"Is Enid with you? If not, telegraph at once. I am coming up to town by next train."
"Is Enid with you? If not, telegraph at once. I am coming up to town by next train."
It seemed long to Miss Vane before she was summoned to the promised conference with Enid and Mr. Evandale. Here a great shock awaited her. Enid had told her whole story to Maurice, and he had said that, while the midnight interview between Enid and Mrs. Vane might be kept secret—as nothing could absolutely be proved respecting Flossy's sinister designs on Enid's life or health—the confession that Mrs. Meldreth had made to Enid in her last moments should be made known. Enid was however still reluctant; and Miss Vane was brought in chiefly to give her advice, and thus to settle the question.
"Well," she said, looking keenly from one to the other, as she sat beside Enid's sofa and Mr. Evandale stood before her, "I think I may safely say that it's not the money that either of you cares about."
"No, indeed!" The voices were unanimous.
"Neither money nor lands matter very much to you. But you"—to Evandale—"hate the deceit; and you, onthe other hand"—turning to Enid—"are fond of the poor child, who, I must say, has been treated about as badly as any of you. Isn't that the case?"
"Yes, aunt Leo."
"And what's to be done with him when the truth is made known? Is he to be made over to his rightful owner—Sabina Meldreth?"
Enid and Mr. Evandale looked at each other.
"No," said the Rector, at length—"certainly not! We would bring him up ourselves, if need be; and Enid would be to him all that his own mother and Mrs. Vane have failed to be."
"And he should never suffer," said Enid, with tears in her eyes. "I love him as if he were my own little brother, aunt Leo. He should have all the property—as far as I am concerned—if Maurice thought it right."
"Yes, certainly, if the General chose to leave it to him; but the General ought to know," said Mr. Evandale decisively. "I do not see how we can be parties to a deception any longer."
"It is a very hard position for all of us," said Miss Vane. "As for me, I am most seriously concerned for my brother. Have you thought what a terrible shock you are preparing for him?"
Evandale looked grave and did not answer.
"He is devotedly fond of his wife and of the child. To tell him that Florence is a liar and a cheat—that she has practised a deception upon him for many years, in order to gain position and a good income for herself as the mother of his son—above all, to tell him that the boy is not his son at all—do you think that he will survive it? Dare you take upon yourselves the responsibility of shortening his days in that way? I must confess that in your places I should hold my tongue; because it does not seem to have occurred to you that, after all, old Mrs. Meldreth may not have been speaking the truth."
"I never thought of that," said Enid.
"If you had seen the woman herself, Miss Vane, you would have been convinced of her sincerity," said the Rector.
"Possibly. But only you two were there. The General will probably refuse to listen to Enid's testimony, and will fume himself into an apoplectic fit when he hears that shehas any to give. You, Mr. Evandale, did not hear the woman's communication at all. Suppose you kill the General by the news—do you want to take the matter into court? Is Enid to stand up and tell her experiences to a pack of lawyers, and hear the world say that she has done it to get the estate for herself? You could not bear it, Enid, my child! You would lose your head and contradict yourself; and Flossy would brazen it out and be the heroine of the day; and Mr. Evandale would be ruined in costs."
"I don't mind that, so long as the truth prevails," said Mr. Evandale. "I do not want the money—neither does Enid; we would sooner endow an hospital with it or give it to little Dick than keep it if gained under such auspices. But it is hard to see Mrs. Vane—whom I firmly believe to be guilty of fraud as well as of an attempt upon my darling's life—triumphant in wrong-doing."
"Well, nobody ought to know better than you, Mr. Evandale, that the wicked flourish like the green bay-tree," said Miss Vane drily; "and I don't see that it is our part to destroy them."
"Aunt Leo, you are making us feel ourselves horrid!" said Enid from the cushions amongst which her aunt had insisted on installing her. "We do not want to punish her, or to make dear uncle Richard ill, or to turn poor little Dick out of Beechfield."
"Yet it is just those things which you propose doing."
There was a moment's silence. Then the Rector looked at Enid.
"I think we shall have to give it up, Enid, unless we get other evidence."
"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Enid, with tears in her eyes. "It was when I felt that it was perhaps my duty to speak that I was so miserable! But, if it would simply make mischief and be of no use, I am only too glad to feel that I may keep silence."
"I'm glad you see it in that light," said Miss Vane briefly. "I want as little as you do, Mr. Evandale, to see Enid kept out of her rightful inheritance; but I am convinced that, if Enid told my brother what she had heard, he would never believe her, that the excitement would make him ill; there would be a family quarrel, and the whole thing would be productive of no good result at all.If we get more evidence, or if one of the guilty parties would confess, why, then it would be a different matter."
"I shall not mind seeing uncle Richard now," said Enid softly.
"But you will not go back to Beechfield?" said Mr. Evandale.
"No, indeed; she'll stay here," Miss Vane replied for her. "She'll stay here until she is married; and I hope that that day may not be far off."
"I hope not," said Maurice fervently. "Do you think that I may speak to the General to-day?"
"I should think so. But what about Hubert Lepel, Enid?"
Enid flushed crimson.
"If there is one thing more than another about which the General is particular, it is the keeping of a promise," continued Miss Vane. "He may say that he will hold you to your word."
"He cannot," Enid answered, with lowered eyelids. "For, if what I have been told is true, Hubert has broken his word to me—and so I am free."
"She must be free; she did not love him," said Maurice Evandale conclusively, as if that statement settled the question.
"Ah, well, if love were all," Miss Vane began, but the opening of the door interrupted her. "What is it, Hodges? Another telegram? Is it the General again, I wonder?"
She tore open the brown envelope with more anxiety than she liked to show; her eyebrows went up, and her mouth compressed itself as she read the words—first to herself, and then to Enid and the Rector. The message was again from the General, and ran as follows—
"Hope Enid is safe. Cannot come myself because of carriage-accident. Dick seriously injured; but doctor gives hope."
