Early in the sweet June morning—sweet and fair although it brooded over London, the smokiest city in the world—Cynthia was again walking in Kensington Gardens. She had not gone far before she met her father, with whom she had made an appointment for that hour.
"Well, Cynthia, my girl?"
"I have come, you see, father."
"I hardly thought you'd get here so soon after your party-going last night," said her father. "You look pretty tired too. Well, my girl, I told you I'd been staying down at Beechfield."
"Yes; and I was terribly anxious about you all the time, father. It was such a daring thing to do! Suppose any one had suspected you?"
"Not much fear o' that!" said Westwood, a little scornfully. "Why, look at me! Am I like the man I was at Beechfield ten years ago? I was a sort of outcast then, having sunk from bad to worse through my despair when I lost your mother, Cynthia; but, now that I have a new coat on my back and money in my pocket, all through my luck in the States, not to speak of this white hair, which I shall keep to until I'm back in the West again, I'm a different man, and nobody ever thinks of suspecting me."
He was different, Cynthia noticed, in more than one respect—he was far less silent and morose than he used to be. Life in the West had brought out some unexpected reserves of decision and readiness of speech, and his success—his luck, as he sometimes called it—had cheered his spirits. He was defiant and he was often bitter still; but he was no longer downcast.
"They'd not have much chance if they did suspect me," he said, after a little pause; "if they thought that they'd got me again, they'd find their mistake. I'd put a bullet through my head afore ever I went back to Portland!"
"Oh, father, don't speak so!"
"Come, Cynthy, don't you pretend! You're a brave girl and a spirited one. Now wouldn't you yourself sooner die than be cooped up in a gaol, or set to work in a quarry with an armed warder watching you all day long—wouldn't you put an end to it, I ask you—being a brave girl and not a namby-pamby creature as hasn't got a will of her own, and don't know better than to stay where she's put—eh, Cynthia?"
"Don't speak quite so loud, father dear," said Cynthia—"there are people turning round to look at us. I don't know what I should do in those circumstances; perhaps, as you say, I should think it better to end it all." She looked aside as she spoke, for her dark eyes had filled with heavy tears. How she wished at that moment that she could "end it all" as easily as she said the words! "Sit down for a little time, will you, father?" she asked. "It is a warm morning, and I am rather tired."
She had another reason for wishing to sit down. She had observed that for some time a tall woman in black had been apparently regarding them with interest, following them at a little distance, slackening and quickening her pace in accordance with their own. The stranger was thickly veiled; and, when she saw that Cynthia and her father were walking towards a vacant seat, she turned in the same direction. There was nothing to prevent her from sitting down on the same bench, and either putting a stop to all private conversation or listening to what they had to say; but Cynthia was equal to the emergency. She turned her head and gave the woman a long look, half of inquiry, half of disdain, which seemed to overawe the intruder, who stood by the bench for a moment rather uncertainly. Then Cynthia touched her father's arm.
"Do you know this person?" she asked in a low voice, but one so clear that it must have reached the woman's ears.
"Know her?" said Westwood, starting and looking suspiciously at the black figure. "No, I don't know her, unless she's——She's very much like a person staying withmy landlady just now—a Miss Meldreth. I wonder——Shall I speak to her, Cynthia?"
But the woman had already moved from her standing position by the bench, and was walking away as fast as she could conveniently go. She had fair hair and a fine figure, but her face could not be seen.
"It is very like," said Westwood, standing up and staring after her. "She's been very friendly with me since I came; and I've had tea with her and Mrs. Gunn more than once. Strange to relate; she comes from Beechfield too. She's the daughter of old Mrs. Meldreth, who used to keep the sweetie-shop; don't you remember her?"
"Then she was watching you—following you! Oh, father, do be careful!"
"What should she be watching me for?" said Westwood, but with rather a troubled look upon his face. "I've never had aught to do with her."
"Did you hear of her at all at Beechfield?"
"There was a bit of gossip about her and her mother; they said that Mrs. Vane at Beechfield Hall knew them and was kind to them. Some said that she paid them; but nobody knew what for."
"And she is lodging in the same house with you and following you about? Then I'll tell you what she is, father—she is a spy of the Vanes. She suspects you and wants to put you in prison again. Oh, father, do change your lodgings, or go straight back to America! You have been in England a month, and it is very dangerous. You have nothing to stay for—nothing; and, if you like"—her voice sank almost to a whisper—"I will go back with you."
"Will you, Cynthy? There's my own good girl!" said her father, an unwonted sense of pleasure beaming in his eyes. "You're one of the right sort, you are, and you sha'n't regret it. But, as to danger, I don't see it. There's nobody can recognise me, as you are well aware; and what else have I to fear?" Cynthia had noted before that he was almost childishly vain of his disguise. She herself was not disposed to rely upon it with half so blind a confidence, for she knew how easily the secrets of "making-up" can be read by an experienced eye. "Besides, Miss Meldreth was lodging at Mrs. Gunn's before ever I went there—so that's a pure coincidence. If she'd come afterI went down to Beechfield, there might be something in it. But it's an accidental thing."
