Cynthia had, as Sabina suspected, gone straight to her father when she left Russell Square. Some time before he had let her know that he was still in England, and had sent her his address, warning her however not to visit him unless she was obliged to do so. On this occasion she had almost forgotten his warning; she went to him as a child often goes to its parents, more for comfort than for absolute protection; and he was astonished, as well as alarmed, when she flung herself into his arms and wept on his shoulder, calling him now and then by all sorts of endearing names, but refusing to explain to him the reason of her visit or of her grief.
"It's not that man that you're fond of, is it, my dearie? He hasn't played you false, has he?"
"No, father, no—not in the way you mean."
"He ain't worse—dying or anything?"
"Oh, no!"—with a sudden constriction of the heart, which might have told her how dear Hubert was to her still.
"Then you've quarrelled?"
"I suppose we have," said Cynthia, with an unnatural hysterical laugh. "Oh, yes—we have quarrelled, and we shall never see each other any more!"
"In that case, my girl, you'd better cast in your lot with me. Shall we leave England to-morrow?"
Cynthia was silent for a moment.
"Is it safer for you to go or to stay, father?"
"Well, it's about equal," said Westwood cheerfully. "They're watching the ports, I understand; so maybe Ishould have a difficulty in getting off. On the other hand, I'm pretty certain that the landlady here suspects me; and I thought of making tracks early to-morrow morning, Cynthia, my dear, if you have no objection to an early start."
"Anything you please, dear father."
"We're safest in London, I think," said Westwood thoughtfully; "but I think that I shall try to get out of the country as soon as I can. I am afraid it is no good to follow up my clue, Cynthia; I can't find out anything more about Mrs. Vane."
Cynthia gave a little shiver, and then clung to him helplessly; she could not speak.
"I've sometimes thought," her father continued, "that your young man—Mr. Lepel—knew more than he chose to say. I've sometimes wondered whether—knowing me to be your father and all that, Cynthia—there might not be a chance of getting him to tell all the truth, supposing that I went to him and threw myself on his—his generosity, so to speak? Do you think he'd give me up, Cynthy?"
"No, father—I don't think he would."
"It might be worth trying. A bold stroke succeeds sometimes where a timid one might fail. He's ill, you say, still, isn't he?"
Cynthia thought of the fall that she had heard as she left the room.
"Yes," she answered almost inaudibly; "he has been very ill, and he is not strong yet."
"And you've left him all the same?" said her father, regarding her curiously. "There must have been something serious—eh, my lass?"
"Oh, father, don't ask me!"
"Don't you care for him now then, my girl?" said Westwood, with more tenderness than he usually showed.
"I don't know—I don't know! I think I—I hate him; but I cannot be sure."
"It's his fault then? He's done something bad?"
"Very bad!" cried poor Cynthia, hiding her face.
"And you can't forgive him?"
"Not—not till he has made amends!" said the girl, with a passionate sob.
Her father sat looking at her with a troubled face.
"If your mother hadn't forgiven me many and many atime, Cynthia," he said at last, "I should have gone to destruction long before she died. But as long as ever she lived she kept me straight."
"She was your wife," said Cynthia, in a choked voice. "I am not Hubert's wife—and I never shall be now. Never mind, father; we were right to separate, and I am glad that we have done it. Now will you tell me where you are thinking of going, or if you have made any plans?"
Westwood shook his head.
"I've got no plans, my dear—except to slip out at the door, early to-morrow morning. Where I go next I am sure I do not know."
Cynthia resolutely banished the thought of her own affairs, and set herself to consider possibilities. Her mind reverted again and again to the Jenkins family. Their connection with Hubert made it seem a little dangerous to have anything to do with them at present; and yet Cynthia was inclined to trust Tom Jenkins very far. He was thoroughly honest and true, and he was devoted to her service; but, after some reflection, she abandoned this idea. If she and her father were to be together, she had better seek some place where her own face was unknown and her father's history forgotten. After a little consideration, she remembered some people whom she had heard of in the days of her engagement at the Frivolity. They let lodgings in an obscure street in Clerkenwell; and, as they were quiet inoffensive folk, Cynthia thought that she and her father might be as safe with them as elsewhere. She did not urge her father to leave England at present; for she had a vague feeling that she ought not to cut him off from the chance—a feeble chance, but still a chance—of being cleared by Hubert Lepel's confession. She had not much hope; and yet it seemed to her possible that Hubert might choose to tell the truth at last, and that she could but hope that, having confessed to her, he might also confess to the world at large, and show that Westwood was an innocent and deeply injured man.
She stayed the night, sleeping on a little sofa in the sitting-room; but early the next day they went out together, making one of the early morning "flittings" to which Westwood was accustomed; and Cynthia took her father to his new lodgings in Clerkenwell.
For some days she did not go out again. Excitementand the shock of Hubert's confession had for once disorganised her splendid health. She felt strangely weak and ill, and lay in her bed without eating or speaking, her face turned to the wall, her head throbbing, her hands and feet deathly cold. Westwood watched her anxiously and wanted her to have a doctor; but Cynthia refused all medical advice. She was only worn out with nursing, she said, and needed a long rest; she would be better soon.
One day when she had got up, but had not yet ventured out of doors, her father came into her room with a bunch of black grapes which he had brought for her to eat.
"How good you are, father!" Cynthia said gratefully.
She took one to please him but she did not seem inclined to eat. She was sitting in a wooden chair by the window, looking pale and listless. There were dark shadows under her eyes and a sad expression about her mouth; one would scarcely have known her again for the brilliant beauty who had carried all before her when she sang in London drawing-rooms not three months earlier.
Her father looked at her with sympathetic attention.
"You want cockering up," he said, "and coddling and waiting on. When once we get out of this darned old country, you shall see something different, my girl! I've got money enough to do the thing in style when we reach the States. You shall have all you want there, and no mistake!"
"Thank you, father," said the girl, with a listless smile.
"I've had a long walk to-day," Westwood said, after a pause, "and I've been into what you would call danger, my girl. Ah, that rouses you up a bit, doesn't it? I've been to Russell Square."
"To Russell Square." Cynthia's face turned crimson at once. "Oh, father, did you see—did you hear——"
"Did I hear of Mr. Lepel? That's what I went for, my beauty! In spite of your quarrel, I thought you'd maybe like to hear how he was getting on. I talked to the gardener, a bit; Mr. Lepel's been ill again, you know."
"A relapse?" said Cynthia quickly.