"Hope Enid is safe. Cannot come myself because of carriage-accident. Dick seriously injured; but doctor gives hope."
"Oh, poor little Dick!" said Enid. "And I away from him!"
Miss Vane glanced at the Rector, and read in his eyes what was in her own mind—"If Dick should die, there would be no further perplexity." Then both dropped their eyes guiltily, and hoped that Enid—dear, innocent, loving Enid!—had not guessed what they were thinking.
"At any rate," said Miss Vane, after a little pause, "you can do nothing now; and it is just as well that we have all resolved to hold our tongues."
And then she went away to write some letters; and Enid was left alone with Maurice Evandale.
"My darling," said her lover, "are you sure that you are content and happy now?"
"Quite sure, Maurice—except that I think—I half think—that I ought not to be married; I shall make such a bad wife to you if I am always ailing and weak."
"But you are not going to be ailing and weak, dearest—you are going to be a strong woman yet. Did you not tell me how you conquered that nervous inclination to give way last night after your interview with Mrs. Vane? And did you not walk to the station and travel up to town in the early morning without doing yourself a particle of harm? Believe me, darling, your ill-health was in great part a figment got up by Mrs. Vane for her own ends. You are perfectly well; and, when we are married, you will be strong too. Do you believe me, Enid?"
"Perfectly."
"And are you sure yet whether you love me or not?"
She smiled, and the color flooded her sweet face. And he, although he knew well enough what she would say, pressed for an answer, and would not be satisfied until it had been put into words.
"Do you love me, Enid? Tell me, darling—'Yes' or 'No'?"
And at last she answered very softly—
"I love you, Maurice, with all my heart and soul!"
Maurice Evandale was obliged to go to Beechfield that evening; but, before he went, he explained his position more fully to Miss Vane than he had thought it necessary to do with Enid. His father had left him an ample income; he had no near relatives, and was able to look forward with confidence to giving Enid a comfortable home. He wanted to marry her as soon as possible; but, as Miss Vane pointed out to him, there was no use in being in toogreat a hurry, for many things would have to be settled before Enid's hand could be given in marriage. She herself had always meant to leave Enid a fair share of her own wealth, and she announced her intention of settling a considerable sum upon her at once. If the General would do the same thing, Enid would be a bride with a goodly dower. But Miss Vane was a little inclined to think that her brother would be angry with the girl for leaving his house, and that he might be difficult to manage. Mr. Evandale must be guided by circumstances—so she said to him; and, if Dick was ill, and the General anxious and out of temper, he had better defer his proposal for a week or two. She promised that she would do her best to help him; and he knew that he might rely on Enid's assurance of her love.
Accordingly he went back to Beechfield; and Enid was left at Miss Vane's, there to gain strength of mind and body in the pleasant peaceable atmosphere of her house.
Miss Vane did not give many parties or go much into society about this time. With those whom she really loved she was always at her best; and many of her associates would have been thoroughly astonished to see how tender, how loving this worldly, cynical old woman, as they thought her, could show herself to a girl like Enid Vane. She gave up many engagements for Enid's sake, and lived quietly and as best suited her young visitor. For Enid, although rapidly recovering, was not yet strong enough to bear the excitement of London gaieties. Besides, Dick was reported to be very ill, and during his illness Enid could not have borne to go out to theatres and balls.
The General had been driving to the station when the accident took place. The horse had taken fright and grown unmanageable; the phaeton had been nearly dashed to pieces; and Dick, who had been on the box beside his father, had had a terrible fall. He had never spoken or been conscious since; he lingered on from day to day in a state of complete insensibility; and while he was in that state the General would not leave him. Of Flossy nobody heard a word. The General wrote to his sister, and sent kind messages to Enid, but did not mention Flossy. Aunt Leo and Enid both wondered why.
Enid had been in town nearly a week, when one morning a letter was brought to her at the sight of which she coloreddeeply. She was sitting at the luncheon-table with her aunt, and for a few minutes she left the letter beside her plate unopened.
"Won't you read your letter, dear?" said Miss Vane.
"Thank you, aunt Leo." Then she took the letter and opened it; but her color varied strangely as she read, and, when she had finished it, she pushed it towards her aunt. "Will you read it?" she said quietly. "It seems to me that he does not understand our position."
The servants were not in the room, and she could talk freely. Aunt Leo settled her eye-glasses on her nose, and looked at the letter.
"Why, it's from Hubert!" she said breathlessly.
Then she read it half aloud; and Enid winced at the sound of some of the words.
"My dearest Enid," Hubert had written—"I have just heard that you are in town. If I could come to see you, I would; but you know, I suppose, that I have been ill. I have had no letter from you for what seems an interminable time. I must ask you to excuse more from me to-day—my hand is abominably shaky!
"Yours,"H.L."
The handwriting was certainly shaky; Miss Vane had some difficulty in deciphering the crooked characters.
"H'm!" she said, laying the letter on the table and looking inquiringly at her niece. "What does he mean?"
"He means that he still thinks me engaged to him," said Enid, the color hot in her girlish cheeks.
"Then you had better disabuse him of that notion, my dear, for you can't be engaged to two people at once; and I have given my consent to your marriage with Mr. Evandale."
"Do you think," said Enid, in a half whisper, "that I have been mistaken, and that Hubert will be—sorry?"
"No, dear, I don't!"
"Aunt Leo, is this report true about him and Miss West?"
"What do you know about Miss West, Enid?"
"Uncle Richard told me. She came to nurse Hubert when he was ill. Uncle Richard seemed to think that very wrong of her; but I don't. I think it was right, if she loved him. If Maurice were ill, I should like to go and nurse him, whether he cared for me or not."
