Enid had the look of a veritable snow-queen thought Hubert, as he came upon her a day or two later in a littlesalonopening out of the drawing-room, and found her gazing out upon a landscape of which all the lines were blurred in falling snow. She was dressed in a white woollen gown, which was confined at her waist by a simple white ribbon, and had white fur at the throat and wrists.
The dead-white suited her delicate complexion and golden hair; she had the soft and stainless look of a newly fallen snowflake, which to touch were to destroy. Hubert almost felt as if he ought not to speak to one so far removed from him—one set so high above him by her innocence and purity. And yet he was bound to speak.
"You like the snow?" he began.
"Yes—as much as I like anything."
"At your age," said Hubert slowly, "you should like everything."
"You think I am so very young!"
"Well—seventeen."
"Oh, but I don't feel young at all!" the girl said half wearily, half bitterly. "I seem to have lived centuries! You know, cousin Hubert, there are very few girls of my age who have had all the trouble that I have had."
"You have had a great deal—you have been the victim of a tragedy," said Hubert gloomily, not able to deny the truth of her remark, even while he was forced to remember that many other girls of Enid's age had far more real and tangible sorrows than she. The vision of a girl pleading with him to find her work flashed suddenly across his mind; her words about London Bridge—"her last resource"—occurred to him; and his common sense told him that after all Enid's position, sad and lonely though it was, could scarcely be called so pitiable as that of Cynthia West. But it was not his part to tell her so; his own share in producing Enid's misfortunes sealed his lips.
What he said however was almost too direct an allusion to the past to be thought sympathetic by Enid. A very natural habit had grown up at Beechfield Hall of never mentioning her father's fate; and this silence had had the bad result of making her brood over the matter without daring to reveal her thoughts. The word "tragedy" seemed to her almost like a profanation. It sent the hot blood rushing into her face at once. Enid's organisation was peculiarly delicate and sensitive; her knowledge of the publicity given to the details of her father's death was torture to her. She was glad of the seclusion in which the General lived, because when she went into Whitminster, she would hear sometimes a rumor, a whispered word—"Look—that is the daughter of Sydney Vane who was murdered a few years ago! Extraordinary case—don't you remember it?"—and the consciousness that these words might be spoken was unbearable to her. Hubert had touched an open wound somewhat too roughly.
He saw his mistake.
"Forgive me for speaking of it," he said. "I fancied that you were thinking of the past."
"Oh, no, no—not of that!" cried Enid, scarcely knowing what she said.
"Of other troubles?" Hubert queried very softly. It was natural that he should think of what Flossy had said to him quite recently.
"Yes—of other things."
"Can you not tell me what they are?" he said gently, taking one of her slight hands in his own.
"Oh, no—not you!"
She was thinking of him as Florence's brother, possibly even as Florence's accomplice in a crime; but he attributed her refusal to a very different motive. Tell him her troubles? Of course she could not do so, poor child, when her troubles came from love of him. He was not a coxcomb, but he believed what Flossy had said.
"Not me? You cannot tell me?" he said, drawing her away from the cold uncurtained windows with his hand still on hers. "And can I do nothing to lighten your trouble, dear?"
She looked at him doubtfully.
"I—don't—know."
"Enid, tell me."
"Oh, no!" she cried. "I can't tell you—I can't tell any one—I must bear it all alone!"—and then she burst into tears, not into noisy sobs, but into a nearly silent passion of grief which went to the very heart of the man who stood at her side. She drew her hand away from his and laid it upon the mantelpiece, which she crept to and leaned against, sobbing miserably meanwhile, as if she needed the support that solid stone could give.
Her slender figure, in its closely-fitting white gown, shook from head to foot. It was as much as Hubert could do to restrain himself from putting his arm round it, drawing it closely to him, and silencing the sobs with kisses. But his feeling was that of a grown-up person to a child whom he wanted to comfort and protect, not that of a man to the woman whom he loved. He waited therefore silently, with a fixed look of mingled pain and determination upon his face, until she had grown a little calmer. When at last her figure ceased to vibrate with sobs, he came closer and put his hand caressingly upon her shoulder.
"Enid," he said, "I have asked you before if I could make you happier; you never answered the question. Will you tell me now?"
She raised herself from her drooping attitude, and stood with averted face; but still she did not speak.
"Perhaps you hardly know what I mean. I am willing—anxious—to give my whole life to you, Enid, my child. If you can trust yourself to my hands, I will take such care of you that you shall never know trouble or sorrow again, if care can avert it. Give me the right to do this for you, dear. You shall not have cause to repent your trust. Look at me, Enid, and tell me that you trust me."
Why that insistence on the word "trust"? Was it—strange contradiction—because he felt himself so utterly unworthy of her confidence? He said not a word of love.
Enid looked round at him at last. Her gentle face was pale, her lashes were wet with tears, but the traces of emotion were not unbecoming to her. Even to Hubert's cold eyes, cold and critical in spite of himself, she was lovelier than ever.
"I want to trust you—I do trust you," she said; but there were trouble and perplexity in her voice. "I don't know what to do. You would not let me be deceived,Hubert? You would not let dear uncle be tricked and cheated into thinking—thinking—by Flossy, I mean——Oh, I can't tell you! If you knew what I know, you would understand."
Hubert had never been in greater danger of betraying his own secret. Knowing of no other, his first instinctive thought was that Enid had learnt the true story of her father's death and Flossy's share in bringing it about; but a second thought, quickly following the first, showed him that in that case she would never have said that she wanted to trust him, or that he would not let her and her uncle be deceived. No, it could not be that. But what was it?
By a terrible effort he kept himself from visibly blenching at her words. He stood still holding her hands, feeling himself a villain to the very lowest depths of his soul, but looking quietly down at her, with even a slight smile on the lips that—do what he would—had turned pale—the ruddy firelight glancing on his face prevented this change of color from being seen.
"But how can I understand," he said, "when I have not the slightest notion of what you mean?"
"You have not?"
"Not the least in the world."
She crept a little closer to him.
"You are not sheltering Flossy from punishment?"
It was what he had been doing for the past eight years.
"Good heavens, Enid," he cried, losing his self-possession a little for the first time, "what on earth can you possibly mean?"
She thought that he was indignant, and she hastened tremblingly to appease his apparent wrath.
"I don't mean to accuse you or her," she said; "I have said a great deal too much. I can trust you, Hubert—oh, I am sure I can! Forgive me for the moment's doubt."
"If you have not accused me, you have accused my sister. I must know what you mean."
"Forgive me, cousin Hubert! I can't tell you—even you."
"But, my dear Enid, if you said so much, you must say more."
"I will never say anything again!" she said, her face quivering all over like that of a troubled child.
He loosed her hands and looked at her steadily for a moment; he had more confidence in his power over her now.
