"You had better not let her open the subject with you at all. It will only be productive of unhappiness." Flossy discerned the entanglement at once—she saw that Hubert meant one thing and Enid another; but out of their cross-purposes she divined a way of keeping the girl silent. "For my sake Hubert, don't discuss my terrible pastbetween you. What good would it do? Promise me that, when you are married, you will not let her speak of it—even to you." She shed a tear or two as she spoke.
"Poor Flossy!" said Hubert, laying his hand on her arm. "Don't grieve, dear! I have no right to say anything, have I? Yes, I promise you I will not let her say a word about the matter, either now or afterwards, if I can help it, and certainly to no one beside myself."
And with this promise Flossy feigned contentment. But, when Hubert had left her, she paced up and down the room with cheeks that flamed with excitement, and eyes that glowed with the dull red light of rage.
"What was I thinking about to bring this engagement to pass?" she said to herself. "Yet, after all, it is better so. Hubert has a reason for silencing her; with any other man, she would have the matter out in a trice, and ruin me. Now what is the next move? To delay the marriage, of course. I will come round prettily to the General's view, and uphold him in his determination not to allow the marriage for at least two years. So Enid says that she will not betray me until she is married, does she? Then she will never have the chance; for a great deal may happen—to a delicate girl like Enid Vane—in two long years."
Hubert had been worried and overworked of late; it had appeared to him a good thing that he should spend a few of the spring days at Beechfield, and try to recover in the society of his sister and his betrothed the serenity that he had lost. But this seemed after all no easy thing to do. He was annoyed to find himself irritated by small matters; his equanimity, usually perfect, was soon ruffled; and, although he did not always show any outward sign of vexation, he felt that his temper was not quite under his own control. And it was Enid, curiously enough, who irritated him most.
"Who is this new singer," she asked one day, "about whom people are talking so much?"
"My dear Enid, how am I to know which singer youmean?" he said, letting the newspaper drop from his hand, and clasping his hands leisurely behind his head. "There are so many new singers!"
They had been having tea under the beech-tree, and, as usual, had been left alone to do their love-making, undisturbed. Their love-making was of a very undemonstrative character. Enid sat in one comfortable basket-chair, Hubert in another, at a yard's distance. Their conversation went on in fragments, interspersed by long pauses filled up by an orchestra of birds in the branches overhead.
"I do not remember her name exactly," said Enid. "The Tollemaches were talking about her yesterday; they heard her in town last week. 'Cynthia' something—'Cynthia,' I remember that, because it is such an uncommon name."
"I suppose you mean Miss Cynthia West," said Hubert, after a very long pause.
"Yes, 'Cynthia West'—that was the name. Have you heard her?"
"Yes."
"And do you think her very wonderful?"
"She is a remarkably fine singer."
"Oh, I hope we shall hear her when we next go up to London! Aunt Leo wants me to stay with her."
"That will be very nice," said Hubert, bestirring himself a little. "Then you will hear all the novelties. But I would not go just yet if I were you, London has not begun to wake up again after its winter sleep."
"What a horrible place it must be!" said Enid, with a little shiver.
"You think so? It is my home."
There was an accent in his voice which impressed Enid painfully. She clasped her hands rather tightly together in her lap, and said, after another pause, in a lower tone—
"I dare say I should grow fond of it if I lived there."
"As you will do, in time," said Hubert, with a smile. "You must try to believe that you will soon be as absorbed in town-life as every other woman; that concerts and theatres and balls will make up for green fields and the songs of birds; that men are more interesting than brooks and flowers; that to shop and to gossip are livelier occupations than visiting the poor and teaching little Dick. Don't you think you can imagine it?"
She shook her head.
"I can't imagine it; but, if I had to do it, I would try. I don't think your picture is very attractive, if I may say so, Hubert."
"Don't you, dear? Why not?"
"It sounds so unreal. Do women pass their lives in that frivolous, vapid way?"
"Not all of them, of course. There are women who have work to do," said Hubert, looking idly into the distance, as if he were thinking of some one or something that he could not see.
"Oh, yes, I know—working women—professional women—women," said Enid, with an innocent smile, "like Cynthia West."
Hubert gave a slight start; then, to cover it, he changed his position, bringing his arms down and crossing them on his breast.
"You might tell me what she is like," continued Enid, with more playfulness of manner than she generally showed. "You tell me so little about London people! Is she handsome?"
"Yes, very."
"Dark or fair?"
"Very dark."
"Is she an Englishwoman?" pursued Enid.
"I am sure I don't know. I never asked."
"You know her then?"
"What makes you ask all these questions?" said Hubert, as if he had not heard the last. "Who has put Miss West into your head in this way?" He looked annoyed.
Enid at once put out a caressing hand.