"It may be accidental, and yet a source of danger," said Cynthia anxiously. "I wish you would go back to the States at once, father. I am quite ready to go. There is nothing to keep me in England now."
"Why, have you broken off with that young man?" said Westwood sharply.
"Not altogether." The remembrance of the previous night's kiss under the umbrella made Cynthia's cheeks burn red as she replied. "But since I know what you have told me—that he is a relative of the Vanes of Beechfield—I have determined that it cannot go on. He and his family would hate me if they knew. I cannot forget the past; I cannot forget what they did and said; and I do not see how I can marry a man who unjustly believes that my father was his kinsman's murderer." The fire came back to her eyes, the firmness to her voice, as she spoke.
Westwood watched her admiringly.
"Well spoke, my little girl—well spoke! I didn't think you had it in you—I didn't indeed! Let him go his way, and let us go ourn. I didn't tell you all that I might ha' done when I came back from Beechfield the other day, because I didn't rightly know whether you was with me or against me."
"With you—always with you, dear father!"
"And I was a little doubtful, so to speak, seeing as how you had taken up, although by accident, with a fellow belonging to the camp of my enemies. But now I'll tell you a little more. Has Mr. Lepel ever told you that he had a sister?"
"No."
"Well, he has; and, what's more, she's married to the old General—you remember him at Beechfield?"
"Yes."
"Maybe you remember her too—a very fair lady, as used to walk out with the little girl—Mr. Sydney Vane's little girl?"
Cynthia was silent for a moment.
"Yes," she said, at length—"I think I remember her."
"You've seen the child too?"
"Yes"—Cynthia's eyes softened; "I am sure I remember her."
"I'll tell you about her presently. I've got a notion in my head about these Lepels. Miss Lepel, as was, and Mr. Sydney Vane was in love with one another and about to run away from England when he was killed. I know that for a fact, so you needn't look so scared. They was on the point of an elopement when he died—I knew that all along; but, stupid-like, I never thought of putting two and two together and connecting it with his death. It just seemed a pity to throw shame and blame on the dead, seeing as how there was his wife and child to bear all the disgrace; and so I held my tongue."
"But how did you know, father?"
"By using my eyes and my ears," said Westwood briefly—"that's how I knew. They used to meet in that little plantation often enough. I've lain low in a dry ditch more than once when they were close by and heard their goings-on. They were going off next day, when Mr. Vane met with his deserts. And what I say is that somebody related to Miss Lepel found out the truth and shot him like a dog."
"Why did you not think of all this at the right time? Oh, father, it is too late now!"
"I'm not so sure of that. And, as for the gun—well, that often puzzled me; for I hadn't fired it myself that afternoon, Cynthy, and yet it had been fired—and that's what made part of the evidence against me. I'd been out that afternoon, and, coming home, who should I see in the distance but two or three gentlemen strolling along the road—Mr. Vane and the General and one or two strangers? Quick as thought, I laid my gun down and walked on as careless as you please. They met me—you know, that was a bit of the General's evidence, I looked back when I'd passed them, and I saw Mr. Sydney Vane separate himself from the other gentlemen and walk into the plantation. I did not like to go back just then; and so I waited. There was two or three ways of getting into the fir plantation, so I don't know who came into it across the fields, as anybody might have done either from the village or from the Hall. But presently I heard the report of a gun—two reports, as far as I remember; and then I saw Miss Lepel flying along the road—and I knew that she'd been in the plantation, any way. So, after watching a little while longer, I went back to the wood; and I found my gunpretty near where I had left it—only it had been moved and fired. So I took it up and walked away home."
"Without stopping to see whether any one was hurt?"
"Yes, my girl—and that was my mistake. If I'd gone on and found Mr. Vane and given the alarm and all that, I dare say I should have got off. But that was my misfortune, and also my hatred to Mr. Vane and his wicked ways. I says to myself, 'This is no business of yours. Let them settle it between themselves. I'll not interfere.' So I sort of hardened my heart and went on my way."
"Father, perhaps you might have saved a life!"
"No," said Westwood calmly, "I couldn't have done that. He was shot clean through the heart. And I'm not sure that I would if I could. He was a bad man, and deserved his punishment. The only thing I can't understand is why the man as did it hadn't the pluck to say what he had done, instead of leaving a poor common man like me to bear the blame."
"Did you not tell all this to the jury and the counsel?"
"Yes, my dear, I did—every word. But who was there to believe me? It didn't sound likely, you know. And who else was there, as the lawyers said, that had reason to hate Mr. Vane? Why, if they'd known all I knew, they would have seen that every honest man would have hated him! But, by never telling what I knew previous about Miss Lepel, I didn't put 'em on the right track, you see. I own that now."