"I think you should make me understand what you mean, dear. Do you accuse my sister of anything?"
She looked frightened.
"No, indeed I do not. I don't know what I am saying, Hubert. Tell me one thing. Do you think we should ever do wrong—or what seems to be wrong—for the sake of other people's happiness? Clergymen and good people say we should not; but I do not know."
"Enid, you have not been consulting that parson at Beechfield about it?"
"Not exactly. At least"—the ingenuous face changed a little—"we talked on that subject, because he knew that I was in trouble, but I did not tell him anything. He said one should always tell the truth at any cost."
"And theoretically one should do so," said Hubert, trying to soothe her, yet feeling himself a corrupter of her innocent candor of mind as he went on; "but practically it would not be always wise or right. When you marry, Enid"—he drew her towards him—"you can confess to your husband, and he will absolve you."
"Perhaps that is what would be best," she answered softly.
"To no man but your husband, Enid."
She drew a quick little sigh.
"You can trust me?" he said, in a still lower voice.
"Oh, yes," she said—"I am sure I can trust you! It was only for a moment—you must not mind what I said. You will it set all right when you know."
He was silent, seeing that she had grasped his meaning more quickly than he had anticipated, and had, in fact, accepted him, quite simply and confidently, as her husband that was to be. Her child-like trust was at that moment very bitter to him. He bent his head and kissed her forehead as a father might have done.
"My dear Enid," he said, "we must remember that you are very young. I feel that I may be taking advantage of your inexperience—as if some day you might reproach me for it."
"I told you I did not feel young," she said gently; "but perhaps I cannot judge. Do what you please."
The listlessness in her voice almost angered Hubert.
"Do you not love me then?" he asked.
"Oh, yes—I always loved you!" said the girl. But there was no look of a woman's love in her grave eyes. "You were always so kind to me, dear cousin Hubert; and indeed I feel as if I could trust you absolutely. You shall decide for me in everything."
There was certainly relief in her tone; but Hubert had looked for something more.
"I have been wanting to speak to you for several days," he said, "but I have never had the opportunity before; and I must tell you, dear, that I spoke to the General before I spoke to you."
"Oh," Enid's fair face flushed a little. "I thought—I did not know that you intended—when you began to speak to me first, I mean——"
Hubert could not help smiling.
"I understand; you thought I spoke on a sudden impulse of affection, longing to comfort and help you. So I did. But that is not incompatible with previous thought and preparation, is it? Surely my care for you—my love for you—would be worth less as a sudden growth than as a plant of long and hardy growth?" He groaned inwardly at the subterfuge contained in the last few words, but he felt that it was unavoidable.
Enid looked up and gave him an answering smile.
"Oh, yes, I see!" she said hurriedly; but there was some little dissatisfaction in her mind, she did not quite know why.
Even her innocent heart dimly discerned the fact that Hubert was not her ideal lover. His wooing had scarcely been ardent in tone; and to find that it had all been discussed, mapped out, as it were, and formally permitted by the General, and perhaps by his wife, gave her a sudden chill. For Flossy's interpretation of Enid's melancholy was by no means a true one. She had dreamed a little of Hubert in a vague romantic way, as young girls are apt to do when a new-comer strikes their fancy; but she had not set her heart upon him at all in the way which Florence had led her brother to believe. There was certainly danger lest she should do so now.
"The General says," Hubert went on more lightly, "that you cannot be expected to know your own mind for a couple of years. What do you say to that?"
"I think that uncle Richard might know me better," said the girl, smiling. She was still standing on the hearthrug, and Hubert put his arm round her as he spoke.
"And he will not consent even to an engagement until you are eighteen, Enid. But he did not forbid me to speak to you and ask you whether you cared for me, and if you would wait two years."
"Oh, why should it be so long?" the girl cried out; and then she turned crimson, seeing the meaning that Hubert attached to her words. "I only mean," she said, "that I wanted to tell you everything that was in my mind just now."
"And can't you do it now, little darling?"
"No, not now."
"I must wait for that, must I? We must see if we can soften the General's obdurate heart, my dear. But you are not unhappy now?"
To his surprise, the shadow rose again in her beautiful eyes, the lips fell into their old mournful lines.
"I don't know," she said sadly. "I ought not to be; but after all perhaps this does not make things any better. Oh, I wish I could forget what I know—what I have heard!"
"It is about Flossy?" said Hubert, in a whisper.
She hid her face, upon his shoulder without a word.
"My poor child, I am half inclined to think that I can guess. I know that Flossy's life has not been all that it should have been. No, don't tell me—I will not ask you again unless you wish to confide in me."
"You said you did not know."
"I do not know—exactly; but I suspect; and, my dear Enid, we can do nothing. Make your mind easy on that point. Our highest duty now is to hold our tongues."
He thought, naturally enough, that she had heard of Florence's secret interviews with Sydney Vane—so much, he was certain, even the village-people knew—that in her visits to the cottages she had heard some story of this kind, and had been distressed—that was all.
"Do you really think so?" said Enid, clinging to him. She was only too thankful to get rid of the responsibility of judging for herself. "You do not think that uncle Richard ought to know?"
"My dear girl, what an idea! Certainly not! Do you want to break the old man's heart?"
"He is very fond of little Dick," murmured Enid, rather to herself than to him.
He did not lay hold of the clue that her words might have given him if he had attended to them more closely. He went on encouragingly—
"And of his wife too. No, dear, we cannot wreck his happiness by scruples of that kind. We must endure our knowledge—or our suspicions—in silence. Besides, what you have heard may not be true."
"Do you think so, Hubert?" she said wistfully.
"It is better surely to take a charitable view, is it not?"
"Oh, thank you! That is just what I wanted!" she said, a new brightness stealing into her eyes and cheeks. "Yes, I am sure that I must have been hard and uncharitable. I will try to think better things. And, oh, Hubert, you have really made me happy now!"
"That is what I wanted," said Hubert, with a sigh, as for the first time he pressed his lips to hers. "Your happiness, Enid, is all that I wish to secure."
He was in earnest; and it did not seem hard to him that in trying to secure her happiness he had perhaps lost his own.
"A Grand Morning Concert will be given on Thursday, June 25th, at Ebury's Rooms, by the pupils of Madame della Scala. By kind permission of Mr. Mapleson, the followingartisteswill appear." Then followed a list of well known operatic vocalists, also Miss This, That, and the other—"and Miss Cynthia West." The last half-dozen names were not as yet famous.
The above intimation, together with much detail concerning time, place, and performers, was printed on a very large gilt-edged card; and two such cards, enclosed in a thick square envelope, lay upon Hubert Lepel's breakfast-table some months after the New Year's holiday which he had spent at Beechfield Hall.
He looked at them with an amused, interested smile,and read the words more than once—then, with equal interest, perused a programme of the concert, which had also been enclosed.