"Yes, a relapse. They've had a hospital-nurse for him, I hear. He's not raving now, they say, but very weak and stupid-like."
"Have none of his friends come to nurse him?" said Cynthia.
"I don't know. The gardener wouldn't hear that, maybe. He said there'd been a death in the family—some child or other. Would that be General Vane's little boy, do you suppose?"
"It might be."
"Then Miss Vane will be the heiress. She and Mr. Lepel——" He hesitated for a moment, and Cynthia looked up.
"Miss Vane is going to marry Mr. Evandale father. She is not engaged to Mr. Lepel now."
"Oh! Not engaged to Mr. Lepel now? Then what the dickens," said Westwood very deliberately, "did you and Mr. Lepel quarrel about, I should like to know?"
"I can't tell you, father. Nothing to do with that, however."
"I expect it was all a woman's freak. I had made up my mind for you to marry that fellow, Cynthia. I rather liked the looks of him. I'd have given you a thumping dowry and settled him out in America, if you'd liked. It would have been better than the life of a newspaper-man in London any day."
Cynthia did not answer. Her face wore a look of settled misery which made Westwood uncomfortable. He went on doggedly.
"When he gets better, I think I shall go and see him about this. I've no mind to see my girl break her heart before my eyes. You know you're fond of him. Why make such a mystery of it? Marry him, and make him sorry for his misdeeds afterwards. That's my advice."
Cynthia's hands began to tremble in her lap. She said nothing however, and Westwood did not pursue the subject. But a few days later she asked him a question which showed what was weighing on her mind.
"Father, what do you think about forgiveness? We ought to forgive those that have injured us, I suppose? They always said so at St. Elizabeth's."
"Up to a certain point, I think, my girl. It's no good forgiving them that are not sorry for what they've done. It would go to my heart not to punish a rascal that robbed me and laughed in my face afterwards, you know. But, if I've reason to think that he's repented and tried to make amends, why, then, I think a man's a fool who doesn't say, 'All right, old fellow—try again and good luck to you!'"
"Make amends! Ah, that is the test!" said Cynthia, in a very low voice.
"Well, it is and it isn't," said her father sturdily. "Making amends is a very difficult matter sometimes. The best way sometimes is to put all that's been bad behind you, and start again fresh without meddling with the old affairs. Of course it's pretty hard to tell whether a man's repentant or whether he is not."
He knew very well that she was thinking of Hubert Lepel, and was therefore all the more cautious and all the more gentle in what he said. For he had gone over to Hubert's side in the absence of any precise knowledge as to what the quarrel had been about. "A woman's sure to be in the wrong!" he said to himself—hence his advice.
"But, if one is sure—quite sure—that a man repents," said Cynthia falteringly, "or, at least, that he is sorry, and if the wrong is not so much to oneself, but to somebody else that is dear to one, then——"
"If you care enough to worry about the man, forgive him, and have done with it!" said her father. "Now look here, Cynthy—let's have no beating about the bush! I think I know pretty well what's happening. Mr. Lepel knows something about that murder business—I am pretty sure of that. You think, rightly or wrongly, that he could have cleared me if he had tried. Well, maybe so—maybe not; I can't tell. But, my dear, I don't want you to bother your head about me. If you're fond of the fellow, you needn't let my affairs stand in your way. Why, as a matter of fact, I'm better off now than I should ever have been in England; so what seemed to be a misfortune has turned out to my advantage. I'm content enough. Mr. Lepel has held his tongue, you say"—though Cynthia had not uttered a single word; "but I reckon it was for his sister's sake. And, though she's a bad lot, I don't see how a man could tell of his sister, Cynthy—I don't indeed. So you go back to Mr. Lepel and tell him not to bother himself. I can take care of myself now, and all this rubbish about clearing my character may as well be knocked on the head. As soon as I'm out of the country, I don't care a rap! You tell that to Mr. Lepel, my beauty, and make it up with him. I wouldn't for the world that you should be unhappy because I've been unfortunate."
This was a long speech for Westwood; and Cynthiacame and put her hands on his shoulders and laid her cheek to his long before he had finished.
"Dear father," she said, "you are very good and very generous!"
"Confess now, Cynthy—you love him, don't you?" said Westwood, with unusual gentleness.
"I am afraid I do, father," she said, crying as she spoke.
"Then be faithful to him, my lass, like your mother was to me."
They said no more. But Cynthia brooded over her father's words for the next three days and nights. Then she came to him one day with her hat and cloak on, as if she were going for a walk.
"Father," she began abruptly, "do you allow me to go to Hubert—to see him, I mean?"
"Of course I do, my dear."
"Although you believe what you said—and what I did not say—that he could have cleared you if he had liked?"
"Yes, my dear—if you love him."
"Yes, I love him," said Cynthia sadly.
"I'm going to sail next week; he'll never be troubled by me again," said her father. "You can either stay with him, Cynthia, or he can come out with us. Out there we can all forget what's over and done. You go to him and tell him so at once."
He kissed her on the forehead with unaccustomed solemnity. Cynthia flung her arms round his neck and gave him a warm embrace. The eyes of both father and daughter were wet as they said good-bye.
Cynthia knew nothing of Mrs. Vane's visit to London. She expected to meet a trained nurse only, and the Jenkins—Sabina Meldreth and the doctor perhaps beside, but no one else. She set forth at an hour which would enable her to reach the house when Hubert was likely to be up—at least, if he were able to leave his bed. She did not know what she was going to say to him—what line she was about to take. She only knew that she could not bear to be away from him any longer, and that love and forgiveness were the two thoughts uppermost in her mind.
She was not aware that her father had considered it unfit for her to go alone to Russell Square. He had followed her all the way from Clerkenwell, and was in the squareimmediately behind herself. When she mounted the steps and rang the bell, he crossed the road and walked along the pavement by the gardens in the middle of the square. Here he fancied that he should be unobserved. He saw the door opened; he saw Cynthia making her inquiries of the servant. Then she went in, and the door was shut.
He waited for some time. Presently a man, whom he knew to be the faithful Jenkins, appeared on the steps of the house and looked about him. Then he crossed the road and advanced to Westwood, who was leaning against the railings.
"Mr. Reuben Dare, I think?" he said, touching his hair respectfully. Westwood stared at the sound of that name. "Miss West and Mr. Lepel wants to know if you will kindly come up-stairs. They have a word or two to say, and they hope that you will not fail to come."