"I did not mean to be too inquisitive, Hubert dear. But the Tollemaches are very musical, and they were talking a great deal about her. They said they saw you at the concert when she came out—some Italian teacher's semi-private concert—and they seemed to think that you knew the whole set of people who were there."
Mentally Hubert made some uncharitable remarks on the future destiny of the Tollemaches; but he controlled himself so far as to answer coolly—
"I know several of that set, certainly. I know Miss West a little."
"How delightful," cried Enid. "I should like to meet some of these great artists. Will you ever be able to introduce me to her, do you think, Hubert?"
"I think not," said Hubert, knitting his brows. He did not find himself able to turn the subject quite as easily as he could have wished.
"Oh, isn't she nice?" hazarded Enid doubtfully. "I always fancy that the people who sing and act in public can't be quite as nice as the people who stay in their own home-circle. I know that you will think me very narrow-minded to say so, but I can't help it."
"I am afraid that I do think it rather narrow-minded," said Hubert quietly, but with a dangerous lighting of his eyes. "You must surely know that some of these singers are as good, as noble, as womanly as any of your sheltered young ladies in their home-circles, who have not genius enough to make themselves talked of by the world!"
"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" said Enid, quite unconscious of the storm that she was exciting in Hubert's breast. "But it is difficult to understand why they prefer a public life to a private one. Do you think they really like appearing on the stage?"
"I am sure they do," said Hubert, with a short laugh. "You cannot understand it as yet, I suppose; you will understand it by-and-by. It would be a very poor lookout for a novelist and playwright like myself, Enid, if every one thought as you do."
And then he got up and walked to meet the General, who was approaching the tea-table, and, as the two were soon deep in political matters, Enid presently slipped away unobserved.
She felt vaguely that she had vexed or disappointed her lover; she knew the tones of his voice well enough to feel sure that in some way she had said what he did not approve. And yet, on reflection, she could not see that she had given him legitimate cause of offence. She knew that he did not agree with her in preferring country to town; or in thinking that women who sang in public were not quite of her class; but she did not think that he ought to be angry with her for expressing her views. He perplexed her very much by his moments of irritation, of coldness, of absence of mind. At times he was certainly very different. He could be most tender, though always withthe tenderness of a grown man to a child, of a strong person towards a weak one—and this was a kind of tenderness which did not satisfy Enid's heart. Sometimes indeed she was thankful that it was so, feeling as if any great display of affection on his part would be overwhelming, out of place; but at other times she felt that his calm kindness was almost an insult to the woman whom he had asked to be his wife. A little while back she would not have thought so—she would have been well content with his behavior; but a new factor had come into her life since her engagement to Hubert Lepel, some new and agitating consciousness of power had dawned upon her, with a revelation of faculties and influences to which she had hitherto been a stranger; and, in presence of these novel emotions and discoveries, Hubert was weighed in the balance and found wanting.
Meanwhile Hubert was as uncomfortable as a man could well be. He had always meant to be faithful and tender to Enid—for whom, as he had said, he would do anything in his power to save her from unhappiness; on the other hand, he found the task more difficult than he had dreamed. He had seen her first as a sweet, docile, pliable creature, ready to be led, ready to be taught, and he had meant to mould her to his will. But, lo and behold, the girl was not really pliable at all! She had a distinct character, an individuality of her own, as different from any ideal of Hubert's as ice from fire. Her inability to appreciate the artistic side of life—as he put it to himself—her dislike to the great town where all his interests lay—these were traits which troubled him out of proportion to their intrinsic worth. How could he be happy with a woman who differed from him so entirely in habits, taste, and training? He forgot for a moment that he had asked her to marry him in order that she might be made happy—that he had solemnly put aside from himself all thought of personal joy. But human nature is weak, and renunciation not always pleasant. It occurred to his mind that Enid herself might not be very happy if married to a man with whom she was not in sympathy.
It was half with relief, half with regret, that he listened to a monologue from the General on the subject of Enid's marriage.
"I always disapproved of early marriages," he saidsapiently; "they never turn out well. And Enid is delicate; she must not take the cares of a household upon her until she is older and stronger. Don't ask me for her until she is twenty-one, Hubert! She shall not marry till then with my consent." He had never spoken so strongly before; but he was reinforced by Flossy's recently-bestowed approval. Till within the last few days, Flossy had been all for a speedy marriage. She said now that she was convinced that her "dear Richard" was perfectly right, and the General was "cock-a-hoop" accordingly. "I need not threaten; you know very well that I have the whole control of the money that would go to her dowry—I need say nothing more. I will have no marriage talked about—no engagement even—for the present. Mind you, Enid is not engaged to you, Hubert. If she thinks fit to change her mind, she may do so."
"Certainly, sir."
"And, if you think fit to change your mind, you may do so too. Nobody wants either of you to marry where you do not love; the worst thing in the world!"