"So it is to-day, is it?" he said to himself, as he finished his cup of coffee. "She is late in sending me a ticket; I shall scarcely be able to nail any of the critics for her now. I would have got Gurney to write her a notice if I had known earlier. Probably that is the very reason why she did not let me know—independent young woman that she is! I'll go and see what I can do for her even at the eleventh hour. She shall have a good big bouquet for herdébut, at any rate!"
He sallied forth, making his way to his club, where he found occasion to remark to more than one of his friends that Madame della Scala's concert would be worth going to, and that a young lady who had formerly been known in the theatrical world—Miss Cynthia West—would make herdébutas a public singer that afternoon. Meeting Marcus Gurney, the well-known musical critic of an influential paper, soon afterwards, he pressed upon him his spare ticket for the concert, and gave him to understand that it would be a really good-natured thing if he could turn in at Ebury's Rooms between three and four, and write something for theScourgethat would not injure that very promisingdébutante, Miss West. Marcus Gurney laughed and consented, and Hubert went off well pleased; he had at least stopped the mouth of the bitterest critic in London, he reflected—for, though Gurney was personally one of the most amiable of men, he could be very virulent in print. Then he went off to Covent Garden, and selected two of the loveliest bouquets he could find—one, of course, for Cynthia, and one for her teacher, Madame della Scala. For Hubert was wise in his generation.
He had seen very little of Cynthia West during the last few months, and had not heard her sing at all. Shortly after his second interview with her, he had sent her to Italy for the winter, so that she might have a course of lessons from the most celebrated teacher in Milan. He was gratified to hear that there had been at least nothing to unlearn. Old Lalli had done his work very thoroughly; he had trained her voice as only a skilled musician could have done; and, on hearing who had been her teacher, the great Italianmaestrohad thrown up his hands and asked her why she came to him.
"You will have no need of me," he had said to her. "Lalli—did you not know?—he was once ourprimo tenorein opera! He would have been great—ah, great—if he had not lost his voice in an expedition to your terrible England! So he stayed there and played the violon, did he? And he taught you to sing with your mouth round and close like that—my own method! La, la, la, la! We shall see you at La Scala before we have done!"
But, when the spring came, and he himself was about to fulfil an engagement in Berlin, he handed Cynthia over to the care of Madame della Scala, who was then going to England, and advised her to sing in public—even to take a professional engagement—if she had the chance, and, if not, to spend another winter under his tuition in Milan. So Cynthia came back to London in May, and lived with Madame della Scala, and was heard by nobody until the day of the annual semi-private concert, which Madame della Scala loved to give for the benefit of herself and her best pupils.
Hubert reached the rooms at three precisely. He might easily have sent in his name and obtained a little chat with Cynthia beforehand in the artists' room; but he did not care to do that. He wanted to see her first; he was curious to know whether her new experiences had taken effect upon her, and how she would bear herself before her judges. He had seen her once only since her return from Italy, and then but for a few minutes in the society of other people. He could not tell whether she was changed or not; and he was curious to know.
She had written to him from Italy several times—letters like herself, vivacious, sparkling, full of spirit and humor. He knew her very well from these letters, and he was inclined to wish that he knew her better. He would see how she looked before she knew that he was present; it would be amusing to note whether she found him out or not.
Thus he argued to himself; and then, with perverse want of logic, after saying that he did not wish her to know that he was there, he sent his bouquets to the green-room for teacher and pupil alike, and compromised matters by attaching his card to Madame's bouquet only, and not to that which he sent to Cynthia West—a feeble compromise certainly, and entirely ineffectual.
He seated himself on a green-colored bench on the right-hand side of the room, and looked around him at the audience. It consisted largely of mothers and other relatives of the pupils, some of whom came from the most aristocratic houses in England—largely also of critics, and of musical persons with flowing hair and note-books. Hubert knew Madame della Scala's reputation; it was here that theimpresarioon the watch for new talent always came—it was here that the career of more than one famous English singer had been successfully begun. It was of some importance therefore that Cynthia should sing her best and do her utmost to impress her audience.
Having looked about him and consulted his programme, Hubert glanced at the platform, and was aware that a little comedy was being enacted for the benefit of all persons present.
Madame della Scala was first led forward by a bevy of admiring pupils, Cynthia not being one, and made her bow to the audience with an air of gracious humility that was very effective indeed. She was a dark, thin little woman who had once been handsome, and was still striking in appearance. She had been an operatic singer in days gone by, and had taken up the profession of a teacher only when her vocal powers began to fail. In demi-toilette, with ribbons and medals adorning her square-cut bodice, long gloves on her hands, and a fan between her fingers, the little lady curtseyed, smiled, gesticulated, in a charmingly foreign way, which procured for her the warmest plaudits of the audience. One felt that, though she herself was not about to perform in person, she considered herself responsible for the efforts of her pupils, and made herself fascinating on their behalf.
A large screen was placed on one side of the platform, and a grand piano nearly filled the other side, leaving a central space for the performers. At first Hubert had wondered why the screen was there. Now he saw its use. Madame della Scala seated herself in a chair behind it, with her face to the singers—evidently under the delusion that her figure was completely hidden from the audience, and that she could, unseen, direct, stimulate, or reprove the singers by movement of head, hands, handkerchief, and fan. The man[oe]uvre would have been successful enough, but for the fact that the back of the platform wasentirely filled with a sheet of looking-glass, and that in this mirror her gestures and facial contortions were all distinctly visible to the greater number of the listeners. Hubert found great satisfaction in watching the different expressions of her countenance; he told himself that Madame's face was the most interesting part of the performance. How sweetly she smiled at her favorite pupils from the shadow of the screen! How she nodded her head and beat time with her fingers to the songs they sang! How, in moments of uncontrollable excitement, she waved her hands and swayed her body and gesticulated with her fan! It was a comedy in dumb show. And, as each girl-singer, after performing her part and curtseying to the audience, passed her teacher on the way to the artists' room, Madame seized her impulsively by both hands, and drew her down to impress a kiss of satisfaction on the performer's forehead. The woman's old charm as an actress, the Southern grace and excitability and warmth, were never more evident than when reflected in Madame's movements behind the screen that afternoon, and visible to the audience—did she know it after all?—only in a looking-glass.