Westwood smiled to himself—a rather peculiar smile.
"All right," he said; "if they want me to come, I'll come. But I think they had both better have let me stay away."
Nevertheless he followed Jenkins to the house.
The door had been opened to Cynthia by a strange servant. She asked if Mr. Lepel was at home—a conventionalism of which she immediately repented. Was he well enough to see anybody, at least? she asked.
The girl did not know, but asked her to walk inside. Mr. Lepel was better; he was dressed every day and sat in the drawing-room; but he had not seen any visitors as yet. He was in the drawing-room now, she thought, and he was alone.
"I will go up," said Cynthia decidedly. "You need not announce me. I will go myself; he knows me very well."
The girl fell back doubtfully; but Cynthia's tone was so resolute, her air so assured, that there was nothing for it but to give way. Besides Mrs. Vane was out, and nobody had said what was to be done in case of visitors.
Cynthia went in very quietly. Hubert was lying on a sofa in the darkest corner of the room. The blinds werepartially closed; but she could see his face, and she thought at first that he was asleep. His eyes were closed, his hands were stretched at his sides; his attitude was expressive of the utmost langour and weariness. She came a little nearer and looked at him closely. His frame was sadly wasted, and there was an expression of suffering and melancholy upon his face that touched her deeply. She drew nearer and nearer to the sofa; but he did not look up until she was almost close to him. Then he opened his eyes. She cried "Hubert!" and dropped on her knees beside him, so as to bring her face upon a level with his own. She put her arms around him and kissed his cheek.
"Oh, Hubert," she said, "I could not stay away! I love you, my darling—I love you in spite of all! Will you forgive me for being so cruel when I saw you last?"
She felt him tremble a little.
"Cynthia!" he said; and then with a sudden gesture he threw his arm around her, rested his head upon her shoulder, and burst into tears—tears of weakness in part, but tears also of love, of penitence, of almost unbearable relief.
She held him close to her, kissing his dark head from time to time, and calling him by fond, caressing names. But for some minutes he did not seem to be able or to care to speak. She caught the word "Forgive!" once or twice between his gasps for breath; but she could distinguish nothing more.
"Darling," she said at last, "you will do yourself harm if this goes on. Be calm, and let us talk together a little time. Yes, I forgive you, if I must say so before anything else. There, there! Ah, my own love, how could I have left you so long? I was cruel and unkind!"
"No, Cynthia—no! I never thought that I should see you again," he said brokenly. "Don't leave me again—just yet."
"I will never leave you, if you like," she murmured softly.
"Never, Cynthia?"
"So long as we both do live. You know what I mean?"
"I daren't think. You don't mean that you will now—now become——"
"Your wife? Yes, if you will have me, Hubert. There is no barrier between us now."
"Your father?" he murmured, looking at her with weary wistful eyes.
"My father sent me to you to-day. No, darling, I have not told him."
"I wish to Heaven you had, Cynthia!"
"What! I betray your confidence? No, I could not do that. But he had some notion already, Hubert. He told me that he suspected you—or your sister—some time ago; and he said to me to-day that he believed that you could have cleared him if you had liked."
"And what did you say? I wish that you had found it in your heart to tell him everything you knew."
"I could not do that. But I did not deny what he had said!" and then she told him all that she remembered of her father's words.
"His generosity crushes me to the earth!" said Hubert hoarsely. "I must tell him the whole story, and let him decide."
"He has decided."
"I cannot accept that decision. Since I have been lying here, Cynthia, and since you left me, I have seen it all as it appeared in your eyes. I have wondered at my own cowardice; and I hope—I trust that I have repented of it. It is time that I did, Cynthia, for I believe that I am a dying man."
"No, no!" she cried, clinging to him passionately. "You will get better now—you must get better—for my sake!"
"I wish I could, my darling—I wish I could!"
"Why have you such gloomy thoughts? You are depressed; you have wanted me. I shall soon make you well. I shall take you away from England to some warm bright country where you will have nothing to do but be happy and grow quite strong; and I will take care of you, and make up to you if I can for everything that you have lost."
"Yes, if one had not a conscience," said Hubert, with a faint sad smile, "one could be very happy, could one not? But you forget; you told me before that I must make amends. My darling, there is only one course open to me now."
"Hubert!" She knew by instinct what course he meant to take.
"We are going to have the whole truth told now," he went on softly. "And what a relief it will be! My God, I wonder that I could bear the burden so long! For I have suffered, Cynthia, though not as your father has. I am going now to tell the truth and bear the penalty; there is no other way."
"There cannot be much of a legal penalty," said Cynthia, trying to speak bravely. "It was a duel."
"Manslaughter, I suppose. It will depend a good deal on public feeling what the punishment will be; and public feeling will—very rightly—be against me. To let another man be condemned to death when I could have cleared him with a word! I think, Cynthia, that the mob will tear me to pieces if they can get hold of me!"
"They will not get hold of you. And if the public knows that it was all for your sister's sake——"
"I want to save Flossy, Cynthia. I think I can shield her still."
"I do not think that my father will shield her, Hubert. He knows."
"She must be shielded, if possible, dear, for the old General's sake. What a fool I was not to prevent that marriage! Well, it can't be helped now. But one thing I can do—I can exonerate your father, and confess that I shot Sydney Vane, without a word about my sister. That must be so, Cynthia. And your father must be silent."
"You will deprive yourself of your one excuse," said Cynthia quietly.
"I know. I cannot help it. I must stand forth to the world as a brutal murderer—as once your father did, my Cynthia. It is only right and just. They must sentence me as they please. But it will not be for long; I shall probably not come out of prison. But, if I do——"
Cynthia burst into tears.
"I can't bear it—I can't bear it!" she cried. "My father is right—he has got over the worst of it and outlived all that was hard. It would be terrible for you! How could you bear it—and how could I?"
"You could bear it if you thought it brought me happiness, could you not? I know I am selfish, Cynthia."
"No, no—you are anything but selfish! Oh, darling, live for me a little if you will not for yourself! Father asks you to do that as well as I. You will make us sufferif you suffer—and I cannot bear to part from you again! If you love me, Hubert, say nothing—for my father's sake and mine!"
It was a strange plea. And while Hubert listened and strove to calm her, there came a new and unwonted sound upon the stairs—the sound of a struggle, of trampling feet, of angry voices—of a woman's shriek and a man's stifled curse. Cynthia sprang to her feet.
"I hear my father's voice!" she said. "What can that mean?"