"When is this prohibition to be removed?" asked Hubert. "It seems to me a little hard upon—upon us both."
"If Enid is stronger, I will allow her to be engaged in a year's time," said the General, "but not before; and I shall tell her so."
The first time that Hubert found himself alone with Enid he said—
"The General seems to have changed his mind about our engagement, Enid."
"Yes; he told me so," she answered meekly.
"He says we are not to consider ourselves engaged."
"Yes."
"I am very sorry that he should take that view——"
"Don't be sorry, please!" she said, quickly interrupting him. "I think that it is better so."
"Better, Enid?"
"Yes. He says that I am not strong—and it is true. I feel very weak sometimes, not strong enough to bear much, I am afraid. If I were to become an invalid, I should not marry." She spoke gently, but with great resolution.
"That is all a morbid fancy of yours," said Hubert. "You will be better soon. After this summer, the Generaltalks of winter in the Riviera. That will do you all the good in the world."
"I think not," she answered quietly. "I am afraid that I am not so likely to recover as you think. And, if not, nothing on earth will induce me to marry any man. Remember that, Hubert—if I am not better, I will not marry you. I intend to join the sisters at East Winstead."
"It is that meddling parson who is at the bottom of this, I'll swear!" said Hubert angrily, quitting her side and pacing about the room. He noticed that at his words the color rose in the girl's pale cheeks.
"If you mean Mr. Evandale," she said, "I can assure you that he has never said a word to me about East Winstead. It is entirely my own wish."
"My dear child," said Hubert, halting in front of her, "the last thing we want is to force your wishes in any direction. If, for instance, you wish to throw me over and be a nun, do so by all means. I only ask you to be true to yourself, and to see that you do not act on impulse, or so as to blight the higher impulses of your nature. I can say no more."
Enid looked at him wistfully, and seemed inclined to speak; but the entrance of her uncle at that moment put a stop to further conversation, and the subject was not reopened before Hubert's return to town.
"No engagement—free to do as I please." The words hummed themselves in Hubert's mind to the accompaniment of the throbs of the steam-engine all the way back to London. What did it mean? What did Enid herself mean? Was it not a humiliating position for a man to be in? Was it fair either to him or to the girl? Did it not mean, as a matter of fact, that Flossy had been mistaken, and that Enid was not in the least in love with him? He could not say that she had been especially affectionate of late. Passively gentle, sweet, amiable, she always was, but not emotional, not demonstrative. At that moment Hubert would have given ten years of his life to know what was in her heart—what she really meant, and wanted him to do.
Arrived at Charing Cross Station, he seemed uncertain as to his movements. He hesitated when the porter asked him what he should do with his luggage, and gave an order which he afterwards contradicted.
"No," he said, "I won't do that. Put my things on a cab. All right! Drive to No.—Russell Square."
This was his home-address; but, when there, he did not go up-stairs. He told his landlady to send his things to his room, and not to expect him back to dinner, as he meant to dine at his club.
He did so; but after dinner his fitful hesitancy seemed to revive. He smoked a cigarette, talked a little to one of his friends, then went out slowly and, as it seemed, indecisively into the street, and called a hansom-cab. Then his indecision seemed to leave him. He jumped in, shouted an address to the driver, and was driven on to a quiet square in Kensington, where he knocked at the door of a tall narrow house, only noticeable in the daytime by reason of the masses of flowers in the balcony, and at night by the rose-colored blinds, illuminated by the light of a lamp, in the drawing-room windows.
The servant who opened the door welcomed him with a smile, as if his face was well known to her. He passed her with a word of explanation, and marched up-stairs to the first-floor, where he tapped lightly at the drawing-room door, and then, without waiting, walked into the room.
A girl in a red dress, who had been kneeling on the rug before the fire, rose to her feet as he came in and uttered a blithesome greeting.
"At last!" she said. "So here you are, monsieur! I was wondering what had become of you, and thought you had deserted me altogether!"
"Could I do that?" said Hubert, in a tone in which mock gallantry was strangely mingled with a tenderness which was altogether passionate and earnest. "Do you really think that I ever could do that?"
The girl he spoke to was Cynthia West.
Cynthia West made a delightful picture as she stood in the glow of the firelight and the rose-shaded lamps. Her dress, of deep red Indian silk, partly covered with puffings of soft-looking net of the same shade, was cut low, to showher beautiful neck and throat; the sleeves were very narrow, so that the whole length of her finely-shaped arm could be seen. Her dusky hair gave her all the stateliness of a coronet; swept away from her neck to the top of her head, it left only a few stray curls to shadow with bewitching lightness and vagueness the smooth surface of the exquisite nape. What was even more remarkable in Cynthia than the beauty of her face was the perfection of every line and contour of her body; the supple, swelling, lissom figure was full of absolute grace; she could not have been awkward if she had tried. It was the characteristic that chiefly earned her the admiration of men; women looked more often at her face.