"Father, I see to whom your suspicions point—you said as much to me before. But I feel sure that Mr. Hubert Lepel is incapable of such a deed—not only of the murder—for which one could forgive him—but of letting another bear the blame."
"Well, perhaps so, Cynthy. I don't think you would ha' given your heart to an out-an-out scoundrel—I don't indeed. And Mr. Lepel has a good sort o' face. I've seen him, and I like him. He looks as if he'd had a good bit o' trouble somehow; and I daresay it's likely, with a sister like that on his hands. It's my belief, Cynthia, not that Mr. Lepel, but his sister, Miss Florence Lepel, as she was then, did the deed and put the blame on me. And I'm inclined to think as how Mr. Lepel knows it and wouldn't tell."
"A woman! Could a woman manage a heavy gun like that?"
"If she was desperate, she could, my dear. It's wonderful what strength a woman will have when she's in a temper. And maybe Mr. Vane failed her at the last moment—wouldn't go with her away from England, or something o' that kind—and she thought she would be revenged on him."
The theory did credit to Reuben Westwood's imagination; but it was a mistaken one. At present, however, it seemed sufficiently credible to give Cynthia much cause for reflection. She did not speak. Westwood gave his knee a sudden stroke with one hand, expressive of growing amazement, as he also meditated on the matter.
"And then for her to go and marry the old man—Sydney Vane's brother! It beats all that I ever heard of! She must have got nerves of steel and muscles of iron; she must be the boldest, hardest liar that ever trod this earth. If I thought that all women was like her, Cynthia, I would go to the devil at once! But I've known two good ones in my time, I reckon—your mother and you—and that should p'r'aps be enough for any man. Yes, she's married and got a child—a little lad that'll have the estate and prevent the girl from coming to her own—at least, what would have been her own if there had been no boy."
"You mean Miss Enid Vane?" said Cynthia, again with a curious softening of the eyes.
"Yes, some outlandish name of that sort—'Enid,' is it? Well, you know better than I. I'm glad you're breaking it off with that man Lepel, Cynthia, for more reasons than one."
Cynthia hardly noticed the significance of his tone or the conjunction of the two names in his remarks. She had something else in her mind which she was anxious to have said.
"Father, I am to see Mr. Lepel this afternoon."
"Yes, my girl?"
"And I want to say good-bye to him for ever."
Westwood nodded; he was well pleased with her decision.
"And then I will go to America with you whenever you please. But one thing I want you to allow me to do."
"Well, Cynthy?"
"I must tell Mr. Lepel who I am. I will not of course let him think that I know anything of you now. He shallnot know that you are alive. But I must do as I please about telling him my own name."
"Very well, Cynthia," said her father; "do as you like in that matter. I can trust you with a good deal, and I trust you so far; but don't let out that you know anything about me now—that I'm alive, and that you have seen me, or anything of that sort."
"No, father."
"I see what you're after," said he, after a pause. "You think he'll give you up more ready when he knows that you are my daughter—isn't that it? You may say so open-like; it doesn't hurt me, you know. Of course I can understand what he will feel. And what's always been hardest to me was the feelin' that I had injured you so much, my dear—you, the only thing left to me in the world to love."
"You could not help it, father dear."
"Well, I don't know. I might have done many things different—I see that now. But there's one thing to be said—if you feel inclined to break off with Mr. Lepel without telling him your name, I think it would be easy enough to do it."
"How? What do you mean?"
"You think he's fond of you—don't you, my dear?"
"I thought so, father."
"He's tried to make you believe so for his own ends, no doubt. But he means to marry the other girl, my dear—they told me so at Beechfield. They say he worships the very ground she treads upon; and she the same with him. Being fond of you was only a blind to lead you to your destruction, I'm afraid, my poor pretty dear!"
Cynthia shrank a little as she heard. Could this be true?
"The girl lives down there then, does she?" she asked, in a strange hard voice not like her own.
"Yes, my dear. He would not be able to break off there without a tremendous to-do, I'll warrant you; for the girl is the General's niece, the daughter of Mr. Sydney Vane—the Miss Enid you spoke about just now."
As he got no answer, he turned to look at her, and found that she was deadly white; but, when she noticed that he was looking at her, she smiled and passed her hand reassuringly within his arm.
"You make my task all the easier for me, father," she said; "I shall know what to do now. And I think that it is about time for me to go home."
Cynthia had already despatched a little note to Hubert asking him to visit her at a certain hour that afternoon—hence the certainty with which she spoke of his visit to her father. After what had passed between them, she did not think that he would fail to come.