The humor of the situation impressed Hubert, and made him glad that he had come. The whole scene had something foreign, something half theatrical about it. An English teacher of music would have effaced herself—would have shaken with nervousness and scowled at her pupils. Madame had no idea of effacing herself at all. She was benignity, composure, affability incarnate. The girls were all her "dear angels," who were helping to make her concert a success. When, at a preconcerted signal in the middle of the afternoon, she was led forward by one of her most distinguished pupils, and presented by a group of adoring girls with a great basket of flowers, her whole face beamed with satisfaction, her medals and orders and brooches twinkled responsively as she curtseyed, waved her fan, spread out her lace and silken draperies, and slipped gracefully back into the screen's obscurity once more. Only one littlecontretempsoccurred to mar the harmony of the scene. Just as Madame had returned to her seat, the screen, displaced a little by her movement, fell over, dragging down flower-pots and ferns, and almost upsetting Madame herself. The bevy of girls rushed to pick her up,gentlemen and attendants came to the rescue, and in a few moments Madame was reinstated, a little shaken and flustered, but amiable as ever, the screen was replaced more securely, and the concert proceeded with decorum.
But where all this time was Cynthia? She had not joined the cluster of girls who presented the flowers to Madame, or run to pick her up when the screen fell down. Madame was reserving Cynthia for a great effect. She did not appear until nearly the end of the first part of the concert, when she came on to sing an Italian aria.
"More beautiful than ever!" was Hubert's first reflection. "More beautiful than I remembered her! Is she nervous? No, I think not. Her face will take the town if her voice does not." And then he settled himself to listen. He was far more nervous than Cynthia herself or than Madame della Scala, who was keeping time to the music with her fan behind the screen.
Cynthia's beauty, of an unusually striking order, was heightened by an excitement which lent new color to her cheeks, new fire to her eyes. She was dressed in very pale yellow—white had been rejected as not so becoming to her dark skin as a more decided tint—and she wore a cluster of scarlet flowers on her left shoulder. She looked like some brilliant tropical bird or butterfly—a thing of light and color, to whom sunlight was as essential as food. Hubert felt vain of hisprotégéeas he heard the little murmur of applause that greeted her appearance.
But the applause that followed her singing swamped every other manifestation of approval. Cynthia surpassed herself. Her voice and her method of singing were infinitely improved; the sweet high notes were sweeter than ever, and were full of an exquisite thrill of feeling which struck Hubert as something new in her musical development. There was no doubt about her success. No other singer had roused the audience to such a pitch of excitement and admiration.
Hubert glanced at Madame della Scala. She was sitting with her hands folded, a placid smile of achievement upon her lips; she had produced all the impression that she wished to make, and for once was completely satisfied. Hubert read it in her look.
Cynthia was curtseying to the audience, when, for the first time, Hubert caught her eye—or rather it was for thefirst time only that she allowed him to see that she observed him; as a matter of fact, she had been conscious of his presence ever since she entered the concert-room. She flashed a quick smile at him, bowed openly in his direction, and—as if by accident—touched the belt of her dress. He was quick enough to see what she meant; some flowers from his bouquet were fastened at her waist. He half rose from his seat, involuntarily, and almost as if he wanted to join her on the platform, then sat down again, vexed at his own movement, and blushing like a schoolboy. He did not know what had come to him, he told himself; for a moment he had been quite embarrassed and overwhelmed by this girl's bright glance and smile. She was certainly very handsome; and it was embarrassing—yes, it was decidedly a little embarrassing—to be recognised by her so publicly at the very moment of her first success.
"Know her?" said a voice at his shoulder—it was the voice of a critic. "Why, she's first-rate! Isn't she the girl that used to play small parts at the Frivolity? Who discovered that she had a voice?"
"Old Lalli, I believe—first-violin in the orchestra," said Hubert.
"Ah! Did he teach her, then? How did she get to della Scala? That woman's charges are enormous—as big as Lamperti's!"
"Couldn't say, I'm sure," returned Hubert, with perfect coolness.
"Well, della Scala made a big hit this time, at any rate. Old Mitcham's prowling about—from Covent Garden, do you see him? That girl will have an engagement before the day's out—mark my words! There hasn't been such a brilliant success for the last ten years."
And then the second part of the concert began, and Hubert was left in peace.
Cynthia's second song was a greater success even than the first. There could be no doubt that she would attain a great height in her profession if she wished to do so; she had a splendid organ, she had been well taught, and she was remarkably handsome. Her stage-training prevented nervousness; and that she had dramatic talent was evidenced by her singing of the two airs put down for her in the programme. But she took everybody bysurprise when she wasencored. Instead of repeating her last aria, she said a word in the accompanist's ear, and launched at once into the song of Schubert's which she had sung in Hubert's rooms. It was a complete change from the Italian music that constituted the staple of Madame della Scala's concerts; but it revealed new capacities of passion in the singer's voice, and was not unwelcome, even to Madame herself, as showing the girl's talent and versatility. As she passed off the platform, Madame caught the girl in her arms and kissed her enthusiastically. The pupil's success was the teacher's success—and Madame was delighted accordingly.
Hubert was leaving the room at the conclusion of the concert, when an attendant accosted him.
"Beg pardon, sir! Mr. Lepel, sir?"
"Yes; what is it?"
"Miss West told me to give you this, sir;" and he put a twisted slip of paper into Hubert's hand.
Hubert turned aside and opened the note. He could have smiled at its abruptness—so like what he already knew of Cynthia West.
"Why didn't you come round in the interval and let me thank you? If I have been successful, it is all owing to you. Please come to see us this evening if you can; I want very much to consult you. You know my address. Madame won't let me stay now. "C. W."
"Impetuous little creature!" Hubert smiled to himself—although Cynthia was not little.
He thrust the note into his pocket, and went home to dine and dress. He knew Madame della Scala's ways. This old lady, with whom Cynthia was now staying, loved to hold a little reception on the evening of the day of her yearly concert, and she would be delighted to see Mr. Lepel, although she had not sent him any formal invitation. For Cynthia's sake he made up his mind to go.
"For Cynthia's sake." How lightly he said the words! In after-days no words were fraught with deeper and sadder suggestion for him; none bowed him down more heavily with a sense of obligation and shame and passionate remorse than these—"For Cynthia's sake."
He went that night to Madame della Scala's house and sat for a full hour, in a little conservatory lighted with Chinese lanterns, alone with Cynthia West.
"I don't know how it is," grumbled the General, "but Enid looks scarcely any better than she did before this precious engagement of hers. You made me think that she would be perfectly happy if she had her own way; but I must say, Flossy, that I see no improvement."
Flossy, lying on a sofa and holding a fan over her eyes, as though to shut out the sight of her husband's bowed shoulders and venerable white head, answered languidly—
"You forget that you did only half of what you were expected to do. You would not consent to a definite engagement until she should be eighteen years old; she is eighteen now, and yet you are holding back. Suspense of such a sort is very trying to a girl."
The General, who had been standing beside her, sat down in a large arm-chair and looked very vexed.
"I don't care," he said obstinately—"I'm not going to have my little girl disposed of in such a hurry! She shall not be engaged to anybody just yet; and until she is twenty or twenty-one she sha'nt be married. Why, she's had no girlhood at all! She's only just out of the schoolroom now. Eighteen is nothing!"