There had been another visitor that afternoon to Hubert's lodgings in Russell Square. Sabina Meldreth had presented herself at three o'clock, and had inquired for Mrs. Vane. She was told that Mrs. Vane had gone out, and was not likely to be back until six or half-past six o'clock.
"And then the General's coming with her," Jenkins had informed her, "and they're to dine together, because it is the first time that master has stayed up to dinner since he was taken ill."
"Oh, that'll do very well for me!" said Sabina sullenly. "I shall see the whole lot of them then, I suppose. I'll wait!" and she planted herself on one of the wooden chairs in the hall.
"Won't you come down-stairs?" said Jenkins. "My missus is there."
"No, I won't. I want to see Mrs. Vane; and perhaps she'll get away or refuse to see me if I am down-stairs. Sitting here, she can't escape so easy. I want Mrs. Vane."
Jenkins shrugged his shoulders.
"You seem to have got a grudge against her," he observed. "Didn't she pay you properly?"
"No, she didn't—not that it's any business of yours," Sabina remarked.
And, after that speech, Jenkins retired with dignity, feeling that it was not his part to converse any longer with a woman who chose to be so very impolite to him.
"She looks very queer!" he observed to his wife down-stairs. "She's in black, and her eyes are red as if she'd been crying, and her face as white as death. I think she looks as if she was going out of her mind."
Whereupon Mrs. Jenkins herself went up-stairs to inspect the dangerous Sabina, but came down with the report that "she looked quiet enough." And so the afternoon went on—and still Mrs. Vane did not arrive. But Cynthia did.
When Sabina heard Miss West's voice speaking to the maid at the door, she gave a violent start. Then she rose and went cautiously into a little room which opened off the hall, and stood behind the door, so that Cynthia could not see her. As soon as Cynthia had gone up-stairs, Sabina dashed out into the hall again, and inspected the square through the pane of glass at the side of the hall door.
"It's him sure enough," she said to herself, "and his daughter's gone up-stairs! Well, they are bold as brass, the pair of them! They didn't ought to be allowed to escape, I'm sure; but I don't know what to do. I wish Mrs. Vane would come home, and the General too. They'd take care he was nabbed fast enough! And here they come!"
For at that moment Miss Vane's carriage drove up to the door, and out of it came its owner, as well as Mrs. Vane and the General. Sabina opened the door before the man had time to knock. And no sooner had Mrs. Vane entered than she was confronted by Sabina.
"What do you want here!" she asked.
Sabina had, as Flossy expected, come with demands that would not perhaps have been easy to satisfy; but all her plans were swept away by the appearance of Westwood in the square. Sabina did not attempt to stand on ceremony.
"For goodness' sake, ma'am, don't go up-stairs nor let them go just yet!" she said hurriedly. "There's the man Westwood in the square—and his daughter's just gone up to Mr. Lepel. I know him by sight perfectly. If you want him to be arrested, ma'am, you could get it done now easily."
"What's that?" said old Miss Vane, stepping back with her hand to her ear. "Why are you looking so pale, Flossy? What's all this about?"
Flossy looked at her husband and then looked at Sabina. She would have given anything to stop Sabina's tongue. For the General had never yet been made aware of one half of her man[oe]uvres, and she did not think that he evenknew that Westwood was alive. The whole thing would probably excite him terribly; and there was a certain unsigned document in the General's bureau at home about which Flossy was particularly anxious. She had not wanted him to hear too much about Westwood's fate.
But there was no help for it now. He came forward with his sister, wanting to know what all the disturbance was about, and questioning first one and then another in turn. Sabina was not voluble; but, acting on a hint from Mrs. Vane, she did not at once say how she came to recognise the man. The General flew into a rage, as Flossy had expected him to do, and wanted to go out and lay hands himself on his brother's murderer. With great difficulty his wife and sister persuaded him to listen to reason. The footman was despatched for the police, and Jenkins was deputed to accost the man and bring him to the house. In this last piece of business Flossy took the lead. She had a notion that Jenkins was in Cynthia's confidence, and would not do what was required of him if he knew its purpose; and for that reason she coolly gave him a message from Hubert and Cynthia. Neither the General nor Miss Vane heard it, or perhaps they would not have allowed it to be sent; but it certainly effected all that they desired. Quietly and unsuspiciously Westwood came stepping across the square in Jenkins' wake; and just as quietly was taken up the stairs and shown into a little sitting-room, where it had been decreed that he should be delayed until the police could arrive.
But Westwood was not altogether at his ease. He was surprised to find that neither Cynthia nor Lepel were there to meet him—surprised to find himself left alone in a bare little room for five or ten minutes at the very least. At last he tried the door. It was locked. And then the truth flashed across his mind—he had been recognised—he had been entrapped. Perhaps even Cynthia and Hubert Lepel were in the plot. They had perhaps meant him to be caught and sent back to Portland, to die like a wild beast in a cage.
"There'll be murder done first!" said Westwood, looking round him for a weapon. "Let's see which is the strongest—Hubert Lepel or me. And now for the door! The window is too high."
He had found a poker, and he dealt one crashing blowat the lock of the door. It was not strong, and it yielded almost immediately. There was a shriek from some one on the stairs—the rush of two men from the hall. The General and a servant were instantly upon him, and, what was worse, Cynthia's arms were around his neck, her hand upon his arm.
"Father, don't strike! You will kill somebody!" she cried.
"And what do I care? Is it you that have given me up? Do you want me to die like a rat in a hole?" the man cried, trying to shake her off.
But the men were at his side—resistance was useless—the door at the foot of the stairs had been barred, and there was no way of escape.
"The police will be here directly—keep him till they come!" cried the General at the top of his voice. "I shall give him in charge! He is the murderer Westwood, the man who killed my bother, Sydney Vane, and afterwards escaped from Portland Prison, where he was undergoing a life sentence! I remember the man perfectly. Sabina Meldreth, you can identify him?"
"Oh, yes, I can identify him!" said Sabina curtly. "He's Miss West's father, anyway—and we all know who that was. We heard her call him 'father' just now her very self."
The servants tightened their grasp on the man's arm. But at that moment an interruption occurred. The drawing-room door was flung open, and Hubert Lepel, ghastly pale, and staggering a little as he moved, appeared upon the scene.
"This must go no further," he said. "Keep the police away, and let this man go. He is not Sydney Vane's murderer."