She wanted him at half-past five precisely, because at that hour Madame had promised to go for a drive in the Park with one of her most fashionable pupils and her friends, and Cynthia knew that she could then see him alone. And she was right in thinking that he would come. Just as the half-hour struck, Hubert knocked at Madame della Scala's door, and was immediately ushered into a tiny little room on the ground-floor which was always called "Miss West's parlor," and which contained little furniture except a piano and table and a couple of chairs. It was here that Cynthia practised and studied, and sat when she wanted to be alone. Two or three photographs of the heads of great singers and musicians were the sole decorations of the walls; a pile of music and some books lay on the table. The place had a severely business-like air; and yet its very simplicity and the sombreness of its tints had hitherto always given Hubert, who knew the room, a sense of pleasure. But he knitted his brows when he was taken to it on this occasion. It seemed to him that Cynthia wanted to give her interview with him also a business-like character. But perhaps, he reflected, it was only that she wanted a peculiarly confidential talk.
He looked at her a little anxiously when she came in, and was rather puzzled by her face. She was pale, and she had been crying, for her eyelids were red; but she gave him a peculiarly sweet and winning smile, and there was a pleading softness in the lovely eyes under the wet lashes which melted his heart to her at once, although she offered him her hand only and would not allow him to kiss her cheek.
"What—not one kiss for me this afternoon? I thought I was forgiven!" he said reproachfully.
"It is I who want forgiveness," she answered, "for being so bad-tempered and cross and rude last night."
"Take my forgiveness then," said Hubert almost gaily in his relief at hearing the sweetness of her voice—"and take it in this form."
He would not be denied; and Cynthia had no heart to struggle. She let him enfold her in his arms for a moment, and press a dozen kisses on her lips and cheek; then she drew herself away. He felt the movement; although he did not let her go.
"My dearest, you do not speak naturally—and you want to get away from me. What does this mean?"
"I don't know that I exactly want to get away from you," said Cynthia, smiling; "but I think that perhaps I must."
The smile was a very woeful little affair after all.
"Must! I don't think I shall ever let you go again!"
He tightened his clasp. She looked up into his face with beseeching eyes.
"Do take away your arm, please, Hubert! I want to talk to you, and I cannot if it is there."
"Then we will leave it there. I don't think I want to talk, darling. I am very tired—I think I must have walked miles last night before I came back to this door to hand my lady out of her carriage, and I want to be petted and spoken to kindly."
Cynthia's fingers twitched and she turned her head aside, but not before Hubert had noticed the peculiar expression that crossed her face. Being a play-writer and constant theatre-goer, his mind was full of theatrical reminiscences. He remembered at that moment to have noticed that peculiar twitch, that odd expression of countenance, in Sarah Bernhardt when she was acting the part of a profoundly jealous woman. It had then meant, "Go to my rival, to her whom you love, and be comforted—do not come to me!" But there was no likeness between the great tragic actress and Cynthia West either of character or of circumstance; and Cynthia had no cause to be jealous. But he thought of the momentary impression afterwards.
She turned her face back again with as sweet a smile as ever.
"You think you must always have your own way; but I want to be considered too. I have something to tell you, and I shall not be happy until it is said. If you are tired, you shall sit down in this chair—it is much more comfortable than it looks—and have some tea, and then we can talk. But Madame may be in by half-past six, and I want to get it all over before she comes."
"'Getting it all over' sounds as if something disagreeable were to follow!" said Hubert, releasing her and taking the chair she proffered. "No tea, thank you; I had some at my club before I came. Now what is it, dear? But sit down; I can't sit, you know, if you stand."
"I must stand," said Cynthia, with a touch of imperiousness. "I am the criminal, and you are the judge. The criminal always stands."
"It is a very innocent criminal and a very unworthy judge in this instance. 'Sit, Jessica.'"
She laughed and drew a chair forward. Sitting down, he saw that her figure fell at once into a weary, languid attitude, and that the smile faded suddenly from her face. He put his hand on hers.
"What is it, my dearest?" he said, seriously this time.
She raised her eyes, and they were full of tears.
"It is of no use trying to speak lightly about it," she said. "I may as well tell you that it is a very important matter, Hubert. I sent for you to-day to tell you that we must part."
"Nonsense, Cynthia!"
"We must indeed! The worst is that we might have avoided all this trouble—this misery—if I had been candid and open with you from the first. If I had told you all about myself, you would perhaps never have helped me—or at least—for I won't say that exactly—you would have helped me from a distance, and never cared to see me or speak to me at all."
"Of course you know that you are talking riddles, Cynthia."
"Yes, I know. But you will understand in a minute or two. I only want to say, first, that I had no idea who—who you were."
"Who I am, dear? Myself, Hubert Lepel, and nobody else."
"And cousin"—she brought the words out with difficulty—"cousin to the Vanes of Beechfield."
"Well, what objection have you to the Vanes of Beechfield?"
"They have the right to object to me; and so have you. Do you remember the evening when I spoke to you in the street outside the theatre? Did it never cross your mind that you had seen and spoken to me before? You asked me once if I knew a girl called Jane Wood. Now don't you remember me? Now don't you know my name?"