"Waiting and uncertainty are bad for a girl's spirits," said Mrs. Vane. "You can do as you please, of course, about her engagement; but you must not expect her to look delighted over the delay."
The General put his hands on his knees and leaned forward mysteriously.
"Flossy," he said, "I don't wish to make you anxious, dear; but do you think Hubert really cares for her?"
Flossy lowered her fan; there was a touch of angry color in her face.
"What are you going to say next, General? Why should Hubert have asked Enid to marry him if he were not in love with her? He had, no doubt, plenty of opportunities of asking other people."
"Yes—yes; but Enid is very sweet and very lovely, my dear. You don't often see a more beautiful girl. I should not like her to marry a man who was not attached to her."
Flossy controlled her anger, and spoke in a careless tone.
"What makes you take such fancies into your head, dear?"
"Well—more than one thing. To begin with, I found Enid wandering up and down the conservatory just now, looking as pale as a ghost, with tears in her eyes. I railed her a little, and asked her to tell me what was the matter; but she would not say. And then I asked if it had anything to do with Hubert, and whether she had heard from him lately; and, do you know, Flossy, she has had no letter from him for a fortnight! Now, in my day, although postage was dearer than it is now, we wouldn't have waited a fortnight before writing to the woman that we loved."
"Hubert is a very busy man; he has not time for the writing of love-letters," said Flossy slightly.
"He ought not to be too busy to make her happy."
"You forget too," said Mrs. Vane, "that Hubert has no private fortune. He is working harder than ever just now—toiling with all his might and main to gain a competency—not for his own, but for Enid's sake. Poor boy, he is often harassed on all sides!" She drew a little sigh as if she were sorrowing for him.
"I'm sure Enid does not harass him," said the General, getting up and pacing about the room in a hurry; "she is sweetness itself! And, as to money, why did he propose to her if he hadn't enough to keep her on? Of course Enid will have a nice little fortune—he needn't doubt that; but I shall tie it up pretty tightly when she marries, and settle it all upon herself. You may tell him that from me if you like, with my compliments!" The General was excited—he was hot and breathing hard. "He must have an income to put against—that's all; he's not going to live on his wife's fortune."
"Poor Hubert—I don't suppose he ever thought of such a thing!" said Flossy, affecting to laugh at her husband's vehemence, but weighing every word she uttered with scrupulous care. "Indeed, if he had known thatshe would have money, I don't suppose he would even have asked her to marry him. He believed her to be all but penniless."
"And what right had he to believe that?" shouted the General, looking more apoplectic than ever.
At which Flossy softly sighed, and said, "My nerves, dear!" closed her eyes, and held a vinaigrette to her nose.
The General was quieted at once.
"I beg your pardon, my dear—I forgot that I must not talk so loudly in your room," he said apologetically. "But my feelings get the better of me when I think of my poor little Enid looking so white and mournful. And so Hubert's working hard for her, is he? Poor lad! Of course I shall not forget him either in my will—you can tell him so if you like—and Enid's future is assured; but he must not neglect her—mustn't let her shed tears and make those pretty blue eyes of hers dim, you know—you must tell him that."
"The General grows more and more foolish every day," said Flossy to herself, with disgust—"a garrulous old dotard!" But she spoke very sweetly.
"I will talk to him if you like, dear; but I do not think that he means to hurt or neglect poor Enid. He is coming down to-morrow to spend Easter with us; that will please her, will it not? I have been keeping it a secret from her; I wanted to give her a surprise. It will bring the color back to her pale cheeks—will it not, you kind, sympathetic old dear!"
Flossy's white hand was laid caressingly on the General's arm. The old soldier rose to the bait. He raised it at once to his mouth, and kissed it as devoutly as ever he had saluted the hand of his Queen.
"My dear," he said, "you are always right; you are a wonderful woman—so clever, so beautiful, so good!" Did she not shiver as she heard the words? "I will leave it in your hands—you know how to manage every one!"
"Dear Richard," said Flossy, with a faint smile, "all that I do is for your sake."
And with these words she dismissed him radiantly happy.
Left to her own meditations, the expression of her face changed at once; it grew stern, hard, and cold; there was an unyielding look about the lines of her features whichreminded one of the fixity of a mask or a marble statue. She lay perfectly motionless for a time, her eyes fixed on the wall before her; then she put out her hand and touched a bell at her side.
Almost immediately the door opened to admit her maid—a thin, upright woman with dark eyes, and curly dark hair, disposed so as to hide the tell-tale wrinkles on her brow and the crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes. She wore pink bows and a smart little cap and apron of youthful style; but it would have been evident to the eye of a keen observer that she was no longer young. She closed the door behind her and came to her mistress' side.
Florence paused for a minute or two, then spoke in a voice of so harsh and metallic a quality that her husband would scarcely have recognised it as hers.
"You have been neglecting your duty. You have not made any report to me for nearly a week."
"You have not asked me for one, ma'am."
"I do not expect to have to ask you. You are to come to me whenever there is anything to say."
The woman stood silent; but there was a protest in her very bearing, in the pose of her hands, the expression of her mouth and eyebrows. Flossy looked at her once, then turned her head away and said—
"Go on."
"There is nothing of importance to tell you, ma'am."
"How do you know what is important and what is not? For instance, Miss Enid was found by the General crying in the conservatory this morning. I want to know why she cried."
The maid—whose name was Parker—sniffed significantly as she replied—
"It's not easy to tell why young ladies cry, ma'am. The wind's in the east—perhaps that has something to do with it."
"Oh, very well!" said Mrs. Vane coldly. "If the wind is in the east, and that is all, Parker, you had better find some position in the world in which your talents will be of more use to you than they are to me. I will give you a month's pay instead of the usual notice, and you can leave Beechfield to-night."
The maid's face turned a little pale.
"I'm sure I beg pardon, ma'am," she said ratherhurriedly; "I didn't mean that I had nothing to say. I—I've served you as well as I could, ma'am, ever since I came." There was something not unlike a tear in her beady black eyes.
"Have you?" said her mistress indifferently. "Then let me hear what you have been doing during the last few days. If your notes are not worth hearing"—she made a long pause, which Parker felt to be ominous, and then continued calmly—"there is a train to London to-night, and no doubt your mother will be glad to see you, character or no character."
"Oh, ma'am, you wouldn't go for to be so cruel, would you?" cried Parker the unwise, evidently on the verge of a flood of tears. "Without a character, ma'am, I'm sure I couldn't get a good place; and you know my mother has only what I earn to live upon. You wouldn't turn me off at a moment's notice for——"
"You are wasting a great deal of time," said Flossy coldly. "Say what you have to say, and I will be the judge as to whether you have or have not obeyed my orders. Where are your notes?"