"Are you alone?" said Hubert, smiling, and holding out both his hands, in which she impulsively placed her own.
"Quite alone. Madame has gone out; only the servants are in the house. How charming! We can have a good long chat about everything!"
"Everything!" said Hubert, sinking with a sigh of relief into the low chair that she drew forward. "I shall be only too happy. I have stagnated since I saw you last—which was in March, I believe—an age ago! It is now April, and I am absolutely ignorant as to what has been going on during the last few weeks."
"You have been in the country?" laughed Cynthia. "How I pity you!"
"You do not like the country?"
"Not one little bit. I had enough of it when I was a child."
"You were brought up in the country, were you?" said Hubert carelessly. "I should never have taken you for a country-bred girl—although your physique does not speak of town-life, after all."
"Is that meant for a compliment?" said Cynthia, the clear color suddenly rising in her cheeks. "Bah—I do not like compliments—from some people! I should like to forget all about my early life—dull tiresome days! I began to live only when I came to London."
"Which was when you were about fifteen, was it not? You have never told me where you lived before that."
Cynthia made a littlemoueof disgust.
"You have always been much too polite hitherto to askunpleasant questions. I tell you I want to forget those earlier years. If you must know, I was at school."
"I beg your pardon," said Hubert; "I had no idea that the subject was so unpleasant to you, or I would not have alluded to it, of course."
Cynthia gave him a quick look.
"You have a right to ask," she said, in a lower voice. "I suppose I ought to tell you the whole story; but——"
There was strong reluctance in her voice.
"You need do nothing of the kind. I have no right at all; don't talk nonsense, Cynthia. After all, what is the use of raking up old reminiscences? I have always held that it is better to put the past behind us—to live for the present and the future. All of us have memories that we would gladly forget. Why not make it a business of life to do so?"
"'Forgetting those things which are behind,'" Cynthia murmured.
She was sitting on a very low chair, her hands loosely clasped before her, her eyes searching the embers of the fire. Hubert looked at her curiously.
"I never heard you quote Scripture before," he said, half laughing.
"Why not? There are plenty of things in the Bible worth thinking about and quoting too," said Cynthia briskly, but with a sudden change of attitude. "It would be better for us both, I have no doubt, if we knew it a little better, Mr. Lepel. Aren't you going to smoke? It does not seem at all natural to see you without a cigar in your mouth."
"What a character to give me! Smoke in this rose-tinted room?"
"Madame's friends all smoke here. You need not be an exception. She herself condescends at times to the luxury of a cigarette."
"You call it a luxury?"
"Certainly. Madame has initiated me. But you will understand that I don't display my accomplishment to every one."
"No—don't," said Hubert, a trifle gravely.
She looked round at him with a pretty defiance in her eyes and a laugh upon her face.
"Don't you approve?" she said mockingly. "Ah, youhave yet something to learn! It is quite evident that you have been spending Easter in the country, and its gentle dulness hangs about you still."
"Gentle dulness!" Hubert thought involuntarily of Enid. Yes, the term fitted her very well. Timid, gentle, dull—thus unjustly he thought of her; while, as to Cynthia—whatever Cynthia's faults might be, she was not dull—a great virtue in Hubert's eyes.
"I think you could make me approve of anything you do," he said, as he rose in obedience to her invitation to light his cigar. "Some people have the grace of becomingness; they adorn all they touch."
"What a magnificent compliment! I will immediately put it to the test," said Cynthia lightly. She had also risen, and was examining a little silver box on the mantelpiece. "Here Madame keeps her Russian cigarettes," she said. "I have not set up a stock of my own, you see. Now give me a light. There—I can do it quite skilfully!" she said, as she placed one of the tinypapelitosbetween her lips and gave one or two dainty puffs. "Now does it become me?"
"Excellent well!" said Hubert, who was leaning back in an enormous chair, so long and deep that one lay rather than sat in it, and regarding her with amusement. "'All what you do, fair creature, still betters what is done.'"
"Then I'm content," said Cynthia, seating herself and holding the cigarette lightly between her fingers.
She still kept it alight by an occasional little puff; but Hubert smiled to see that her enjoyment of it was, as a humorist has said of his first cigar, "purely of an intellectual kind." She enjoyed doing what was unusual andbizarre—that was all. He wondered whence she sprang, this brilliant creature of earth with instincts so keen, desires so ardent, mind and imagination so much more fully developed than was usual with girls of her age. Cynthia's beauty was undeniable; but even without beauty, save that of youth, she would have been striking and remarkable.
She was not conscious of his continued gaze at her; she seemed to be lost in thought—perhaps of her earlier years, for presently she said in a reflective tone—
"You were surprised at my quoting Scripture. I wonder why? I do not seem such a bad person that I must not quote the Bible, do I?"