"Don't interfere, sir!" shouted the General from the stairs. "This is Westwood, the man who escaped from Portland—and back to Portland he shall go!"
"It is Westwood, I know," said Herbert, supporting himself against the door-post, and looking down calmly upon the excited group below; "but Westwood was not a murderer. General, you have been mistaken all this time. I wish to make a statement of the truth—it was I who killed Sydney Vane! Now do what you like!"
A sudden hush fell upon the group. Each looked at the others aghast. The general opinion was that Mr. Lepel's fever had returned upon him and that he was raving. But at least three persons knew or suspected that he spoke only the truth.
"He's mad—delirious!" said the General angrily. "Take him back to his room, some of you, and help me to secure the criminal!"
"You had better come here and listen to my story first," said Hubert, still clutching at the door to steady himself. "Keep the police down-stairs for five minutes, General, if you please. Neither Westwood nor I shall escape in that time. Jenkins, drop that gentleman's arm!"
Jenkins relinquished his hold of Westwood's arm with great promptitude. Cynthia said a few words to him in an undertone which sent him down-stairs at once. She had heard the front door open and shut, and believed that the police had come. They, at least, could be detained for a few minutes—she had no hope of anything more; but she felt that Hubert's confession should be made to his own relatives first of all. She ran to his side and gave him her arm to lean upon, conducting him back to the drawing-room; and thither the others followed her in much agitation and perturbation of mind. The General was almost foaming at the mouth with rage; Miss Vane looked utterly blank and stupefied; Flossy's face was white as snow; Sabina watched the scene with stolid and sullen curiosity; while Westwood marched into the drawing-room with the air of a proud man unjustly assailed.
They found Hubert leaning against the mantelpiece. He would not sit down; but he was not strong enough to stand without support. Cynthia was clinging to him with her face half hidden on his shoulder; his arm was clasped about her waist.
"What does this mean?" said the General.
"It means," answered Flossy's quiet voice, "that Hubertis raving, and that the doctor must be sent for immediately."
"You know better than that, Florence," said her brother. "I speak the truth, and nothing but the truth. I accuse no one else," he said, with marked emphasis; "but I wish you all now to know what were the facts. It was I who met Sydney Vane that day in the fir plantation beside the road that leads up the hill to Beechfield. We quarrelled, and we agreed to settle the matter by a duel. We were unequally matched. He had a revolver and I had this man Westwood's gun, which I found on the ground. We fired, and Sydney fell."
There was a brief silence. Then a bitter cry escaped from Miss Vane's lips.
"Oh, Hubert, Hubert," she wailed, "can this be true?"
"God knows that it is true!" answered Hubert; and his face carried conviction if his words did not.
"It is impossible!" cried the General. "To begin with, if you had committed this crime—for a duel in the way you mention was a crime and nothing else—you would never have allowed this man to suffer for it. I absolutely refuse to believe, sir, that my kinsman is such a base, cowardly villain! This is a fit of delirium—nothing else!"
"It is simple truth," said Hubert sadly. "That I did not at once exonerate Andrew Westwood is, to my thinking, the worst part of my crime. I acknowledge that I—I dared not confess; and I left him to bear the blame."
"Good heavens, sir, do you tell me that to my face?" thundered the old man, with uplifted hand. "You are a disgrace to the family! I am glad that you do not bear my name."
He would perhaps even have struck the younger man if Cynthia had not twined her arms more closely round Hubert's neck, and made herself for the moment a defence to him. But Hubert drew himself away.
"Let me go, Cynthia," he said quietly. "You must not come between us. The General is right, and I am a disgrace to my name. He must do what he thinks fit."
But the General had turned away, and was walking furiously up and down the room, too angry and too much overcome for speech. Miss Vane was sobbing bitterly. Flossy watched her brother's face. She saw that he wastrying not to implicate her. Would she escape? If his silence and her own could save her, she would be safe. But she had reckoned without Andrew Westwood.
"I beg pardon, sir," said Cynthia's father, addressing himself to the General; "but this ain't fair! Mr. Lepel is getting more of the blame than he deserves. Suppose you let me speak a word for him?"
"You!" said the General, stopping short. "You, who have suffered his punishment, cannot have much to say for him! If—if this is true," he went on, with a curious mixture of stiffness and of shame, "we have much to answer for with respect to you—much to make up——"
"Not so much as maybe you think," said Andrew Westwood. "I was bitter enough at the time, and I have thought often and often of the words that I said at the trial—how I cursed the man that brought me to that pass and all that he held dear. Curses come home to roost, they say. At any rate, the person who is dearest to him, I believe, is my very own daughter, whom I myself love better that any one in the whole wide world; and far be it from me to wish evil to her or to any one that she loves."
Miss Vane's handkerchief fell to her lap. The General stared at the speaker open-mouthed. The man's native nobility of soul amazed them both. Andrew Westwood went on soberly.
"You have not asked Mr. Lepel how he came to fight Mr. Vane, sir. You might be sure that it wasn't for a poor reason; and there was never anything considered dishonorable in a fair fight between two armed men."
"That does not do away with the injury to yourself," said the General grimly. "Such blame as there was ought to have been borne by him and not by you."
Westwood waved his hand.
"As for injury," he said, "me and Cynthia have agreed to forget about that. If I'd been at Portland all this time, why, then no doubt I should feel it worse. But I got away after four years of it, and made my way to America, and 'struck ile' there. I've done better since then than, ever I did in my life before; so I have no need to complain. But you haven't asked him why he fought Mr. Vane, sir."
"Well, why was it?" said the General sternly and grudgingly.
He did not see that his wife suddenly rose from her seat,and with clasped hands darted a look full of miserable fear and entreaty towards her brother. But all the others saw, though some of them did not understand; and Hubert responded to the appeal.
"I cannot tell you," he answered, with his eyes on the ground.
"But I can!" said Westwood. "And Mrs. Vane could, if she chose! Blame her if you like, sir, for she's known the truth all along as much as Mr. Hubert's done; and it was to save her that he would not open his lips."
They had tried in vain to stop him—Hubert by angry imperative words, Flossy by a piteous cry of terror; but Westwood's rough sonorous voice rose above all other sounds. He paused for a moment, looking at the General's face of incredulous dismay, at Mrs. Vane's shrinking figure, and his tones softened a little as he spoke again.