Hubert had risen to his feet. His face was ghastly pale; but there was a horror in it which even Cynthia could not interpret aright.
"You—you, Jane Wood!" he gasped. "Don't trifle with me, Cynthia! You are Cynthia West!"
"Cynthia Janet Westwood, known at St. Elizabeth's as Janie Wood."
"You—you are Westwood's child?"
She silently bowed her head.
"Oh, Cynthia, Cynthia, if you had but told me before!"
He sank down into his chair again, burying his face in his hands with his elbows on his knees. There was a look of self-abasement, of shame and sorrow in his attitude inexplicable to Cynthia. Finding that he did not speak, she took up her tale again in low, uneven tones.
"I knew that I ought to tell you. I said that I would tell you everything before—before we were married, if ever it came to that. I ought to have done so at once; but it was so difficult. They had changed my name when I went to school so that nobody should know; they told me that it would be a disgrace to have it known. I ran away from St. Elizabeth's because I had been fool enough to let it out. I could not face the girls when they knew that—that my father was called a murderer."
Hubert drew his breath hard. She tried to answer what she thought was the meaning of that strange sound, half moan, half sigh.
"I never called him so," she said. "You will not believe it, of course; but I know that my father would never have done the deed that you attribute to him. He was kind, good, tender-hearted, although he lived in rebellion against some of the ordinary laws of society.There was nothing base or mean about him. If he had killed a man, he would not have told lies about it; he would have said that he had done it and borne the punishment. He was a brave man; he was not a murderer."
Still Hubert did not answer. He dared not let her see his face; she must not know the torture her words inflicted on him. She went on.
"Lately I have thought that it would be better for me to face the whole thing out, and not act as if I were ashamed of my father, who is no murderer, but a martyr and an innocent man. I took my first step last night by telling your aunt Miss Vane that 'West' was only an assumed name. I had never said that before. Do you remember how she looked at me—how she hated me—when we stood outside the gates of Beechfield Park that afternoon? The sight of me made her ill; and, if she knew me by my right name, it would make her ill again. If I had known that you were their cousin, I would never have let you see my face!"
"Cynthia, have a little mercy!" cried Hubert, suddenly starting up, and dashing his hair back from his discolored, distorted face. "Do you think I am such a brute? What does it matter to me about your father? Was I so unkind, so cruel to you when you were a child that you cannot trust me now?"
"No," she said, looking at him gently, but with a sort of aloofness which he had never seen in her before; "you were very good to me then. You saved me from the workhouse; you would not even let me go to the charity-school that Mrs. Rumbold recommended. You told me to be a good girl, and said that some day I should see my father again." She put her hand to her throat, as if choked by some hysteric symptom, but at once controlled herself and went on. "I see it all now. It was through you, I suppose, that I was sent to St. Elizabeth's, where I was made into something like a civilised being. It was you to whom they applied as to whether I should be removed from the lower to the upper school; and you—out of your charity to the murderer's daughter—you paid for me forty pounds a year. I did not know that I had so much to be grateful for to you. I have taken gifts from you since, not knowing; but this is the last of it—I will never take another now!"
"Are you so proud, Cynthia, that you cannot bear me to have helped you a little? My love, I did not know, I never guessed that you were Westwood's daughter. But can you never forgive me for having done my best for you. Do you think I love you one whit the less?"
"Oh, I see—you think that I am ungenerous," cried Cynthia, "and that it is my pride which stands in your way! Well, so it is—this kind of pride—that I will not accept gifts from those who believe my father to be a guilty man when I believe in his innocence. They did well never to tell me who was my benefactor—for whom I was taught to pray when I was at St. Elizabeth's. If I had known, the place would not have held me for a day when I was old enough to understand! At first I was too ignorant, too much stupefied by the whole thing to understand that the Vanes were keeping me at school and supporting me. It is horrible—it is sickening—to send my father to prison, to the gallows, and his child to school! Much better have let me go to the workhouse! Do you think I wish to be indebted to people who think my father a murderer?"
"You mistake!" said Hubert quickly. "The Vanes knew nothing about it. If Mrs. Rumbold ever said so, it was my fault. I did not like her to think that I was doing it alone. And, as for me, Cynthia, I never thought your father guilty—never!"
He trembled beneath the burning gaze she turned on him, and his color changed from white to red, and then to white again. He felt as if he had been guilty of the meanest subterfuge of his whole life.
"You never thought so?" she said, with a terrible gasp. "Then who was guilty? Who did that murder, Hubert? Do—you—know?"
She could not say, "Was your sister guilty, and are you shielding her?"
He looked at her helplessly. His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth; he could not speak. With a bitter cry she fell upon her knees before him and seized his hands.
"You know—you know! Oh, Hubert, clear my father's name! Never mind whom you sacrifice! Let the punishment fall on the head of the wrong-doer not on my dear, dear father's! I will forgive you for having been silent so long, if now you will only speak. I will love you always, I will give you my life, if you will but let the truth be known!"