"Certainly not."
"I used to be at the head of the Bible-class always when I was at St. Elizabeth's," she said dreamily. She did not notice that Hubert gave a little start when he heard the name.
"Your school was called St. Elizabeth's?"
"Yes."
"At East Winstead?"
"Yes"—this time rather hesitatingly. "Why?"
"Did you happen to know a girl called Jane Wood?"
The two looked at each other steadily for a minute or two. Hubert had spoken with resolute quietness; he thought that Cynthia's expression hardened, and that her color failed a little as she replied—
"I remember her quite well. She ran away."
"Before you left?"
"Before I left," said the girl, looking down at the cigarette she had taken from her lips and held between her fingers. Suddenly she threw it into the fire, and sitting erect, while a hot flush crossed her face, went on, "Why do you want to know?"
"Oh, nothing! What sort of a girl she was, for instance."
"A wild little creature—a horrid, ungrateful, bad-tempered girl! They—we were all glad when she went."
"Why, the old woman—what's her name?—Sister Louisa—said that she was a general favorite!"
"I'm sure she wasn't. When were you there?"
"The day after her departure, I think."
"And what took you there, Mr. Lepel?" There was a touch of bewilderment in Cynthia's voice.
"Curiosity, for the most part."
"No one was at the school whom you knew, I suppose?"
"No," said Hubert, reflecting that Jane Wood had gone before he paid his visit.
Perhaps Cynthia did not understand this point. At any rate, she looked relieved.
"I was glad when my time came to leave," she said more freely.
"Did you not like the place?"
"Pretty well. It was frightfully, awfully dull!"
"And yet you had never known anything more exciting? Were you really conscious at the time that it was dull, or did you realise its dulness only afterwards?"
"Oh, I must have had it in my blood to know the difference between dulness and enjoyment," she said lightly; "otherwise——"
"Well—otherwise?"
"Otherwise," she said smiling at him, "how should I know it now? There is a vast difference between dulness and enjoyment—as vast as that between happiness and misery; and I know them both."
"Cynthia," he said, rising and leaning towards her—"Cynthia, child, you do enjoy your present life—you are happy, are you not?"
She looked at him silently. The smile faded; he noticed that her bosom rose and fell more quickly than before.
"You think I ought to be?" she said. "But why? Because I have been in Italy—because I have had a little success or two—because people say that I am handsome and that I have a voice? That is not my idea of happiness, Mr. Lepel, if it is yours; but you know as well as I do that it is not happiness at all. It is excitement if you like, but nothing else—not even enjoyment."
"What would you call enjoyment then, Cynthia? What is your idea of happiness?" Her hurried breathing seemed to have infected him with like shortness of respiration; there was a fire in his eyes.
"Oh," she said looking away from him and holding her hands tightly clasped upon her knee, "it is not different from other women's ideas of happiness—it is quite commonplace! It means a safe happy home of my own, with no reasonable fear that distrust or poverty or sin should invade it—congenial work—a companion that I could love and trust and work for and care for——" she stopped short.
"A husband," said Hubert slowly, "and children to kiss your lips and call you 'Mother,' and a man's love to soften and sweeten all the days of your life." She nodded, but did not speak. "And I," he said, with an irrepressible sigh—"I want a woman's love—I want a home too, and all the sweet charities of home about me. Yes, that is happiness."
"It will be yours by-and-by, I suppose," said Cynthia,in a rather choked voice—he told her that he was engaged to be married.
"I see no probability," he answered drily. "She—her guardian will not allow an engagement."
"But—she loves you?"
"I do not think so; I am sure indeed that she does not!"
"And you—you care for her?"
"No; by Heaven, I do not!"
"Then by-and-by you will meet somebody whom you love."
"I have met somebody now," said Hubert, in a curiously dogged tone; "but, as I am sure that she does not care a pin for me, there is no harm in letting the secret out."
"Who is she?"—in a startled tone.
"She is a singer. She used to be an actress; but she has a magnificent voice and is in training for the operatic stage. She will be a great star one day, and I shall worship her from afar. But I have never met anybody in the world who will ever be to me what that woman might have been."
"How do you know," said Cynthia, in a scarcely audible voice, "that you are not so much to her as she is—you say—to you?"
"How do I know? I am certain of it—certain that she regards me as a useful, pleasant friend who is anxious to do his best for her in the musical world, and nothing more. If I dreamed for a moment that I was nearer and dearer to her than that, I should hold my tongue. But, as it is, knowing that I am not worthy to kiss the hem of her garment, and that if she knew all my unworthiness she would be the first to bid me begone, I do not fear—now, once and once only—to tell her that I love her with all my heart and mind and body and soul, and that I ask nothing from her but permission to love on until the last day of my life."