"I don't wish to say more myself than is necessary. Miss Lepel as she was then and Mr. Sydney Vane were in the habit of meeting each other in the wood. Many of the village people knew it—it was common talk in Beechfield. Mr. Lepel found it out and was angry. He told Mr. Vane there must be no more of it; and then the quarrel followed that Mr. Lepel speaks about. I don't want to make too much of it"—casting a reluctant glance at Hubert—"but I think that Mr. Lepel was right in objecting and in trying to put a stop to it."
It was certain that he had very much softened the facts of the case; but the General could not have looked more confounded, or Flossy more overwhelmed, if a great deal more had been said. The veins swelled upon the old man's forehead, his face grew lividly purple as he strode over to his wife's side and laid his hand heavily on her shoulder.
"Florence, is this true?" he said.
She sat mute and shrinking in her chair, crushed as if beneath an invisible weight—her hands clasped, her white face averted. Miss Vane, watching her eagerly, felt with a thrill of horror that she looked like a guilty woman.
"Is this true?" the General asked again, giving her a little shake. But Flossy still sat mute.
Then Miss Vane interposed.
"Let her alone, Richard," she said. "She is overcome—she cannot answer just now. She will explain everything by-and-by."
"Speak!" cried the General, his eyes blazing with rage. He would have shaken her again and more violently if Hubert had not interfered.
"You forget, sir, that she is a woman and that she is your wife," he said. "Whatever may have happened in the past, she has no doubt regretted what was an imprudence. I was to blame for taking up the matter too seriously. You know what your brother was; I know my sister. We must judge them by what we know."
The words were halting and ambiguous; but they produced some effect. The General fell back, still gazing at his wife; and Flossy, released from the pressure of his heavy hand, sat up and looked about her with a strange red light glowing in her eyes. Then, to everybody's horror, she burst into a fit of wild laughter terrible to hear.
"He says that he knows his sister!" she cried. "Oh, yes—he knows her well enough! What maudlin stuff will he talk next? 'Imprudence' in meeting each other in the wood! I tell you that Sydney Vane loved me—that he was ready to abandon wife and child for me!"
"Florence, have mercy! Stop—stop!" cried Hubert. But his sister would not stop.
"He was ready to go to the world's end with me, I tell you! We had arranged to start the next day—we were going to Ceylon, never to come back again. We meant to be happy because we loved each other. That was what Hubert found out!" she cried, laughing wildly. "That was what he tried to stop! That was why he killed Sydney Vane—the man I loved—oh, Heaven, the man for whom I would have sold my very soul!"
And then the hysteric passion overcame her, and she fell back in a frenzy of laughter, sobs, and screams, painful alike to see and hear. Cynthia, Miss Vane, and Sabina went to her aid. Between them they carried her into another room, whence her terrible screams resounded at intervals through the house; and the three men were left alone. The General sank down upon a chair near the table and hid his face in his hands. He was breathing heavily, and every now and then a moan escaped him in the silence of the room.
"Oh, Heaven," he said, "what have I done that this should come upon me all at once? What have I done?"
Hubert, exhausted by the excitement that he had gonethrough, staggered to the sofa and threw himself down upon it. Westwood remained in his former position, grasping the back of a chair and looking from one to the other, as if he were anxious to help, but knew not how to offer any assistance. In the silence that prevailed, the sound of heavy footsteps could be distinctly heard upon the stairs. The police had arrived at last.
Almost immediately Cynthia and Sabina Meldreth returned to the room. They had left Miss Vane with Florence, who seemed more manageable when her aunt touched her and spoke to her than with anybody else. And, as soon as they came in, Cynthia went up to Hubert, kissed him, and sat down beside him, holding her hand in his. But Sabina Meldreth looked fixedly at the General.
"Don't take on, sir!" she said, going up to the table and speaking rather softly. "She ain't worth it—she's a reg'lar bad 'un, she is!"
"Woman, how dare you!" cried the poor General, starting from his seat, and turning his discolored face, his bloodshot eyes, angrily upon the intruder. "I do not believe a word—a word you say! My wife is—is above reproach—my wife—the mother of my boy!" There was a curious little hitch in his speech, as if he could not say the words he wanted to say.
"The mother of your boy!" cried Sabina, with intense scorn. "Much mother she was to him! Look here, sir! I'll own the truth now, and perhaps it will soften things a bit to you. The boy was not Mrs. Vane's at all—he was mine."
Everyone started. The General uttered an inarticulate cry of rage; then his head dropped on his hands, and he did not speak again. In vain Hubert tried to silence the speaker.
"Keep your story for another time," he said. "There is no need to make such accusations now. You cannot substantiate them, and you are only paining General Vane."
"You'd better ask Miss Enid, sir," said the woman half defiantly, half desperately. "She knows. It troubled her a good bit as to whether she ought to tell the General or not; but I believe she decided not. Mrs. Vane thought that if she married you you would keep her quiet. My mother confessed it all to Miss Enid on her death-bed.I expect the Rector knows too by this time. He was always trying to get it out of me."
"Can this be true?" said Hubert, half to himself and half to the General. But the old man, with his head bowed upon the table, did not seem to hear.
"It's true as Gospel!" said Sabina. "And I don't much care who knows it now. My prospects are all gone, as far as I can make out. This gentleman here is not the murderer, it seems, and so I sha'n't get the three hundred pounds for finding him; and Mrs. Vane's payments will be stopped now, no doubt. She was giving me two hundred a year. I'll take less if you like to give me something, sir, for going away and holding my tongue. When Mrs. Vane knew about—about me, and mother was in trouble over my misfortune, it was just at the time when your own little baby was born, sir. It was a boy too, and it died when it was only twelve hours old. And Mrs. Vane spoke to mother about my baby that was just the same age; and mother and I both thought it would be a good thing if my little boy could be made the heir of Beechfield Hall. For in that way Mrs. Vane's position would be better, and she would be able to pay mother and me a good round sum. And so we settled it. But now poor little Dick's dead and gone, and all Mrs. Vane's schemes have come to naught. Mother always said that there would be a bad ending to the affair."
"You seem to have forgotten, young woman," said Andrew Westwood sternly, "that there is a God above us all who takes care of the innocent and punishes the guilty."
"I'd not forgotten it," said Sabina, confronting him with an unabashed air; "but I hadn't believed it till now."
At that moment an inspector in plain clothes, who had been hastily fetched from Scotland Yard, made his way into the room and inquired what he was wanted for.
"We shall both have to go with you, I think," said Hubert firmly, glancing at Westwood as he rose. "I presume that you cannot liberate Mr. Westwood at once."