He gathered his forces together by an almost superhuman effort, and managed to speak at last; but the sweat stood in great drops on his brow.
"Cynthia, don't—don't speak so, for God's sake! I know nothing, I have nothing to say!"
Clinging to his knees, she looked up at him, her eyes full of supplication.
"Is the cost too great?" she cried. "Will you not tell the truth for my sake—for Cynthia's sake?"
Scarcely knowing what he did, he pushed back his chair, and wrenched himself free from her entreating hands.
"I cannot bear this, Cynthia! If I could——But it is of no use; I have nothing—nothing to tell."
He had moved away from her; but he came back when he saw that she had fallen forward with her face on the chair where he had been sitting. He leaned over her. At first he thought that she had fainted; but presently the movement of her shoulders showed him that she was but vainly endeavoring to suppress a burst of agonising sobs.
"Cynthia," he said, "believe in my love, darling! If you believe in nothing else, you may be sure of that."
He laid his hand gently round her neck, and, finding that she did not repulse him, knelt beside her and tried to draw her to his breast. For a few minutes she let her head rest on his shoulder, and clung to him as if she could not let him go. When she grew calmer, he began to whisper tender words into her ear.
"Cynthia, I will give up all the world for your dear sake! Let us go away from England together, and live only for each other, darling! We could be happy somewhere, away from the toil and strife of London, could we not? I love you only, dearest—only you! If you like, we would go to America and see whether we could not find your poor father, who, I have heard, is living there; and we could cheer his last days together. Will you not make me happy in this way, Cynthia? Be my wife, and let us forget all the world beside."
She shook her head. She had wept so violently that at first she could not speak.
"Why do you shake your head? You do not doubt my love? My darling, I count the world well lost for you. Do not distrust me again! Do you think I mind what the world says, or what my relatives say? You are Cynthia and my love to me, and whose daughter you are matters nothing—nothing at all!"
"But it matters to me," she whispered brokenly—"and I cannot consent."
"Dearest, don't say that! You must consent! Your only chance of happiness lies with me, and mine with you."
"But you have promised yourself," she murmured, "to Enid Vane."
"Conditionally; and I am certain—certain that she does not care for me."
"I am not certain," she whispered.
Then there was a little pause; during which he felt that she was bracing herself to say something which was hard for her to say.
"I have made up my mind," she said at length, "to take nothing away from Enid Vane that is dear to her. Do you remember how she pleaded with you for me? Do you remember how good she was—how kind? She gave me her shilling because I had had no food that day. I never spent it—I have that shilling still. I have worn it ever since, as a sort of talisman against evil." She felt in her bosom and brought out the coin attached by a little string around her neck. "It has been my greatest treasure! I have had so few treasures in my life. And do you think I am going to be ungrateful? If it broke my heart to give you up, I would not hesitate one moment, when I had reason to think that you were plighted to Enid Vane."
She drew herself away from him as she spoke, and rose to her full height. Hubert stood before her, his eyes on the floor, his lips white and tremulous. What could he say? He had nothing but his love to plead—and his love looked a poor and common thing beside that purity of motive, that height of purpose, that intensity of noble passion which at that moment made Cynthia's face beautiful indeed.
"I will see you no more," she said. "You must go back to Enid Vane, and you must make her happy. For me, I have another work to do. In my own way I—I shall be happy too. There is a double barrier between us, and we must never meet again."
"Is it a barrier that can never be broken down, Cynthia?"
"No," she said—"not unless my father is shown to be innocent to the world and the stain removed from his name—not unless we are sure—sure that Enid Vane has no affection for you save that of a cousin and a friend. And those things are impossibilities; so we must say good-bye."
It seemed as if he had not understood her words. He muttered something, and clutched at the table behind him as if to keep himself from falling.
"Impossibilities indeed!" he said hoarsely, after a moment's pause. "Good-bye, Cynthia!"
Struck with pity for his haggard face and hollow eyes, Cynthia came up to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed his cheek.
"I was mad just now! I said more than I think I meant, Hubert. Forgive me before you go; but never come here again."
Their eyes met, and then some instinct prompted her to whisper very low—"Could you not, even now, save my father if you tried?"
Surely his good angel pleaded with him in Cynthia's guise, and, looking into her face, he answered as he had never thought to answer in this world—
"Yes, Cynthia; if I took his place, I could."
Westwood had scouted Cynthia's notion that the woman in black who seemed to be following them could possibly be a spy; nevertheless he meditated upon it with some anxiety, and resolved, on his arrival at his lodgings, to be wary and circumspect—also to show that he was on his guard. He relapsed therefore into the very uncommunicative "single gentleman" whom Mrs. Gunn, his landlady, had at first found him to be, and refused rather gruffly her invitation that afternoon to take tea with her in her own parlor in the company of herself and her niece.