"Child," said Miss Vane solemnly, "you are a simpleton! You don't know what you are talking about! I have seen Cynthia West and talked to her, and she is not a woman who, I should think, knows what true love is at all. She is hard and careless and worldly, and singularly ill-mannered. She is not the woman that Hubert would do well to marry."
"What am I to say to him?" asked Enid, with her eyes on the tablecloth, "if he says that he does not want to marry her—that he wants to marry me?"
"You must tell him the truth, my dear," said Miss Vane, rising briskly from the table, and shaking out a fold of her dress on which some crumbs had fallen—"namely, that you don't care a rap for him, but that you are in love with the Beechfield parson; and if Hubert is a gentleman, he will not press his claim. And to do Hubert justice, whatever may be his faults, I believe that he generally acts like a gentleman."
Miss Vane went away from the dining-room to dress for a drive and a round of calls. Before long, Enid, who had refused to accompany her, was left in the house alone; and then a vague desire began to take definite shape in her mind. She would see Hubert for herself. She would claim her own freedom, and tell him that he was free. He was well enough now to listen to her, if he was well enough to write. She would go to him while aunt Leo was out—that very afternoon.
A hansom-cab made the matter very easy. She had almost a sense of elation as she stood at the door of Hubert's sitting-room and knocked her timid little knock, which had to be twice repeated before the door was opened; and then a tall slight girl in black stood in the doorway and asked her what she wanted.
"I want to see Mr. Lepel," said Enid, blushing and hesitating.
"Mr. Lepel has been ill." The girl's clear voice had a curious vibration in it as she spoke. "Do you want to see him particularly?"
Enid took courage and looked at her. The girl wore a black hat; her dress was severely plain, and her face was pale. Enid thought there was nothing remarkable about her—therefore that she could not be Cynthia West.
"I am his cousin," she explained simply, "and my name is Vane—Enid Vane."
A flash of new expression changed the girl's face at once. Not remarkable—with those great dark eyes, and the lovely color coming and going in the oval cheeks! Enid confessed her mistake to herself frankly. The girl was remarkably handsome—it was a fact that could not be gainsaid. Enid looked at her gravely, with a little feeling of repulsion which she found it difficult to help.
"Will you come in?" said Cynthia. "Mr. Lepel is in his room; but he means to get up this afternoon. If you will kindly wait for a few moments in his sitting-room, I am sure that he will be with you before long. I will speak to his man Jenkins."
She had ushered Enid into Hubert's front room, from which the untidiness had disappeared. His artistic properties were displayed to great advantage, and every vase was filled with flowers. It was plain that a woman's hand had been at work.
Enid glanced around her with curiosity. Cynthia pushed a chair towards her, and waited until the visitor had seated herself. Then, repeating the words, "I will speak to his man Jenkins," she prepared to leave the room.
Enid rose from her chair.
"You are Miss West," she said—"Cynthia West?"
"Cynthia Westwood," replied the girl, and looked sorrowfully yet proudly into Enid's eyes.
Her face was flushed, but Enid's had turned pale.
"Will you stay and speak to me for a minute or two? I see that you were going out——"
"It does not matter; I need not go," said Cynthia, removing her hat and laying it carelessly on one of the tables. "If you want to speak to me——"
Neither of them concluded her sentence. Each was conscious of great embarrassment.
For once in her life, Cynthia stood like a culprit; for she thought that Enid loved Hubert Lepel, and that she—Cynthia—had withdrawn him from his allegiance. It was Enid who broke the silence.
"I wanted to see you," she said. "I came to see you more than to see Hubert. I heard you were here."
Cynthia looked up quickly.
"You heard Mrs. Vane's opinion of me, I suppose?" It was bitterly spoken.
"My uncle told me—not Mrs. Vane," said Enid. "Ishould not believe a thing just because Mrs. Vane said it—nor my uncle, for his opinions all come from Mrs. Vane."
Her expressions were somewhat vague; but her meaning was clear. Cynthia flashed a grateful glance at her.
"You mean," she said, holding her graceful head a trifle higher than usual, "that you do not think that I am unwomanly—that I have disgraced myself—because I came here to nurse Mr. Lepel in his illness?"
"No! I should have done the same in your place—if I loved a man."
The color mounted to the roots of Cynthia's hair.
"You know that?" she said quickly. "That I—I love him, I mean? There is no use in denying it—I do. There is no harm in it. I shall not hurt him by loving him—as I shall love him—to the last day of my life."
"No; I should be the last person to blame you," said Enid very gently, "because I know what love is myself;" and then the clear color flamed all over her fair face as it had flamed in Cynthia's.
Cynthia bit her lip.
"You do not think," she said, with the impetuous abruptness which might have been ungraceful in a less beautiful woman, but was never unbecoming to her, "that because I love him I want to take him away from those who have a better right than I to his love? I learned to care for him unawares; I had given him my love in secret long before—before he knew. He knows it now; I cannot help his knowing. But I am not ashamed. I should be ashamed if I thought that I could make him unfaithful to you."
Enid looked at her, and admired. Cynthia's generosity was taking her heart by storm. But for the moment she could not speak, and Cynthia went on rapidly.
"You do not know what he has been to me. I have had trouble and misfortune in my life, and I have had kindness and good friends also; but he—he was almost the first—he and you together, Miss Vane, although you do not know what I mean perhaps. Do you remember meeting a ragged child on the road outside your park gates, and speaking kindly to her and giving her your only shilling? That was myself!"
"You," cried Enid—"you that little gipsy girl! I remember that I could not understand why I was sent away." Then she stopped short and looked aside, fearing lest she had said something that might hurt.