"What—Westwood the convict? I should think not!" said the inspector briskly; and he made a sign to his men, who stepped forward with a pair of handcuffs.
"I shall come quietly enough," said Westwood, with a smile. "You needn't trouble yourself about the bracelets."
"Ah, I dare say!" said the inspector. "You've beenrather a slippery customer hitherto, I believe. We'll make sure of you now."
But Hubert interfered.
"No, no," he said—"Westwood is innocent! It was I—I who committed the crime for which he was condemned. Put the handcuffs on me, if on any one, but not on that innocent man!"
"Well, this is a rum start!" said the inspector to himself. "You don't look very fit to run away, sir; we won't trouble you," he said to Hubert with a friendly smile. "Head wrong, I suppose?" he asked of Cynthia, in a stage-aside.
They had some trouble in convincing him that Hubert meant to be taken to the station with Westwood; and, even when he had heard the story, it was plain that he did not quite believe it. However, he consented to let Hubert accompany him and then he remarked that, as it was getting late, it would be better if his companions started at once.
"And the old gentleman?" he said, looking at the General with interest. "Is he coming too?"
Hubert hesitated. Then he went up to the old man and touched him gently on the shoulder.
"Will you not look at me, sir?" he said. "Have you nothing to say to me before I go?"
No, he had nothing to say; he would never say anything again. The General was dead.
The proceedings relating to Westwood's trial and Hubert Lepel's confession naturally excited great interest. The whole matter had to be investigated once more; and it could not be denied that a howl of indignation at Hubert's conduct went up through the length and breadth of the land. Even Flossy's indiscretions—to call them by no harsher name—were not held to excuse him for suppressing the fact that he had taken Sydney Vane's life, and then allowed Andrew Westwood to suffer the penalty of a crime which he had not committed. The details that came out one after another whetted the public appetite toan incredible extent. And in such a case it soon became evident that no details could be suppressed at all. Even the fact of the attachment between Hubert and Cynthia leaked out, although everybody tried hard to keep it a secret; and great was the wonder excited by Cynthia's steady refusal to give up the lover who had nearly caused her father's death.
"She must be a heartless creature indeed!" the busybodies said. "Who ever heard of such a revolting position? Has her father cast her off? What a grief it must be to him! It is like a terrible old Greek tragedy!"
And, when the busybodies heard that Westwood had not objected to his child's marriage with Hubert Lepel, and had actually appeared to be friendly with him, they concluded that all parties concerned must be equally devoid of the finer qualities of human nature, and that a painful revelation of baseness and secret vice had just been made.
But, in spite of public indignation, it was not possible for Hubert Lepel to receive very severe punishment from the arm of the law. He had never been examined at Westwood's trial—and the law does not compel a man to inculpate himself. He was held to have committed manslaughter, and he was condemned to two years' imprisonment. And Westwood received a "free pardon" from the Queen—which Cynthia thought a very inadequate way of testifying to his innocence; and he walked through London streets a free man once more, and might have been made into a hero had he chosen, especially when it became known that he was very well off, and that he had a daughter so beautiful and gifted as the young lady who had previously been known to the general public as Cynthia West.
Cynthia was entreated to sing again and again, and was assured that people would flock to hear her and to see her more than ever. But she steadily refused to sing in any public place. She could not overcome the feeling that her audience only came to stare at her as Westwood's daughter, and not to hear her sing. She withdrew therefore from the musical profession, and lived a quiet life in London with her father, who had postponed his departure for a few weeks. He would not return to America until the close of Hubert Lepel's trial.
The General's sad death, caused chiefly by excitement,was felt, when the shock was passed, to be almost a relief for his friends. They all felt that it would have been sad indeed if the old man had lived to see himself desolate, his name dragged through the mud, his wife branded with shame, the boy that he had loved not only laid in the grave, but known to be no kin to him at all. He could not have borne it; his life would have been a misery to him; and it was perhaps well that he should die. His will had been unsigned, and the property therefore passed to Enid, with the usual "half" to his widow.
Flossy found herself better off than she had expected to be. She never seemed to regret her actions, not even the hysterical outburst which had caused her to confess her guilt and to hasten the General's end. She declared herself relieved that she had now nothing to conceal. As for the execration that she met with from all who knew her story, she cared very little indeed. She refused to see her old acquaintances, and went abroad as soon as possible. Her lawyer alone knew her address—for she did not correspond with her English friends; but she was occasionally heard of at a foreign watering-place, where she posed as an interesting widow completely misunderstood by a sadly prejudiced world. In time she married again, and it was said that her husband, a Russian nobleman, ill-treated-her; but Flossy was quite capable of holding her own against any number of Russia noblemen, and it was more likely that he suffered at her hands than she at his. In the wild Northern lands however she finally made her home; and she announced to her lawyer her determination never to set foot in England again. A traveller who afterwards came across her in Russian reported to her relatives that she was looking haggard and worn, that she was said to take chloral regularly, and that she suffered from some obscure disease of the nerves for which no doctor could find a cure. And thus she passed out of the lives of her English friends—unloved, unmourned, unhappy, and, in spite of wealth and title, unsuccessful in all that she tried to attain.
Enid, the owner of Beechfield Hall, took a dislike to the place, and would not live in it for many a long day. She remained with Miss Vane until a year had passed after the General's death, and then she married Mr. Evandale and took up her abode at the Rectory. Shemade an ideal parson's wife. Her health had grown stronger in the quiet atmosphere of Miss Vane's home; and, curiously enough, she never had another of her strange "seizures" after her departure from Beechfield Hall. She herself always believed that she had conquered them by an effort of will; but Mr. Evandale was disposed to think that she had been occasionally put under the influence of some drug by Mrs. Vane, and that Mrs. Vane had either wished to remove her altogether from her path or undermine her health and intellect completely. At a later date she had grown tired of this method, and tried to take a quicker way; but in this attempt she had been foiled. Parker remained in Enid's service, and made a faithful nurse, devoted to her mistress and her mistress's children, and above all devoted to her master, who had spoken to her gently of her past, and given her new hope for the future.
And, when the little Evandales began to overflow the Rectory nurseries, Enid managed to conquer her distaste for the stately old Hall that had stood empty for so many years, and came thither with her family to fill the vacant rooms with merry faces, and to chase away all ghosts of a tragic past by the sound of eager voices, of laughter, and of pattering feet. And then a deeper love for the old home, now grown so beautiful and dear, stirred within her; and in time she even marvelled at herself that she had stayed away so long from Beechfield Hall.