"He's grumpier than ever," she said to this niece, who was no other than Sabina Meldreth, now paying a visit—on business principles—of indefinite duration to her aunt's abode in Camden Town; "and I did think that you'dmelted him a bit last week, Sabina! But he's as close as wax! Let's sit down to our tea before it gets black and bitter, as he won't come."
"He must have seen me in the Gardens," said Sabina, who was dressed in the brightest of blue gowns, with red ribbons at her throat and wrists, "though I should never have thought that he would recognise me, being in black and having that thick black veil over my face."
"I don't see what you wanted to foller him for!" said Mrs. Gunn. "What business o' yours was it where he went and what he did? I don't think you'll ever make anything of him"—for Miss Meldreth had begun to harbor matrimonial designs on the unconscious Mr. Reuben Dare.
"I'm not so sure," said Sabina. "Once get a man by himself, and you can do a' most anything with him, so long as there's no other woman in the way."
"And is there another woman in the way?"
"Yes, aunt Eliza, there is."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Gunn, emptying the water-jug into the tea-pot in pure absence of mind. "You saw him with one, did you?"
"Yes, aunt Eliza, I did."
"And what was she like, Sabina?"
"Well, some folks would call her handsome," said Sabina dubiously; "and she was dressed like a lady—I'll say that for her. But what's odd is that I'm nearly sure I heard her call him 'father.' She's young enough to be his daughter, anyway."
"Did he call her anything?"
"I couldn't hear. But I'll tell you what I did afterwards, aunt Eliza; I followed her when she came out at the gate—and she didn't see me then. She went straight to a house in Norton Square; and I managed to make some inquiries about her at a confectioner's shop in the neighborhood. The house belongs to a music-mistress; and this girl is a singer. 'Cynthia West,' they call her—I've seen her name in the newspapers. Well, I thought I would wait round a bit, and presently I saw a man go to the house to deliver a note; and thinks I to myself, 'I know that face.' And so I did. It was Mr. Lepel's man, Jenkins, as used to come down with him to Beechfield."
"You don't say so!" cried Mrs. Gunn, raising her hands in amazement.
"He knew me," Sabina proceeded tranquilly; "and so we had a little chat together. I says to him, 'Who is it you take notes to at number five—the old lady or the young one?' 'Oh,' says he, 'the young one, to be sure. Scrumptious, isn't she?' 'Cynthia West?' says I. 'Yes,' he says—'and Mrs. Hubert Lepel before very long, if I've got eyes to see! He's always after her.' 'That ain't very likely,' I said, 'because he's got a young lady already in the country.' 'One in the country and one in the town,' he says, with a wink—'that's the usual style, isn't it?' And, seeing that he was disposed to be familiar, I said good-day to him and came away."
"What will you do now then, Sabina?"
"Well," said Sabina reflectively, "I think I shall let Mrs. Vane know. She'd be glad to have a sort of handle against her brother, I'm thinking. And these people—Mr. Dare and Miss West—seem to have got something to do with Beechfield, for I'm certain it was to Beechfield he went when he left here for that fortnight. He gave no address—that was natural maybe—but he'd got the Whitminster label on his bag when he came back. And, if Miss West was being courted by Mr. Lepel, and her father wanted to know who Mr. Lepel was and all about him, he might easily gather that Beechfield was the place to go to. I suppose he wanted to find out whether Mr. Lepel was engaged to Miss Vane or not. And I've a sort of idea too that there's something mysterious about it all. Why shouldn't he have said straight out where he was going, especially when I had already told him that I knew Whitminster so well and belonged to Beechfield? It seems to me that Mr. Dare has got something to conceal; and I'd like to know what it is before I go any farther."
"Any farther!" said her aunt contemptuously. "It don't seem to me that you've got very far!"
"Farther than you think," was Miss Meldreth's reply. "He's afraid of me, or else he would have come to tea this afternoon. And a woman can always manage a man that's afraid of her."
Fortified by this conviction, Sabina sat down after tea to indite a letter to Mrs. Vane. She was not a very deft scribe, and the spelling of certain words was a mystery to her. But, with the faults of its orthography corrected the letter finally stood thus—
"Madam—I thought you might like to know as how there is a gentleman, named Reuben Dare, lodging here at my aunt's, as seems to have a secret interest in Beechfield. I think, but I am not quite sure, that he spent a few days at the Beechfield inn not long ago. He is tall and thin and brown, with white hair and beard and very black eyes. He will not talk much about Beechfield, and yet seems to know it well. Says he comes from America. He was walking for a long time in Kensington Garden this morning with a young woman that goes by the name of Cynthia West and is a singer. She calls; him 'Father.' Madam, I take the liberty of informing you that Mr. H. Lepel visits her constant, and is said to be going to marry her. She is what gentlemen call good-looking, though too dark for my taste. It does not seem to be generally known that she has a parent living.
"Yours respectfully,"Sabina Meldreth."