"I know," said Cynthia. "Your aunt—Miss Vane—was shocked to find you talking to me, for she knew who I was. She sent you back to the house; but before you went you asked Mr. Lepel to be good to me. He promised—and he kept his word. Although I did not know it until long afterwards, it was he who sent me to school for many years, and had me trained and cared for in every possible way. I did not even know his name; but I treasured up my memories of that one afternoon when I saw him at Beechfield all through the years that I spent at school. I knew your name; and I kept the shilling that you gave me, in remembrance of your goodness. I have worn it ever since. See—it is round my neck now, and I shall never part from it. And do you think that, after all these years of gratitude and tender memory of your kindness, I would do you a wrong so terrible as that of which Mrs. Vane accuses me? I would die first! I love Hubert; but, if I may say so, I love you, Miss Vane, too, humbly and from a distance—and I will never willingly give you a moment's pain. I will be guided by what you wish me to do. If you tell me to leave the house this day, I will go, and never see him more. You have the right to command, and I will obey."
"But why," said Enid slowly, "did you not think of all this earlier? Why, when you were older, did you not remember that you—you had no right——"
She could not finish her sentence.
"Because of his relationship to you, and his engagement to you?" said Cynthia. "Oh, I see that I must tell you more! Miss Vane, I was ungrateful enough to run away from the school at which he placed me, as soon as my story became accidently known to my schoolfellows. I was then befriended by an old musician, who taught me how to sing and got me an engagement on the stage. When he died, I was reduced to great poverty. I heard of Mr. Lepel at the theatre. He wrote plays, and had become acquainted with my face and my stage-name; but he did not know that I was the girl whom he had sent toschool; and I did not know that he was the gentleman whom I had seen with you at Beechfield. His face sometimes seemed vaguely familiar to me; but I could not imagine why."
"And he did not remember you?"
"Not in the least. I applied to him for help to get work," said Cynthia, flushing hotly at the remembrance; "and he found out that I had a voice and helped me. I went to him because I heard of his kindness to others, and I had read a story that he had written, which made me think that he would be kind. And he was kind—so kind that, without design, without any attempt to win my heart, I fell in love with him, Miss Vane, not knowing that he was your cousin, not knowing that he was plighted to another. You may not forgive me for it; I can only say that I do not think that it was my fault; and I am sure that he—he was not to blame. You may punish me as you will"—there was a rising sob in Cynthia's throat—"but you must forgive him, and he will be true—true to you."
She covered her face and burst into passionate tears. She could control herself no longer; and at first she hardly felt the touch of Enid's hand upon her arm, or heard the words of comfort that fell from Enid's lips.
"You do not understand me," Enid was saying, when at last Cynthia could listen, "and I want to make you understand. I have misjudged you—will you forgive me? It has been very, very hard for you!"
The tears were rolling down her own cheeks as she spoke. Cynthia surrendered her hand to Enid's clasp, and listened as if she were in a dream—a pleasant beautiful dream, too good to last.
"We may perhaps be divided all our lives," said Enid, "because of things that happened when we were children—things that you cannot help any more than I. But, as far as it is possible, I want always to be your friend. Think of me as your friend—will you not, Cynthia?"
"If I may," said Cynthia.
"I shall always remember you," Enid went on. "And I do not think that it was wrong for you to love Hubert, or for him to love you—and he does love you, does he not? You need not be afraid to tell me, because I came here chiefly for one thing—to tell him that I cannot marry him, and to ask him to set me free."
"Not for my sake?" said Cynthia, trembling from head to foot.
"Not for your sake, dear, but for my own," said Enid, taking both her hands and looking straight into Cynthia's tear-filled eyes; "because I have been as unfaithful to him as I think that he has been to me—and I have given my heart away to some one else. I am going to marry Mr. Evandale, the Rector of Beechfield."
The two girls were standing thus, hand-in-hand, the eyes of each fixed on the other's face, when the door of communication with the next room was suddenly opened. Hubert stood there, leaning on Jenkins' arm—for he was still exceedingly weak—and the start of surprise which he gave when he saw Enid and Cynthia was uncontrollable. Cynthia dropped Enid's hand and turned away; there was something in her face which she could not bear to have seen. Enid advanced towards her cousin, and held out her hand in quiet friendly greeting.
"I have come to answer your note myself," said Enid to her cousin, as he made his way with faltering steps into the room. "I hope that you are better now?"
Hubert had seldom felt himself in a more uncomfortable position. What did this mean? Had Enid and Cynthia been comparing notes? He looked from one to the other in helpless dismay, and scarcely answered Enid's inquiry as he sank into the chair that Tom Jenkins wheeled forward for him. Cynthia had turned her back upon the company, and was again putting on her little black hat. It was plain that both she and Enid had been crying.
"You must have been very ill," said Enid, regarding him with compassionate eyes.
"For a few days I believe that I was rather bad; but I am all right now," said Hubert, taking refuge in conventionalities. "My kind nurse has introduced herself to you perhaps?"
"We introduced ourselves to each other," said Enid; and then she walked away from him to Cynthia. "Will you leave us together for a little time?" she murmured. "Youdo not mind? I shall not be long; but I want to make Hubert understand what I said to you just now."
She had drawn Cynthia outside the door as she spoke. The two looked at each other again gravely, and yet with a kind of pleasure and satisfaction—then they kissed each other. Cynthia ran down-stairs; Enid re-entered the drawing-room and closed the door. Mrs. Jenkins had appeared on the scene with a tea-tray, which she arranged on a small table at Hubert's elbow; and, till she had gone, Enid did not speak. She sat down in a low arm-chair and observed her cousin steadily. He was certainly very much changed. His hair was turning gray on the temples; his eyes were hollow and haggard; he was exceedingly thin. There was an air of gloom and depression about him which Enid had not noticed before.
She gave him a cup of tea and took one herself before she would let him speak of anything but commonplaces. He did not seem inclined to talk; but, when she took away his cup, he laid a detaining hand on her arm, and said—
"It is very good of you to come."
"I would have come before if I had been able—and if you had wanted me."
"You are always welcome," said Hubert. But his tone was languid, and his eyes did not meet her own.