Sabina Meldreth developed in a curious direction. The Rector "got hold of her," as he expressed it, and managed to lay his finger on the soft spot in her heart. It proved to be a remorseful love for delicate children; and this trait of character became her salvation. She never talked of the past or said that she repented; but she gave herself little by little, with strange steadfastness and thoroughness, to the service of sick children in hospitals. She went through a nurse's training, and got an engagement as nurse in the Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children. Here she seemed happy; and the children loved her—which some people thought odd, because she preserved a good deal of her roughness of manner and abruptness of speech in ordinary life. But she was made of finer fibre than one would have imagined, and children never found her harsh or unkind or unsympathetic. The memory of little Dick remained with her perhaps, but she never spoke of him.
During the months of Hubert's imprisonment Cynthia did not correspond with him. He had asked her not to do so. Her letters would of course have been overlooked. All that she could do until the trial was over was to send him flowers, which he was permitted to receive; and very dear those boxes of rare blossoms soon became to him. He spent a great part of his time in the infirmary; for his strength had been very much tried during the time of his convalescence, and it often seemed as if his anticipations were to be realised, and as if his term of punishment would not last very long. Cynthia had made him promise that she should be summoned to his side if he were absolutely in danger. For many a week she used to be half afraid to look at her letters in the morning, lest the dread summons should be amongst them; but, after a time, her courage began to revive, and she dared—yes, she actually dared—to hope for a brighter future. But, when the term of his imprisonment began, she knew that she must wait patiently for its end before the cloud of darkness was lifted from her life.
"It's about time we was getting back to the States, I reckon," her father said to her one day.
"So soon, father?"
"What should we stay in England for?" he asked, without glancing at her. "I want to get back to my work; and I want to show you the place, and see about the new house."
For at times he drew glowing pictures of the house that he intended to build for Cynthia some day. Cynthia used to smile and listen very sweetly. She never contradicted him; she only grew a little abstracted now and then when he waxed very eloquent, and drew the needle a little faster through the work that she now affected. He did not usually seem to notice her silence; but on this occasion he broke out rather petulantly.
"One would think you took no interest in it at all! You might sometimes remember that it's all for you."
"I do remember it, father dear—and I am very grateful."
"Well, then," said Westwood, at once restored to cheerfulness, "just you look here at these plans. I've been talking to an architect, and this is the drawing he's made for me. Nice mansion that, isn't it? You see,there's the ground-floor—a study for me, and a drawing-room and a morning-room, and all sorts of things for you; and here's a wing which can be added on or not, as is required. Because," he went on rather quickly and nervously, "if you was to marry out there, you could set up house-keeping with him, you know; and, when the family grew too large for the house, we could just add room after room—here, you see—until we had enough."
"Yes, father." And then Cynthia added with simplicity, which was perhaps a little assumed. "Miss Enid Vane says that Hubert will be ordered to the Riviera for the winter when—when he is free."
"What has that to do with it?" said Westwood, rolling up his plans and moving a few steps away from her.
"Only that perhaps we had better not think too much about the house, father. We might not be able to come to it."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" her father said slowly. "You're still thinking of Mr. Lepel, Cynthia?"
"Yes, father dear."
"You mean to marry the man that would have seen me hang and never said a word to save me?"
"He would not have done that, you know, father. He spoke out at last, in order to save you from being rearrested. And you gave me your consent before——"
"Ay, before I knew that he had done the deed! I thought that his sister had done it, and that he was keeping her secret, when I gave my consent, my girl. It makes a deal of difference."
"Not to me," said Cynthia quietly. "He did wrong; but I learned to love him before I knew the story; and I can't leave off loving him now."
Westwood sat down and began rapping the table with his roll of plans in a meditative manner.
"Women are curious folk," he said at last. "When a man's prosperous, they nag at him and make his life a weariness to him; but, when he's in trouble, they can't be too faithful nor too fond. It's awkward sometimes."
"But it's their nature, you see, father," said Cynthia, smiling a little as she folded up her work.
"I suppose it is. And I suppose—being one of them—it's nothing to you that this man's name has been cried high and low throughout the British Empire as a monster ofiniquity, a base cowardly villain, so afraid of being found out that he nearly let another man swing for him—that's nothing to you, eh?"
Cynthia's cheeks burned.
"It is nothing to me because it is not true," she said. "I know the world says so; but the world is wrong. He is not cowardly—he is not base; he has a noble heart. And when he did wrong it was for his sister's sake and to save her from punishment—not for his own. Oh, father, you never spoke so hardly of him before!"
"I am only repeating what the world says," replied Westwood stolidly. "I am not stating my own private opinion. What the world says is a very important thing, Cynthia."
"I don't care for what it says!" cried Cynthia impatiently.
"But I care—not for myself, but for you. And we've got to pay some attention to it—you and I and the man you marry, whoever he may be."
"It will be Hubert Lepel or nobody, father."
"It may be Hubert; but it won't be Hubert Lepel with my consent. He has no call to be very proud of his name that I can see. Look here, Cynthia! When he comes out, you can tell him this from me—he may marry you if he'll take the name of 'Westwood' and give up that of 'Lepel'. Many a man does that, I'm told, when he comes into a fortune. Well, you're a fortune in yourself, besides what I've got to leave you. If he won't do that, he won't do much for you."
"I am not ashamed of his name," said Cynthia, with a little tremor in her voice.
"Well, perhaps not; but I'd rather it was so. I don't think I'm unreasonable, my dear. 'Lepel' isn't a common name, and it's too well known. As 'Mrs. Hubert Westwood' you will escape remark much more easily than as 'Mrs. Hubert Lepel.' I don't think it is too much to ask; and it's the one condition I make before I give my consent to his marrying you."
"I will tell him, father. Perhaps he will not mind."
"If he minds, he won't be worthy of you—that's all I've got to say," said Westwood, rising to his feet and preparing to leave the room.
But Cynthia intercepted him:
"Father, if he consents, you will forgive him, will you not?" she said putting her hands on his shoulder and looking anxiously into his eyes.
"Forgive him, my dear? Well, I suppose I have done that, or I shouldn't say that he might marry you at all."
"And you will forget the past, and love him a little for my sake?"
"I'm bound to love the people you love, Cynthy," said the old man stooping to kiss the beautiful face, and patting her cheek with his roll of plans; "and I don't think you've got any call to feel afraid."