"Now, once and once only?" repeated Cynthia.
She looked up and saw that he stood ready for departure. His face was pale, his lips were tightly set, and his eyes sent forth a strange defiant gleam which she had never seen before. He made three strides towards the door before she collected herself sufficiently to start up and speak.
"No—no—you must not go! One moment! Andwhat if—if"—she could hardly get out the words—"what if the woman that you loved had loved you too, ever since you saved her from poverty and disgrace and worse than death in the London streets?"
She held out her arms to him, as if praying him to save her once again. He stood motionless, breathing heavily, swaying a little, as if impelled at one moment to turn away and at another to meet her extended hands.
"Then," he said at last—"then I should be of all men most miserable!"
It was illogical, it was weak, it was base, after those words, to yield to the tide of passion which for the first time in his life surged up in his soul with its full strength and power. And yet he did yield—why, let those who have loved like him explain. As soon as he had uttered his protest, and it seemed as if the battle should be over and these two divided from each other for evermore, the two leapt together, and were clasped in each other's arms.
She lay upon his breast; his arms were around her, his lips pressed passionately to hers. In the ecstacy of that moment conscience was forgotten, the past was obliterated; nothing but the fire and energy of love remained. And then—quite suddenly—came a revulsion of feeling in the mind of the man whose guilt had, after all, not left him utterly without remorse. To Cynthia's terror and dismay, he sank upon his knees before her, and, with his arms clasped round her waist, and his face pressed close to her slight form, burst into a passion, an agony of sobs. She did not know what to do or say! she could but entreat him to be calm, repeating that she loved him—that she would love him to the last day of her life. It was of no use, the agony would have its way.
He did not try to explain his singular conduct. When he rose at last, he kissed her on the forehead, and, murmuring, somewhat inarticulately, that he would see her on the morrow, he left the room. She heard the street door close, and knew, with a strange mixture of fear and joy, that he had gone, and that he loved her. In the consciousness of this latter fact she had no fear of the morrow.
He might perhaps have kept his lips from an avowal of love, which was afterwards bitter to him as death if he had known that at St. Elizabeth's Cynthia West had once been known as the convict's daughter, Jane Wood.
"Look here, Cynthia," he said abruptly, when he met her the next morning—"this won't do! I was to blame; I made a fool of myself last night."
"What—in saying that you loved me?" she inquired.
"Yes—in saying that I loved you. You know very well that I did not intend to say it."
"Does that matter?" she asked, in a low voice. She had taken his hand, and was caressing his strong white fingers tenderly.
"I did it against my conscience."
"Because of that other girl?"
He considered a moment and then said "Yes." But he was not prepared for the steadily penetrating gaze which she immediately turned upon him.
"I don't quite believe that," she said slowly.
"You doubt my word?"
"Yes," said Cynthia, in a dry matter-of-fact way; "I doubt everybody's word. Nobody tells the whole truth in this agreeable world. You forget that I am not a baby—that I have knocked about a good deal and seen the seamy side of life. Perhaps you would like me better if I had not? You would like me to have lived in the country all my life, and to be gentle and innocent and dull?"
"I could not like you better than as you are," he said, passing one arm round her.
"That's right. You do love me?"
"Yes, Cynthia."
"That is not a very warm assurance. Do you feel so coldly towards me this morning?"
"My dearest—no!"
"That's better. Dear Hubert——may I call you Hubert?"—he answered with a little pressure of his arm—"if you really care for me, I can say what I was going to say; but, if you don't—if that was how you made a fool of yourself by saying so when you did not mean it—then tell me, and I shall know whether to speak or to hold my tongue."
She spoke forcibly, with a directness and simplicity which enchanted Hubert in spite of himself. He assured her that he loved her from the bottom of his heart, that she might speak freely, and that he would be guided, if possible, by what she said—he knew that she was good and wise and generous. And then he kissed her once more on the lips, and she believed his words. She began to speak, blushing a little as she did so.
"I only want to understand. You are not married, Hubert?"
"My darling—no!"
"And you said last night that you were not engaged?"
"I am not engaged," he said more slowly.
"You have—some other engagement—entanglement—of which I do not know?"
"No, Cynthia."
"Then," she, said, facing him with a boldness which he thoroughly admired, "why do you want to draw back from what you said to me last night?"
Hubert looked more than serious—he looked unhappy.
"Draw back," he said slowly—"that is a hard expression!"
"It is a hard thing," she rejoined.
"Cynthia, if I had suspected—if you had ever given me any reason to suppose—that you were willing to think of me as more than a friend, I would not have spoken. I am not worthy of you; I can but drag you back from a brilliant career; it is not fair to you."
The girl stood regarding him meditatively; there was neither fear nor sign of yielding in her eyes.