"Hubert, are you well enough to have a little talk with me—a sort of business conversation?"
"Certainly, Enid. I am really quite well now." There was still no alacrity in his reply.
"And you wrote to me, saying that I had not written——"
"And you had not—for a month or more," said he, smiling a little more frankly into her face. "Was I wrong?"
"Did you expect me to write?"
"Yes, certainly. Why not?"
"You did not think that I should believe what your sister has been saying?" Enid asked.
"Flossy? What does she say?"
"Miss West has not told you? Of course she knows; for she was here when Mrs. Vane and the General called."
"I suppose that everything disagreeable has been keptfrom me," said Hubert, after little pause. "I know that there is a pile of letters which my nurses will not let me read. Tell me what has been going on."
"I am sorry to have to say disagreeable things to you," said Enid softly. "It will not make you ill again, will it, Hubert?"
"Out with it! It won't matter!" said Hubert, in a rather impatient tone. "What do you want to say?"
"Nothing to make your pulse throb and your face flush in that manner," she answered, sitting down beside him and laying her cool fingers on his wrist. "Dear Hubert, I have no bad news for you, though I may say one or two things that sound disagreeable. Please don't excite yourself in this way, or I must go away."
"No, no—you must speak out now; it will do me no harm. What is it?"
"Flossy saw Miss West here. She was displeased by her presence. Uncle Richard believed every word that his wife said, and was led to think that Cynthia West was a wicked designing creature who wanted to marry you. You can imagine what Florence would say and what uncle Richard would believe."
"I can indeed! And did she come here and say this to Cynthia?"
"She said a great deal, I believe. She tried to make Cynthia go away—Uncle Richard told me; and—shall I tell you everything, Hubert?—he said that you would not be 'led astray' for very long, and that I should find that you were true—true to me."
"Enid, did you believe him?"
"I don't know exactly what I believed. It seemed to me that Cynthia West had done a very noble thing in coming to nurse you when you were ill."
Hubert turned and seized her hands.
"Heaven bless you for saying that, Enid! She saved my life."
"And we should be grateful to her, and not malign her, should we not? But it is only right, Hubert, that I should know the truth."
"The truth? What is there to know?" said Hubert, relinquishing her hands and frowning heavily. "Flossy is absurdly wrong and mistaken, and Cynthia West is one of the noblest women in the world—that is all that I have tosay. When I am a little stronger, Enid, it will be better if you will consent to marry me at once; then we can go away together and spend the winter in Egypt or Algiers."
He spoke hardily, determinedly. He had made up his mind to carry out his sacrifice, if Enid desired it, at any cost. He had, as the General would have said, returned to his allegiance.
Enid looked at him with a keenness, an intentness, which struck him as remarkable.
"Do you want me to marry you?" she said.
"Of course I do! Why else should I have asked you?" he returned, with all a sick man's petulance. "I want to get the ceremony over as soon as possible—as soon as you will consent. When shall it be!"
"One moment, Hubert. Tell me first what I want to know. Is Flossy right in saying that Cynthia loves you?"
"You may be quite sure that Flossy is infernally wrong in anything she says!" he answered.
He had never spoken so roughly to her before. She drew back for a second, and he immediately apologised.
"I beg your pardon, Enid; I am sorry to be so irritable. Think of me as a sick man still, and forgive me. But Flossy knows nothing of the matter."
"Not even that Cynthia cares for you?"
A deep flush rose to his face.
"You should not ask me. It is the last thing that I can tell," he said, with the same sharpness of tone.
"Then tell me another thing, Hubert. Do you not care for her?"
"Yes—a great deal. She has been a kind friend—an excellent nurse—and I am grateful to her. Enid, I do not like to think that you believe me to be untrue to you."
She took his hand in hers and kissed it—a movement which discomposed him exceedingly.
"I did not think for one moment that you would desert me, Hubert, if I wanted you to perform what you had promised."
"Enid, what do you mean? Of course I shall perform what I have promised. Has Flossy been making you jealous and suspicious? My dear, believe me, there is no occasion for you to be so. You are very dear to me, andI will be faithful to you always. You shall never have cause to complain."
"Yes, I know," she said gently. "You are very good, Hubert, and you would not for the world do what you think to be a cruel thing. But would it not be better for you to be perfectly open with me? If you care for Cynthia West, would it not be better even for me that you should marry the woman whom you love?"
She looked at him and saw his face twitch. Then he shook his head.
"This is folly, Enid, and I am really not strong enough to stand it. You have no need to be troubled with doubts and fears, my little girl. Cynthia West is as good and true as a woman can be; and I—I mean to make you happy and do my duty as a man should do."
Enid smiled, but her eyes were filled with tears.
"Ah, Hubert, I am so glad that you say that!" she cried. Hubert looked worried, tormented, anything but glad; but she went on: "I always trusted you—always believed in you—and I was right. You would never be untrue—you would never——"
"For Heaven's sake, Enid, stop!" said Hubert faintly. "I can't—I can't bear this sort of thing!" And indeed he looked so ghastly that she had to find smelling-salts and bring him some cold water to drink before she could go on.
"I am very sorry," she said penitently, "and I will say what I have to say very quickly, if you will let me. You will not acknowledge the truth, I see, though it would be wiser if you would. You love Cynthia West, and Cynthia loves you; and, though you are willing to keep your word to me, you care for me only as a cousin and a friend. Is not that really the truth?"
"My dear Enid, you are developing a wonderful amount of imagination and, I may say, of courage!"
"I don't know about imagination," she said, smiling again; "but I think that I have gained a great deal of courage since I saw you last. As you will not set me free for your own sake, I must ask you to set me free for mine. I cannot marry you, Hubert. Will you forgive me for breaking my word?"