Smothering a sob, Parker drew from her pocket a little black book, from which she proceeded to read aloud. But her voice was so thick, her articulation so indistinct by reason of her half-suppressed emotion, that presently, with an exclamation of impatience, Mrs. Vane turned and took the book straight out of her hands.
"You read abominably, Parker?" she said. "Where is it? Let me see. 'Sunday'—oh, yes, I know all about Sunday!—'Church, Sunday-school, church'—as usual. What's this? 'Mr. Evandale walked home with Miss E. from afternoon school.' I never heard of that! Where were you?"
"Walking behind them, ma'am."
"Could you hear anything? What do your notes say? H'm!" They walked very slow and spoke soft—could not hear a word. At the Park gates Mr. E. took her hand and held it while he talked. Miss E. seemed to be crying. The last thing he said was, "You know you may always trust me." Then he went down the road again, and Miss E. came home. Monday.—Miss E. very pale and down-like. Indoors all morning teaching Master D. Walked up to the village with him after his dinner; went to theschools; saw Mr. E. and walked along the lane with him. Mr. E. seemed more cheerful, and made her laugh several times. The rest of the day Miss E. spent indoors. Tuesday.—Miss E. teaching Master Dick till twelve. Riding with the master till two. Lunch and needlework till four. Mr. Evandale came to call. "Why was I never told that Mr. Evandale came to call?" said Flossy, starting up a little, and fixing her eyes, bright with a wrathful red gleam in their brown depths, upon the shrinking maid.
"I don't know, ma'am. I thought that you had been told."
Flossy sank back amongst her cushions, biting her lip; but she resumed her reading without further comment.
"'Stayed an hour, part of the time with Miss E. alone, then with the master. Little Master Dick in and out most of the time. Nothing special, as far as I could tell. Wednesday.—Miss E. walked with Master Dick to the village after lessons. Went into Miss Meldreth's shop to buy sweets, but did not stay more than a few minutes. Passed the Rectory gate; Mr. E. came running after them with a book. I was near enough to see Miss E. color up beautiful at the sight of him. They did not talk much together. In the afternoon Miss E. rode over to Whitminster with the General. After tea——' Yes, I see," said Mrs. Vane, suddenly stopping short—"there is nothing more of any importance."
She lay silent for a time, with her finger between the pages of the note-book. Parker waited, trembling, not daring to speak until she was spoken to.
"Take your book," said Mrs. Vane at last, "and be careful. No, you need, not go into ecstasies"—seeing from Parker's clasped hands that she was about to utter a word of gratitude. "I shall keep you no longer than you are useful to me—do you understand? Go on following Miss Vane; I want to know whom she sees, where she goes, what she does—if possible, what she talks about. Does she get letters—letters, I mean beside those that come in the post-bag?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"Make it your business to know, then. You can go;" and Flossy turned away her face, so as not to see Parker's rather blundering exit.
"The woman is a fool," she said to herself contemptuously, when Parker had gone; "but I think she is—so far—a faithful fool. These women who have made a muddle of their lives are admirable tools; they are always so afraid of being found out;" and Flossy smiled cynically, although at the same moment she was conscious that she shared the peculiarity of the woman of whom she spoke—she also was afraid of being found out.
She had come across Parker before her marriage, when she was in Scotland. The woman had then been detected in theft and in an intrigue with one of the grooms, and had been ignominiously dismissed from service; but Flossy had chosen to seek her out and befriend her—not from any charitable motive, but because she saw in the discarded maid a person whom it might be useful to have at beck and call. Parker's bedridden mother was dependent upon her; and her one fear in life was that this mother should get to know her true story and be deprived of support. Upon this fear Mrs. Vane traded very skilfully; and, having installed Parker in the place of lady's-maid to herself and her husband's niece, she obtained accurate information concerning Enid's movements and actions, supplied from a source which Enid never even suspected.
Such knowledge was generally very useful to Flossy, but at present she was puzzled by certain items of news brought to her by Parker. "What does this constant meeting with Mr. Evandale mean?" she asked herself. Then her thoughts went back to the day of Mrs. Meldreth's death—a day which she never remembered without a shudder. She knew very well that the poor old woman had bitterly repented of her share in a deed to which her daughter Sabina and Mrs. Vane had urged her; it had been as much as Mrs. Vane and Sabina, by their united efforts, could do to make her hold her tongue. No fear of the General's vengeance, of Sabina's disgrace, of punishment of any kind, would have ensured her silence very much longer. The old woman had said again and again that she could not bear—in her own words—"to see Miss Enid kep' out of her own." She used to come to Flossy's boudoir and sit there, crying and entreating that she might be allowed to tell the General the truth. She did not seem to care when she was reminded that she herselfwould probably be punished, and that Sabina and Mrs. Vane had nothing but ruin before them if the truth were known. She had the fear of death on her soul—the fear that her sin would bring her eternal misery.
"You are a wickedly selfish woman!" Flossy once said to her, with as near an approach to passion as her temperament would allow. "You think of nothing but your own salvation. Our ruin, body and soul, does not matter to you."
And indeed this was true. The terrors of the law had gotten hold of Mrs. Meldreth's conscience. The avenging sword, carried by a religion in which she believed, had pierced her heart. She would have given everything she had in the world to be able to follow the advice given in her Prayer-book, to go to a "discreet and learned minister of God's Word"—Mr. Evandale, for instance—and quiet her conscience by opening her grief to him. But both Sabina and Mrs. Vane were prepared to go to almost any length before they would give her the chance of doing this.
Mrs. Vane was of course the leading spirit of the three. Where Sabina only raved and stormed, Mrs. Vane mocked and persuaded. She argued, threatened, coaxed, bribed, in turns; she gave Mrs. Meldreth as much money as she could spare, and promised more for the future; but the poor woman—at first open to persuasion—grew more and more difficult to restrain, and became at last almost imbecile from the pressure of her secret upon her mind. Flossy had begun seriously to consider the expediency of inducing Sabina to consign her mother to a lunatic asylum, or even to employ violent means for the shortening of her days on earth—there was nothing at which her soul would have revolted if her own prosperity could have been secured by it; but Mrs. Meldreth's natural illness and death removed all necessity for extreme measures.
Nothing indeed would have been more fortunate for Flossy and her accomplice than Mrs. Meldreth's death, had it not been for the circumstance that the dying woman had seen both Enid Vane and Mr. Evandale during her last moments. Flossy wondered angrily why Sabina had been so foolish as to admit them. She had heard nothing from Enid, who had kept her room for a couple of daysafter her return from Mrs. Meldreth's death-bed; but she was certain that something was now known to the girl which had not been known before. Flossy had tried to question her, to reprove her even for going into the houses of the sick poor; but there had been a look in the girl's eyes, a frozen defiance and horror in her face, which made Mrs. Vane shrink back aghast. Though silent and not very demonstrative in manner, Enid had hitherto never shown any dislike to Flossy, and had been as scrupulously attentive to her wishes as if she were still a child; but these days of passive obedience were past. Enid now quietly did what she chose. She seldom spoke to Florence at all; and on several occasions she had maintained her own purpose and choice with a calmness and steadfastness which had almost terrified Mrs. Vane. Who would have thought that Enid had a character? The girl had emancipated herself from all control, without words, without open rebellion; she had looked Flossy straight in the face once or twice, and Flossy had been compelled to yield.