"That does not sound natural," she said; "it does not sound quite real. Excuse me, but you would not, merely as a novelist, make your hero try to back out of an engagement for that reason. If he gave it, the reader would know at once there was something else—something in the background. I believe that the amiable heroine would accept the explanation and go away broken-hearted. But I," said Cynthia, with a little stamp of impatience—"I am not amiable, and I mean neither to believe in your explanation nor to break my heart; and so, Mr. Hubert Lepel, you had better tell me what this is really all about."
"Ah, Cynthia, I had better let you think me a fool or a brute than lead you into this!" cried Hubert.
"But I should never think you a fool or a brute, whatever you did."
"You do not know what you might think of me—in other circumstances."
"Try," she said, almost in a whisper, slipping her hand into his.
But he shook his head and looked down, knitting his brows uneasily.
"What will satisfy you?" she asked at length, evidently convinced from his manner that something was more seriously amiss than she had thought. "Do you not know that where I give my love I give my whole trust and confidence. More than that, I shall never take it away, even if all the world told me—even if I had some reason to believe—that you were not worthy of my trust. Oh, what does the world know of you? I understand you much better. Can't you see that a woman loves a man for what he is, and not for what he does?"
"What he does proceeds from what he is, Cynthia, I am afraid," said Hubert sadly.
"Not always. People are often betrayed into doing things that do not show their real nature at all," said the girl eagerly. "A man gives way to a sudden temptation—he strikes a blow—and the world calls him a ruffian and a murderer; or he takes what belongs to another because he is starving, and the world calls him a common thief. We cannot judge."
He had drawn away from her, and was resting his arm on the mantelpiece, and his head upon his arm. A strange vibration passed through his frame as he listened to her words.
"Do you think, then," he said at last, speaking with difficulty, and without raising his head, "that you could love a man that the world condemned, or would condemn, if they knew all—could you love a man who was an outcast, a felon, a—a murderer?"
"I am sure that I could," said Cynthia fervently. For the moment she was not thinking of Hubert, however, but of another man whom she had loved, and whom she had seen condemned to death for the murder of Sydney Vane.
Hubert put out his left hand and drew her close to him. Even now there was one thing that he dared not say; he did not dare ask her whether she could love a man whohad allowed another to bear the punishment which he had deserved, although he had hidden his guilt from a desire to save another rather than himself. He remained for a few moments in the same posture, with his face hidden on his right arm and his left encircling Cynthia; but, after a time, he stood up, drew her closer to his breast and kissed her forehead. Then he put her away from him and crossed his arms across his chest. His face was pale and drawn, there were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his lip was bitten underneath his thick moustache.
"Cynthia," he said hoarsely, "to you, at least, I will try to be an honest man. I never knew a woman as brave, as true as you are; I'll do my best, at any rate, to be not altogether unworthy of you, my darling. I would give all I have in the world if I could ask you to marry me, Cynthia; but I can't. There is an obstacle; you were right—I am not free."
"I thought there was some real reason," she said quietly. "I knew you would not have spoken as you did without a reason."
"I am not engaged; or perhaps I should say that I am engaged, and that she is free. If at the end of two years she is stronger in health, and her uncle withdraws his opposition, and she cares to accept me, I have promised to be ready. The last thing I ever meant was to ask any other woman to be my wife. But I was weak enough not to deny myself the bitter-sweet solace of telling you that I loved you; and thus I have drawn down punishment on myself. Cynthia, can you ever forgive me?"
She did not answer; she seemed to be thinking deeply. After a few minutes' silence, she looked at him wistfully, and asked another question.
"You said she did not love you. Was that true?"
"I believe so."
"Then why does she want to marry you?" There was something child-like in Cynthia's tone.
"I don't think she does, Cynthia; I think it is only her uncle's wife who has been trying to bring about a marriage between us; and perhaps it was my conviction that this marriage would never come about which made me less careful than I might have been. Assuredly I never intended to tell you what I told you last night."
"But I am glad you did," said Cynthia, almost inaudibly. Then she put her hand on Hubert's arm, and looked athim with a soft and beautiful expression in her large dark eyes. "I am glad, because it will make life easier for me to know that you care for me. Now I want you to listen to me for a few moments. From what you say, I think that this girl is weak in health, an orphan, and not perhaps very happy in her home? Yes, that is so—is it not? Do you think then that I would for a moment rob her of what might make all her happiness? You say that she does not care for you. But you may be mistaken; you know you thought that—that I did not care either. You must wait for her, and see what will happen at the end of the two years. If she claims you then—well, it will be for you to decide whether you will marry her; but I shall not marry you unless she gives you up of her own free will. And, if she does—and if you care for me still——"
"Then you will be my wife?"
Cynthia paused.