Her eyes shone so brightly, her smile was so sweet, that Hubert looked at her in amazement. He had never seenher half so beautiful. She was transfigured; for love and happiness had done their work, and made her lovelier than she had ever been in all her life before.
"I am in earnest," she went on. "I have been false to you, Hubert dear—and yet I never liked you so well as I like you now. I have given my word to some one else—to some one that I love better—and I want to know if you will forgive me and set me free."
"Enid I cannot understand! Do you think that I am not ready—anxious—to marry you? My dear, if you will only trust me and honor me so far——"
Enid laughed in his face.
"Why won't you believe that I am in earnest?" she said. "Indeed I am speaking seriously. I love Maurice Evandale, the Rector of Beechfield, better than I love you, uncivil though it may sound."
He caught her by the hands.
"Really—truly—Enid? You love him?"
"Far better than I ever loved you, dear Hubert! You are my cousin, whom I love sincerely in a cousinly way; but I love Maurice with all my heart and soul!"—and a deep blush overspread her countenance, while her happy smile and lowered eyes attested the truth of her statement.
"And are you happy?"
"Very happy! And, Hubert, I should like to see you happy too. Now acknowledge the truth, please. You love Cynthia—is not that true?"
"Enid, you are a witch!"
"And she loves you?"
He did not answer for a minute or two. Then with unaccustomed gravity of tone, he said—
"I fear so, Enid."
"You fear so? Why do you say that?" she asked.
"Because I am afraid that, even if we love each other, we ought not to marry."
Enid's face grew thoughtful, like his own.
"You mean because of my father?" she said, in a low voice.
"Yes—because of your father."
But he did not mean it in the sense that she attributed to his words. He lay back in his chair, sighing heavily, and again growing very pale.
"Hubert," said the girl, "I think you are wrong. Cynthia is not to blame for her father's actions—it is not fair to punish the innocent for the guilty."
"My dear, I must tell you before you go on that Cynthia does not believe her father guilty."
"Not guilty? Oh, Hubert! But you think so, do you not?"
He struggled with himself for a minute.
"No, Enid," he said at last.
Her face grew troubled and perplexed.
"But the jury said that he was guilty! You think that they were wrong? Perhaps some new evidence has been found! I shall be glad for Cynthia's sake if her father is innocent."
"Shall you, Enid?"
"Yes; for it must be such a terrible thing for a girl to know that her father has committed a great crime. She can never forget it; her whole life must be overshadowed by the remembrance. I am so thankful to think that my own dear father—although his end was tragic—lived a good and honorable life. It would be awful for Cynthia if she believed her father to be a wicked man!"
Hubert turned away his face. It was terrible to him to hear her speak thus. It seemed to him that, whenever an impulse came upon him to speak the truth, she herself made the truth appear unspeakable. Better perhaps to leave the matter where it stood. It was a mere question of transferring a burden from Cynthia's strong to Enid's feeble shoulders.
"Whether Westwood was really innocent or guilty," he said, with an effort, "is not for us to decide—now."
"No; and therefore we must do our best for Cynthia and for ourselves," said Enid, with sudden resolution. "I did not know before that there was even a doubt about his guilt; but, if so, our way is all the clearer, Hubert. You are not hesitating because you do not want to marry a convict's daughter, are you?"
"Not at all."
"Then it is because you are afraid that we—that I perhaps—shall be hurt? I know that Flossy and the General feel strongly on the point. But, Hubert, I absolve you—I give you leave. In my father's name I speak; for I am sure that in another world where allthings are known he sees as I do—that the innocent must not be punished for the guilty. If you love Cynthia, Hubert, marry her; and I will give you my best wishes for your happiness. I am sure that it should be so—else why should God have permitted you to love each other?"
"Enid, you are an angel!" cried Hubert.
He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. She felt tears hot upon her fingers, and knew that they came from his eyes. She bent down and kissed his forehead.
"God bless you dear!" she said. "I am so happy myself that I cannot bear you and Cynthia to be unhappy. Will you tell her when she comes in that I want you to marry her as soon as possible? She is so good, so noble, that I am sure you will be happy with her. And you can go abroad together if you are married soon. Good-bye Hubert! We shall always think of each other lovingly, shall we not?"
"I shall think of you—gratefully," he said, with his face bowed down upon his hands—"as of an angel from heaven!"
"Oh, no—only as a poor, weak, erring little girl, who broke her word to you and had far more happiness than she deserved. And now good-bye."
He would have detained her—perhaps to say more words of gratitude—perhaps to say something else; but she withdrew herself from his clasping hand and quietly left the room. She knew that he was better alone. She went down-stairs, let herself out of the house, and met Cynthia on the steps. The girl was just returning after a hurried walk round and round the square.
"Go to him," said Enid softly. "He wants help and comfort, and he wants your love. You will be very happy by-and-by."
And Cynthia went.
Cynthia came softly into the room. She looked timidly towards Hubert's chair, then rushed forward and rang the bell violently. She had had some fear of the result of Enid's visit, and her fear was certainly justified.
Hubert had fainted away when his visitor had left the room.
It was not until some time afterwards that Cynthia allowed him to talk again. She had medicaments of various kinds to apply, and insisted upon his being perfectly quiet. She had wanted him to go to bed again; but he had resisted this proposition; and, in consequence, he was still in the sitting-room, though lying upon the sofa, at the hour of half-past eight that evening, when the light was fading, and Cynthia was at his side.
"You feel better now, do you not?" she said to him.
"Yes, thank you." The tone was curiously dispirited.
"I must call Jenkins, and you must go to bed."
He caught her hand.
"Not yet, Cynthia—I want to say something."
"To-morrow," she suggested.
"No, not to-morrow—to-night. I am quite well able to talk. Cynthia, where is your father?"
The question was utterly unexpected.
"My father?" she echoed. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because I have an impression that he is in England, and that you have seen him lately."