Yes, Enid knew something—she was sure of that; how much she could not tell. She had never questioned Sabina Meldreth in person about the scene at her mother's death-bed—on principle, Flossy spared herself all painful and exciting interviews; but she had had a few lines from Sabina—sent to Beechfield Hall on the day of her mother's funeral.
"Miss Vane knows something—I don't know how much," Sabina had written. "The parson wanted to know, but couldn't get to hear. Maybe Miss Vane has told him. If she has, the parish won't hold you nor me."
"Abominably brusque and rude!" Flossy said to herself, as she drew the scrap of paper from its hiding-place. "But one cannot mould clay without soiling one's fingers, I suppose. It is months since Mrs. Meldreth died; and evidently Enid knows less than I supposed, or has made up her mind to keep the secret. But what do these meetings with Mr. Evandale mean? Is she confiding her troubles to him then? The little fool! I must see Sabina Meldreth, and Hubert too. What a good thing I had written to him to come—though not for the sake of pleasing Miss Enid, as the General fondly supposes! I must send for Sabina."
But the wish seemed to have brought about its own fulfilment. At that very moment Parker knocked at her mistress' door.
"Will you see Miss Meldreth, ma'am? She says she would like a few words with you, if you can see her. She's down-stairs."
"Bring Sabina Meldreth to me," said Mrs. Vane.
Flossy's first instinctive desire was to rise from her sofa and receive Sabina Meldreth standing—not at all by way of politeness, but as an intimation that the interview was not intended to be a long one. On second thoughts, she lay still. A show of languor and indifference was more likely to produce an impression on Sabina than excitement. Mrs. Vane closed her heavy white eyelids, and did not raise them until the fair-haired woman in black, whom Hubert had noticed with the singers on New Year's Eve, was standing beside her couch.
"I thought you was asleep," said Miss Meldreth, with a slightly insolent air. "Some people can sleep through anything."
"All the better for them," answered Mrs. Vane dryly. "Why have you come?" She was not going to admit that she had been longing to see her visitor.
"I've come for the usual thing," said Sabina doggedly—"I want some money."
"You had some last month."
"Yes, and had to write three times for it—and me bothered about my rent. You're not carrying on business on fair terms, Mrs. Vane. I want to have a clear understanding. Mother managed all the money matters before; but she's gone now, and I should like something definite."
"What do you mean by 'definite'?"
"Either money down or regular quarterly payments, ma'am. You owe me that when you think of all I've done for you."
"Have I done nothing for you then," said Flossy, with a red gleam in her brown eyes, "in saving you from disgrace, ridding you of a permanent burden, pensioning your mothertill her death, and giving you money whenever you have asked for it? Is that nothing at all, Sabina Meldreth?"
"It's something, of course," said Sabina stolidly; "but it ain't enough. I want fifty pounds a quarter, paid regular. If you give me that, I'm thinking of going back to Whitminster, where there won't be so many people poking and prying about and asking questions."
Going back to Whitminster! That would be worth paying for indeed! But Flossy showed no sign of gratification.
"What people have been asking questions?"
"The parson, for one."
"And who else?"
"Well," said Sabina, rather reluctantly, "I won't say that there's any one else. But the parson's been at me more than once, and he keeps his eye upon me and preaches at me in church—and I won't stand it!"
"Why do you go to church?" said Mrs. Vane with a faint sneer.
"Because, if I don't, people would say I wasn't respectable," snapped Miss Meldreth; "and it's no good flying in their faces that way."
"Oh! Then you wish to be thought respectable?"
"Yes, I do; and, what's more, so do you, Mrs. Vane, in your own way. You're too high and mighty, and pretend to be too ill to have to go to church; but, if you was me, and heard what folks say of them that stop away, you'd go yourself."
"Possibly," said Flossy; "we are in different circumstances. Now tell me—why has Mr. Evandale questioned you?"
"Because of what he heard when mother lay dying, of course. I wrote and warned you at the time."
"You should have said more then. You should have come and told me the whole story. Tell it me now."
It was a proof of Flossy's curious power over certain natures that Sabina Meldreth, wild and undisciplined as she was, seldom thought of resisting her will when in her very presence. She sat down on a chair that Mrs. Vane pointed out to her, and recounted, in rapid and not ill-chosen words, what had passed in her mother's room in the presence of the Rector and of Enid Vane. Flossy listened silently, tapping her lips from time to time with her fan.
When the story was ended, she turned on her visitor with a terrible flash of her usually sleepy eyes.
"You fool," she said; without however raising her voice—"you fool! You have known this all these months, and have never made your way to me to tell it! How was I to know that the matter was so important? How was I to suspect? I guessed something, of course; but not this! Why, Sabina Meldreth, we are at the mercy of that child's discretion! She has us in her hands—she can crush us when she pleases! Heavens and earth—and to think that I did not know!"
"You might have known," said Sabina sullenly. "I've been to the house more than once. I've written and said that I wanted to see you. I don't think it's me that's been the fool." But the last sentence was uttered almost in a whisper.
"No, I have been careless—I have been to blame!" said Flossy, a feverish spot of color showing itself in her white cheeks. "So she knows—she knows! That is why she looks at me so strangely; that is why she avoids me and will hardly speak to me. I understand her now."
"Maybe," said Sabina, "she thought mother was raving, or didn't understand her aright."
"No, no; she understood—she believes it. But why has she kept silence? She hates me, and she might have ruined me—she might have secured Beechfield for herself by this time! What a little idiot she must be!"
Mrs. Vane was thinking aloud rather than addressing Sabina; but that young woman generally had an answer ready, and was not disposed to be ignored.
"Miss Vane's fond of her uncle," she said drily, "and did not want perhaps to vex him. Besides"—her voice dropped suddenly—"they tell me she's fond of the child."
Flossy did not seem to hear; she was revolving other matters in her mind.
"Do you think," she said presently; "that Miss Enid has told the Rector? She has seen a good deal of him lately."
"No, I don't; I should have heard of it before now if she had," replied Sabina bluntly. "He don't mince matters; and he's got it into his head that I ought to be reformed, and that I've something on my mind. That's why I want to get to Whitminster."
"Go farther away than Whitminster," said Mrs. Vane suddenly; "go to London, and I'll give you the money you ask—two hundred pounds a year."