"Then," she said slowly—"then you may, if you like, ask me again. But then you will perhaps remember that I am a nobody—that I was born in a cottage and educated at a charity-school—that I—that I——No, I can't tell you my history now—don't ask me; if you love me at all, don't ask me that! I will tell you—I promise you—before I marry you, if ever—at the end of two years—at the end of half a century—you ask me again."
She was weeping in his arms—she, the brilliant, joyous, successful woman, with a life of distinction opening out before her, with spirits and courage that never failed, with beauty and gifts that were capable of charming all the world—weeping like a child, and in need of comfort like a child. What could he do?
"My darling, my own darling," he said, "I cannot bear to hear you speak so! Do you doubt my love for you, Cynthia? Tell me nothing but what you please; I shall never ask you a question—never desire to know more than what you choose to tell. And in two years——Oh, what can I say? Marry me to-morrow, Cynthia, my dearest, and let everything else go by!"
"And despise you ever after for yielding to my weakness?" she said, checking her tears. "Do you think I could bear you to lower yourself for my sake? No; you shall keep your word to her—to the woman, whoever she may be, who has your word. But I—I have your heart."
She sent him away from her then with proud but gentlewords, caressing him, flattering him, after the fashion of women with those they love, but inexorably determined that he should keep his word. For she had a strong sense of honor and honesty, and she could not bear to think that he could be false to anyone who trusted him. It was weighing heavily on her own conscience that she had deceived him once.
Hubert left her with his senses in a whirl. He knew, as he said, that he had been weak; but Cynthia's beauty intoxicated him. But for her determination, her courage, he would have failed to keep up even the appearance of faith with Enid—he would have been utterly careless of Enid's trust in him. But this declension Cynthia was resolved not to permit. It was strange to see what nobleness of mind and generosity of feeling existed beneath her light and careless demeanor; and while these characteristics humiliated her lover, they filled him with genuine pride and admiration. She was not a woman to be lightly wooed and lightly won; she was worthy of respect, even of reverence. And, as he thought of her, his heart burned with anger against the innocent girl at Beechfield who had dared to speak of this noble woman with something very like contempt.
Cynthia was glad that she had no public engagement for that evening. She was invited to go with Madame della Scala to a large party; but she pleaded a headache, and begged to be allowed to stay at home. Madame scolded her playfully, but did not oppose her whim; she was sufficiently proud of her pupil and housemate to let her take her own way—a practical compliment for which Cynthia was grateful.
When the old lady had gone, Cynthia returned to her favorite rose-lighted sitting-room, and sank somewhat languidly into a lounging-chair. She had forbidden Hubert to return to her that night—she had said that she wanted to be alone; and now she was half inclined to repent her own peremptoriness. "I might have let him come just once," she said to herself. "I shall not allow him to come often, or to be anything but a friend to me; but I feel lonely to-night. It is foolish of me to be depressed. A month ago I should have thought myself happy indeed if I could have known that he loved me; and now I am more miserable than ever. I suppose it is the thought of that other girl—mean, jealous, miserable wretch that I am!But I will not be mean or jealous any longer. He has promised himself to her, and he shall keep his word."
She was startled from these reflections by the sound of a tap at the door, followed by the entrance of a maid whose office it was especially to attend on Miss West.
"If you please, miss," she said, in a low and rather confidential tone—"if you please, there's a—a person at the door that asks to see you."
"It is late for visitors," said Cynthia. "A lady, Mary?"
"No, miss."
"A gentleman? I do not see gentlemen, when Madame is out, at this hour of the night. It is ten o'clock. Tell him to come to-morrow."
"I did, miss. He said to-morrow wouldn't do. He asked me to mention 'Beechfield' to you, miss, and to say that he came from America."
"Old or young, Mary?" The color was leaving Cynthia's face.
"Old, miss. He has white hair and black eyes, and looks like a sort of superior working-man."
Cynthia deliberated. Mary watched her in silence, and then made a low-voiced suggestion.
"There's cook's young man in the kitchen, miss, and he's a policeman. Shall I ask him to step up to the front and tell the man to move on?"
"Oh, no, no!" said Cynthia, suddenly shrinking. "I will see the man, Mary. I think that perhaps he knows a place—some people that I used to know."
There was a sort of terror in her face. Mary turned rather reluctantly to the door.
"Shall I come in too, miss, or shall I stand in the passage?"
"Neither," said Cynthia, with a little laugh. "Go down to your supper, Mary, and I will manage the visitor. Show him in here."
She seemed so composed once more that Mary was reassured. The girl went back to the hall door, and Cynthia rose to her feet with the look of one who was nerving herself for some terrible ordeal. She kept her eyes upon the door; but, when the visitor appeared, they were so dim with agitation that she could hardly see the face or the features of the man whom Mary decorously announced as—
"Mr. Reuben Dare."