"If I had," said Cynthia tremulously, "I should be bound not to tell any one."
"Ah, that is true! And you would not trust even me," he remarked, with a great sigh. "Well, I suppose that you are right!"
"I trust you perfectly," she said.
"You have no reason to do so. Cynthia, do you know why Enid Vane came to-day?"
"Yes,—she told me."
"She is engaged to Mr. Evandale. She has set me free."
There was a silence. Cynthia did not move; and at last Hubert said, in a stifled voice—
"I love one woman, and one only. What can I say to her?"
"Nothing but that," said Cynthia softly; and then she turned and kissed him.
"I dare not say even that," he muttered.
"Why not? You told me once of an obstacle—Enid Vane was the obstacle, was she not?"
"One obstacle. But there was another."
"Another!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What could that be?"
She was kneeling beside him, her hand locked fast in his, her arm upon his shoulder. A sort of sob broke from his lips.
"Oh, my darling," he said, "I am the last man that you ought ever to have loved!"
"But I love you now, Hubert."
"I am a villian, Cynthia—a mean miserable cur! Can't you accept that fact, and leave me without asking why?"
"No, I cannot, Hubert; I don't believe it."
"It is no good telling me that—I know myself too well. Believe all that I say, Cynthia, and give me up. Don't make me tell you why."
"I shall always love you," she whispered, "whether you are bad or good."
"Suppose that I had injured any one that was very dear to you—saved myself from punishment at his expense? I daren't go any farther. Is there nothing that you can suppose that I have done—the very hardest thing in the whole world for you to forgive? You can't forgive it, I know; to tell you means to cut myself off from you for the rest of my life; and yet I cannot make up my mind to take advantage of your ignorance. I have resolved, Cynthia, that I will not say another word of—of love to you—until you know the truth."
She gazed at him, her lips growing white, her eyes dilating with sudden terror.
"There is only one thing," she said at length, "that I—that I——"
"That you could not forgive. I am answered, Cynthia; it is that one thing that I have done."
He spoke very calmly, but his face was white with a pallor like that of death. She remained motionless; it seemed as if she could scarcely dare to breathe, and her face was as pale as his own.
"Hubert," she said presently, only just above her breath, "you must be saying what you do not mean!"
"I would to God that I did not mean it!" he exclaimed, bestirring himself and trying to rise. "Get up, Cynthia; I cannot lie here and see you kneeling there. Rather letme kneel to you; for I have wronged you—I have wronged your father beyond forgiveness. It was I—I who killed Sydney Vane!"
He was standing now; but she still knelt beside the sofa, with her face full of terror.
"Hubert," she said caressingly, "you do not know what you say. Sit down, my darling, and keep quiet. You will be better soon."
"I am not raving," he answered her; "I am only speaking the truth. God help me! All these years I have kept the secret, Cynthia; but it is true—I swear before God that it is true! It was I who killed Sidney Vane. Now curse me if you will, as your father did long years ago."
He fell back on the sofa, and buried his face in his hands with a moan of intolerable pain.
There came a long silence. Cynthia did not move; she also had hidden her face.
"Oh," she said at last, "I do not know what to do! My poor father—my poor father! Think of the shame and anguish that he went through! Oh, how could you bear to let him suffer so?" And then she wept bitterly and unrestrainedly; and Hubert sat with his head bowed in his hands.
But after a time she became calm; and then, without looking up, she said, in a low voice—
"I should like to hear it all now. Tell me how it happened."
He started and removed his hands from his face. It was so haggard, so miserable, that Cynthia, as she glanced at him, could not forbear an impulse of pity. But she averted her head and would not look at him again.
"You must tell me everything now," she said.
And so he told the story. He found it hard to begin; but as he went on, a certain relief came to him, in spite of shame and sorrow, at the disburthening himself of his secret. He did not spare himself. He told the tale very fully, and, little by little, it seemed to Cynthia that she began to understand his life, his character, his very soul, as she had never understood them before. She understood, but she did not love.
The confession left her cold; her father's wrongs had turned her heart to stone.
"And now," he said, when he had finished his story, "you can fetch your father and clear him in the eyes of the world as soon as you like. I will take any punishment that the law allots me. But I think that I shall not have to bear it long. Even a life sentence ends one day, thank God!"
Then Cynthia spoke.
"You think," she said very coldly, "that I shall tell your story—that I shall denounce you to the police?"
"As you please, Cynthia," he answered, with a sadness born of despair.
"You throw the burden on me!" she said. "You have thrown your burdens on other people's shoulders all your life, it seems. But now you must bear your own." She rose and moved away from him. "I shall not accuse you. Your confession is safe enough with me. You forget that I—I loved you once. I cannot give you up to justice even for my father's sake. You must manage the matter for yourself."
"Cynthia," he cried hoarsely—"Cynthia, be merciful!"
"Had you any mercy for my father?" she asked him, looking at him with eyes in which the reproach was terrible to his inmost soul. "Did you ever think what he had to bear?" Her hand was on the door. "I am going now," she said—"I am going to my father; I have learned the place in which he lives. But I shall not tell him what you have just told me. Justify him to the world if you like; till that is done, I will never speak to you again."
"Cynthia—Cynthia!" cried the wretched man.
He rose from the sofa and stretched out his arms blindly towards her. But she would not relent.
As she left the room, he fell to the floor—insensible for the second time that day. She heard the crashing fall—she knew that he was in danger; but her heart was hardened, and she would not look back. The only thing she did was to call Jenkins before she left the house and send him to his master. And then she went out into the street, and said to herself that she would never enter the house again.
Jenkins went up to the drawing-room, and found Mr. Lepel lying on the floor. He and his wife managed with some difficulty to get him back to bed. Then they sentfor the Doctor. But, when the Doctor came, he shook his head, and looked very serious over Hubert's state. A relapse had taken place; he was delirious again; and no one could say whether he would recover from this second attack. Cynthia was asked for at once; but Cynthia was nowhere to be found.
