Is it a secret, miss?" said Parker.
"Until Mr. Evandale comes back from Yorkshire—that is all. After that we will have no more concealments of any kind. I think," said Enid softly but seriously—"I think that perfect truth is the most beautiful thing in the whole world."
Miss Vane's welcome of her niece was dashed by amazement.
"Why, good gracious, child," she said, "what have you come at this hour of the day for? I'm delighted to see you; but I never heard of such a thing! Arriving at nine o'clock in the morning from Beechfield, especially after all the accounts I have heard of your health! You look fit to faint as it is!"
"I am tired," said Enid, with a little smile.
She sat down in Miss Vane's pretty dining-room, where her aunt was seated at breakfast, and began to take off her gloves. Parker had retired into the lower regions of the house, and the two ladies were alone.
"I won't hear anything until you have had some coffee," said Miss Vane, in her quick decisive way. "Get a littlecolor into those pale cheeks, my dear, before you begin to talk! There—drink your coffee! Not a bad plan, after all, to start before the heat of the day comes on, only it is a wonderfully energetic proceeding! Have you come to shop, or are you anxious about Hubert? I went to his rooms the other day and saw him. He is weak; but he is quite sensible now, you know."
"Who was there?" said Enid, setting down her cup with a new color in her cheeks.
Miss Vane looked at her sharply.
"Oh, the nurse of course—a Beechfield woman, I believe, recommended by Florence! I saw no one else, not even the Jenkinses, who, I hear, have been most devoted to him in his illness."
Enid dropped her eyes. She did not care just then to ask any questions about Cynthia West. If Miss Vane knew the story, she evidently considered it unfit for Enid's ears.
"And now, my dear, what brings you to town," said aunt Leo briskly, when the meal was ended, and Enid had been installed on a comfortable sofa, where she was ordered to "lie still and rest;" "and how did you induce Richard and Flossy to let you come?"
"I ought perhaps to have told you as soon as I came in, aunt Leo," said Enid, sitting up, "that nobody knew—that, in fact, I have run away from Beechfield, and that I never, never can go back!"
"Oh," said Miss Vane, "that's rather sudden, is it not? But I suppose you have a reason?"
"Yes, aunt Leo, but one which—at present—I cannot tell."
"Cannot tell, Enid, my dear?"
"Not just yet—not until I have consulted some one else."
"Oh, Hubert, I suppose?"
"No," said Enid, blushing and holding down her head—"not Hubert."
Miss Vane put up her gold-rimmed eye-glasses, and inspected her for a minute or two.
"You look as if you had been worried out of your life!" she said. "You are as thin as a thread-paper! Well, you will not be worried here, my child. You can stay as long as you like, and tell me everything or nothing, as youplease. One thing I will say—I suppose Flossy is at the bottom of it all?"
"Yes, aunt Leo."
"That accounts for everything. Flossy never could be trusted. Did she want you to be engaged to Hubert?"
"I think so—at first. Now I do not know."
"I suppose they badgered you into it?" said Miss Vane thoughtfully. "Are you going on with it?"—in her usual abrupt tone.
"With the engagement, aunt Leo? Oh, no!"
"Come—that's a good thing!" said aunt Leo briskly. "For I don't think Hubert is quite worthy of you, my dear. He has disappointed me rather. Well, I won't bother you with any more questions, especially as I have a visitor coming at ten o'clock—a young parson from the country who has written to request an interview. There's the bell—I suppose he has arrived. Begging, I expect! I told Hodges——Why, he's showing the man in here! Hodges——"
But it was too late. Hodges always obeyed his mistress to the letter; and his mistress, thinking she would be alone, had ordered "the parson" to be shown into the dining-room. The presence of a visitor made no difference in Hodges' opinion. Accordingly, in spite of Miss Vane's signs and protests, he flung the door wide open, and announced, in a stentorian voice, the parson's name—
"Mr. Evandale."
Then Miss Vane—and Hodges too, before he closed the door—beheld a curious sight; for, instead of looking at his hostess, the parson, who was a singularly handsome man, with a band of crape on his arm, made two strides to the sofa, from which Enid, with a low cry of joy, arose and flung herself into his arms.
"My own darling!" exclaimed the man.
"Maurice—dearest Maurice!" the girl rejoined; and then she burst out crying upon his shoulder; and he kissed her and called her fond names in entire oblivion of Miss Vane's stately presence.
The old lady was both scandalised and offended by these proceedings. Her sharp eyes looked brighter and her rather prominent nose more hawk-like than ever as she made her voice heard at last.
"I should like some explanation of this extraordinarybehavior!" she said; with asperity. "Sir, I have not the honor of knowing you! Enid, what does this mean?"
"I am the Rector of Beechfield," said Mr. Evandale. "I most heartily beg your pardon, Miss Vane, for the way in which I have introduced myself to you! I wrote to ask if I might see you, because I know what a friend you have always been to Enid, and I wanted to see you myself and tell you how Enid and I had come to understand each other; but, when I saw my darling here—safe with you—I was so much taken by surprise——"
"I am taken by surprise too," said Miss Vane grimly. "Pray, sir, does the General know of your mutual understanding?"
"No, aunt Leo; and that is one reason why I came to you," said Enid, abandoning Maurice Evandale and bestowing an embrace upon her aunt. "You know, I had just told you that I was not engaged to Hubert."
"You gave up Hubert for this gentleman, did you?"
"I think, aunt Leo, that Hubert gave me up first;" and Enid raised her head and looked earnestly into her aunt's eyes, which fell before that serious candid gaze.
"Well, my dear, well—and was it for this that you came to me?"
Miss Vane's voice was gentler now; and Mr. Evandale took advantage of the opportunity afforded him to pour out the story of his love for Enid—of his certainty that she was not happy, and his endeavor to win her confidence. He went on to say that he had been in Yorkshire attending his father's funeral and settling his affairs for the last few days, and that it had occurred to him to call on Miss Vane—of whom he had so often heard!—on his way through London to Beechfield. He had meant to tell her of Enid's unhappiness and of his attachment to her, and to ask Miss Vane's interest and help; and it was the greatest possible surprise to him to find Enid in the room when he entered it.
"What did you mean by saying that she was safe here?" said Miss Vane at this point. "Safe with me, you said."
Maurice looked at the girl.
"I have told aunt Leo nothing yet," she said. "And, oh, dear aunt Leo, you won't be vexed, will you, if I may speak to Maurice just for five minutes first? Because indeed I am so puzzled that I do not know what to do."
Miss Vane subdued a rising inclination to anger, and did her best to smile.
"Ah, well, I know what you young people are!" she said good-humoredly. "I suppose I shall be taken into your secrets by-and-by."
Enid kissed her cheek.
"If they were our secrets, you should know all about them this very minute," she said; "but they are not ours, dear auntie."
"Flossy's, I suppose?" said Miss Vane rather shortly, as she disengaged herself from Enid's arm and went out of the room. But she was not ill-pleased, although she pretended to feel piqued by the request for a private interview. "He looks like a man to be trusted," she said. "Enid will be happier with him than with Hubert—poor Hubert, poor miserable, deluded boy! As for Flossy, I cannot think of her without a shudder. Heaven knows what she has done, but she has most certainly driven Enid out of the house by her conduct! I hope it is nothing very seriously wrong."
At that moment a telegram was put into Miss Vane's hands. It was from the General.