"Will you? Well, I'm not ill-disposed to go to London. One could live there very comfortable, I dare say, on two hundred a year. But how am I to know if you'll pay it? Give me a bit of writing——"
"Not a word—not a line! You need not be afraid. I'll keep my promise if I have to sell my jewels to do it; and the General does not ask me what I do with my allowance. By-and-by, Sabina, I may have an income of my own; and then—then it shall be better for you as well as for me."
Her tone and manner had grown silky and caressing. Miss Meldreth looked hard at her, as if suspecting that this sugary sweetness covered some ill design; but she read nothing but thoughtful serenity in Mrs. Vane's fair face.
"When the General's dead, you mean? Well, that's as it may be. But I can't wait for that, you know, ma'am. He's strong and well, and may live for twenty years to come. I want my affairs settled now."
"Very well. Go to London, send me your address, and you shall have the fifty pounds as soon as you are settled there."
"That won't quite do, Mrs. Vane. I want something down for travelling and moving expenses. I have some bills to settle before I can leave the village."
"You must be terribly extravagant!" said Flossy bitterly. "I gave you thirty pounds at Christmas. Will ten pounds do?"
"Twenty would be better."
"I haven't twenty. I do not know where to get them. You must be content with ten."
"Ten won't do," said Sabina obstinately.
Mrs. Vane made a gesture of impatience.
"Reach me that jewel-box over there," she said. "Yes; bring it close—I have the key. Here are two five-pound notes. And here—take this ring, this bracelet—they are worth far more than ten pounds—get what you can for them."
"I'd rather have the money," said Sabina; "but, if I must put up with this, I must. I'll be off in a couple of days."
"You had better not tell anyone before hand that you are going. Some people might—think it their duty to interfere."
"All right—I'll keep quiet, don't you fear, ma'am! Well, then, that's settled. If I go to London, you'll send me the fifty pound a quarter. And it must be regular, if you please—else I'll have to come down here after it."
"You will not have to do that," said Mrs. Vane coldly.
"Very well. Then I'll say good-bye to you, ma'am. Hope you'll get safely through your troubles; but it seems to me that you're in an uncommon risky position."
"And, if I am," said Flossy, with sudden anger, "whose fault is it but yours?"
Sabina shrugged her shoulders, and did not seem to think it worth while to reply. She walked to the door, and let herself out without another look or word.
She knew her way about Beechfield Hall perfectly well; and it was perhaps of set purpose that she turned down a passage that led past the nursery door. The door was open, and Master Dick was drawing a horse-and-cart up and down the smooth boards of the corridor. It was his favorite playing-place on a summer evening. He stopped short when he saw Sabina, and looked at her with observant eyes.
"This isn't your way, you know," he said, facing her gravely. "This passage leads to my room, and Enid's room, not to the kitchens; and you belong to the kitchens, don't you?"
Sabina stopped and eyed him strangely. She looked at his delicate sharp-featured little face, at his fair hair and blue eyes, at the dainty neatness of his apparel, and the costly toy which he held in his hands. Her own bold eyes softened as she looked. She half knelt down and held out her arms.
"Will you kiss me once, dearie, before I go away?"
Dick looked at her wonderingly. Then he came and put his little arms around her neck and kissed her once, twice, thrice.
"Don't cry," he said; "I didn't know you were so nice and kind. But, you see, I've only seen you in the shop."
"You won't see me in the shop any more. I'm going away," said Sabina, utterly forgetful of her promise to Mrs. Vane.
"Are you?" said Dick. "Oh, then, won't there be any more sweeties in your windows? Or will some one else sell them?"
"Some one else, I expect. That's all that children care for!" cried Sabina, springing to her feet. "He's got no heart!"
Turning her face suddenly, she saw that there had been a spectator of the little scene—a spectator at the sight of whom Sabina Meldreth turned deadly white. Miss Vane stood at the nursery door. She had been sitting there, and had heard Sabina's words and poor little Dick's innocent reply.
"You are wrong," she said gravely, with her eyes intent on Sabina's pale distorted face. "He has a heart—he is very loving and gentle. But you cannot expect him to love you when he does not know you. If ever he knew you better, he would—perhaps—love you more."
This speech, uttered quite gently and even pitifully, had a curious effect upon Sabina. She burst into tears, and turned away, hiding her face and sobbing as she went.
Enid stood for a moment in the doorway, holding the door-post by one hand, and sadly watching the retreating figure until it disappeared. Then Dick pulled at her dress.
"Cousin Enid, why does that woman cry? And why did she want to kiss me? Was she angry or sorry, or what?"
"Sorry, I think, dear," said Enid, as she went back to her seat.
She drew Dick upon her knee and caressed him tenderly for a few moments; but Dick felt, to his surprise, that the kisses she bestowed on him were mingled with tears.
"Cousin Enid, why do you cry too?"
But all she answered was—
"Oh, Dick, Dick—my poor little Dick—I hope you will never—never know!" Which poor little Dick could not understand.
Hubert Lepel arrived on the following day. He had not been to Beechfield Hall for some weeks, and he seemed to feel it incumbent upon him to make up to Enid for his long absence by presents and compliments; for he had brought her a beautiful bracelet, and was unusually profuse in his expressions of regard and admiration. And yetEnid seemed scarcely so pleased as a young girl in similar circumstances ought to have seemed. Indeed she shrank a little from private conversation with him, and looked harassed and troubled.
It was perhaps in consequence of this fact that three days after his arrival Hubert sought a private interview with his sister. Flossy had meanwhile not spoken a word; she had been watching and waiting for those three days.
"Florence, I am inclined to think that you were mistaken."
"So am I," thought Flossy to herself; but aloud she only asked, "Why, dear?" with perfect tranquility.
"About Enid. I—I am beginning to think that she doesn't much care." He said the last words slowly, with his eyes on the tip of his boot.
"I am sure you are mistaken," said Flossy quietly. "But she is not demonstrative, and—well, I may as well say it to you—she has taken some idea into her head—something about me—about the past——"
She faltered skilfully; but she kept her eyes on Hubert's face, and saw that it wore a guilty look.
"Well, Flossy, you are right," he said. "She has heard something—village talk, I suppose—and I cannot get her to tell me what it is."
"She means perhaps to tell some one else?" said Mrs. Vane, with bitterness.
"No, I believe not. She has no wish to harm you, poor child, although she thinks that the General ought not to be deceived. However, I persuaded her to abandon that idea, showing her that it was not her duty to tell a thing that would so utterly destroy his happiness." Florence turned away her head. "I felt myself a villain," Hubert continued gravely, "in counseling her to stifle her conscientious scruples, Florence; but, for your sake and your husband's sake, I pleaded with her, and prevailed on her to keep silence—she will tell no one but myself after our marriage."