"She will come back, no doubt, sir," Jenkins said.
"I hope she will," the Doctor answered, "for Mr. Lepel's chances are considerably lessened by her absence."
But the night passed, and the next day followed, and the next; but Cynthia never came.
In the meantime there was one person in the house who knew more of her than she chose to say. Miss Sabina Meldreth had been keeping her eye, by Mrs. Vane's orders, upon Cynthia West. She had listened at the door during the conversation between Enid and Hubert, but without much result. Their voices had been subdued, and she had gained nothing for her pains. But it was somewhat different during the interview between Cynthia and Hubert. The emotion of the two speakers had been rather too difficult to repress. Some few of Hubert's words, as well as Cynthia's passionate sobs, had reached her ears; and Cynthia's last sentences, spoken in a clear penetrating voice, had not been lost on her. She was behind the folding-door between the two rooms when Cynthia made her exit. Sabina Meldreth's heart beat with excitement. Miss West would go to her father, would she? Then she, Sabina, would follow her—would track the felon to his hiding-place! The hint that Hubert could clear him if he would was lost upon her in the delight of this discovery. She could not afford to miss this opportunity of pleasing Mrs. Vane and earning three hundred pounds. She followed Cynthia down-stairs, seized a hat from a peg in the hall, and walked out into the street.
It was already dark, but the girl's tall graceful figure was easily discernible at some little distance. Miss Meldreth followed her hurriedly; she was determined to lose no chance of discovering Westwood and delivering him up to the authorities.
Down one street after another did she track the convict's daughter. Cynthia went through quiet quarters—if she had ventured into a crowded thoroughfare, she would soon have been lost to view. But she had no suspicion thatshe was being pursued, or she might have been more careful. In a quiet little court on the north side of Holborn she presently came to a halt. There was a dingy little house with "Lodgings to Let" on a card in the window, and at the door of this house she stopped and gave three knocks with her knuckles. In a few moments the door was opened, and she stepped in. Sabina could not see who admitted her.
She waited for some time. A light appeared after a while in an upper window, and one or two shadows crossed the white linen blind. Sabina went a little higher up the court and watched. Shadows came again—first, the shadow of a woman with a hat upon her head—ah, that was Miss West!—next that of a man—nearer the window and more distinct. Sabina thought that she recognised the slight stoop of the shoulders, the stiff and halting gait.
"I've caught you at last, have I, Mr. Reuben Dare!" she said to herself, with a chuckle, as she noted the number of the house and the name of the court. "Well, I shall get three hundred pounds for this night's work! I'll wait a bit and see what happens next."
What happened next was that the lights were extinguished and that the house seemed to be shut up.
"Safe for the night!" said Sabina, chuckling to herself. "I won't let the grass grow under my feet this time. I'll tell the police to-morrow morning, and I'll write to Mrs. Vane as well. He shan't escape us now!"
She retraced her steps to Russell Square, and at once indited a letter to Mrs. Vane with a full account of all that she had seen and heard. She slipped out to post it that very night, and lay down with the full intention of going to Scotland Yard the next morning. But in the morning she was delayed for an hour only; but that hour was fatal to her plans. When the police visited the house in Vernon Court, they found that the rooms were empty, and that Cynthia and her father had disappeared. Nobody knew anything about them; and the police retired in an exceedingly bad humor, pouring anathemas upon Sabina's head. But Sabina did not care; she had received news which had stupefied her for a time and hindered her in the execution of her designs—little Dick Vane was dead.
The child had never rallied from the accident which had befallen him. For several days and nights he had lain ina state of coma; and then, still unconscious, he had passed away. His watchers scarcely knew at what moment he ceased to breathe; even the General, who had seldom left his side, could not tell exactly when the child died. So peacefully the little life came to a close that it seemed only that his sleep was preternaturally long. And with him a long course of perplexity and deceit seemed likely also to have its end.
Mrs. Vane had disappointed and displeased the General during the boy's illness; she had steadily refused to nurse him—even to see him, towards the end. The General was an easy and indulgent husband, but he noticed that his wife seemed to have no love for the child who was all in all to him. The worst came when Flossy refused to look at the boy's dead face when he was gone. The General reproached her for her hardness of heart, and declared bitterly that the child had never known a mother's love. And Flossy did not easily forgive the imputation, although she professed to accept it meekly, and to excuse herself by saying that her nerves were too delicate to bear the shock of seeing a dead child.
Troubles seemed to heap themselves upon the General's head. His boy had gone; Enid, whom he tenderly loved, had left his house; Hubert, to whom also he was much attached, lay ill again, and was scarcely expected to recover. By the time the funeral was over, the General had worked himself up to such a state of nervous anxiety, that it was felt by his friends that some immediate change must be made in his manner of life. And here a suggestion of Flossy's became unexpectedly useful—she proposed that the General should go to his sister's for a time, and that she should stay at Hubert's lodging.
It was not that she cared very much for her brother, or that she was likely to prove a good nurse, but that she was afraid, from what Sabina said, that Hubert might be doing something rash—making confession perhaps, or taking Cynthia West into his confidence. If she were on the spot, she felt that she could hinder any such rash proceeding with Sabina's help.
But Sabina was not to the fore. When she heard that Mrs. Vane was coming to town, she threw up her engagement and went back to her aunt's at Camden Town. A trained nurse took her place, and Mrs. Vane lodged in the house.
Contrary to the doctor's expectations, Hubert survived the crisis of his fever, and passed at last into the convalescent stage; though very weak, he was pronounced to be out of danger, and he began to grow stronger every day. But, as every one who had known him in happier days had reason to remark, he bore himself like an utterly broken-hearted, broken-spirited man. It seemed as if he would never hold up his head again—all hope went from him when Cynthia left his side.