Mrs. Vane read this letter with considerable surprise. She meditated upon it for some time with closed lips and knitted brows; then she rang the bell for Parker.
"Parker," she said, "can you tell me whether any strangers have been visiting Beechfield lately?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am! There was an old gentleman at the 'Crown' a few days ago. The post-office woman told me that he came from America."
"Do you know his name?"
"Yes, ma'am—'Mr. Dare.'"
"The woman at the post-office told you that? Did you ever see him?"
"Yes, ma'am. He spoke to me one evening when I'd run out with a letter, and asked me the way to the Hall."
"And then?"
"He said he'd heard of a Mr. Lepel at Beechfield, ma'am," said Parker, rather reluctantly, "and that he knew a Mr. Lepel and wondered, whether it was the same. But it wasn't. The Mr. Lepel he knew was short and fair and was married; the Mr. Lepel that came here, as I told him, was dark and tall and engaged to Miss Vane."
"You had no right to tell him that, Parker; it is not public property."
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure, ma'am! I'd heard it so often that I thought everybody knew."
"What else did this Mr. Dare say?"
"I don't remember, ma'am."
"Did he ask no other questions? Did he ask, for instance, whether Mr. Lepel was not very fond of Miss Vane?"
"Well, yes, ma'am; now you mention it I think he did—though how you came to guess it——"
"Never mind how I came to guess it. What did you say?"
"I said that he worshipped the ground she trod upon, and that she was just the same with him."
"And pray how did you know that?"—Parker shuffled.
"Well, ma'am, I couldn't rightly say; but it's what is general with young ladies and young gentlemen, and it wouldn't have looked well, I thought, to ha' said anythink else."
"Oh, I see! The remark was purely conventional," said Flossy cynically. "I congratulate you, Parker, on always doing as much harm as you can whenever you take anything in hand. Did he seem pleased by what you said?"
"Not exactly pleased, ma'am—nor displeased; I think, if anything, he was more pleased than not."
"That will do," Mrs. Vane said shortly; and Parker retired, much relieved in her mind by having come off, as she considered, so well.
Mrs. Vane proceeded to electrify the household the next morning by declaring that she must at once go up to London in order to see her dentist. She announced her intention at a time when the General, much to his annoyance, could not possibly accompany her. She said to him very sweetly that she had chosen that hour on purpose because she did not want to put him to needless inconvenience, and that she preferred to go with Parker only as her companion. She hated to be seen, she said, when she was in pain.
The General fumed and fretted; but, as he had an important meeting to attend at Whitminster that day, he could but put his wife into the train and give Parker endless injunctions to be careful of her mistress. Parker promised fervently to do all that lay in her power; and with a serene smile Flossy listened to the General's orders and her maid's asseverations with equal tranquility. They had the carriage to themselves; and not until the trainwas nearly to London did Mrs. Vane rouse herself from the restful semi-slumber in which she seemed to have passed the journey. Then she sat up suddenly, with a curiously wide-awake and resolute air, and addressed herself to her maid.
"I shall not require you at all to-day, Parker. I brought you only because the General would never have allowed me to come alone; but I dislike being attended by any one when I go to the dentist's or to the doctor's. You may wait at the railway-station until I come back. I may be only an hour, or I may be gone all day."
"The General's orders, ma'am," began Parker, with a gasp; but her mistress cut the sentence short at once.
"I suppose you understand that you are my servant and not the General's?" she said. "You will obey my orders, if you please."
She gave the maid some money, and instructions to spend as much as she pleased at buffet and book-stalls until her return.
"Enjoy yourself as much as you like and as much as you can," said Mrs. Vane carelessly—"only don't stir from the station, for when I come back I shall want you at once."
She installed the faithful Parker safely in the waiting-room, and then went out and got into a cab—not a hansom cab; Mrs. Vane did not wish to be seen in her drive through the London streets. The address which she gave to the cabman was not that of her dentist, but of the lodgings at present tenanted by her brother.
Parker remained at the station in a state of tearful collapse. She was terribly afraid of being questioned and stormed at by the General when she got back for neglect of her trust. She was certainly what Flossy had called her—"a faithful fool." She wanted to do all that her mistress required; but it had not as yet even occurred to her that Mrs. Vane was quite certain to require utter silence, towards the General and everybody else, on the question of her disposition of the day. And, if silence was impossible, a good bold lie would do as well. Parker had not yet grasped the full amount of devotion that was expected of her.
Hubert had seldom been more surprised in his life than when the elegantly-dressed lady who was ushered into hissitting-room proved to be his sister Florence. She had never visited him before. He sprang up from his writing-table, which was piled high with books and manuscripts, flung a half-smoked cigar into the grate, and greeted her with a mixture of doubt and astonishment, which amused if it did not flatter the astute Mrs. Vane.
"This is indeed an unexpected pleasure! I hope you are not the bearer of ill news, Flossy! Is anything wrong at Beechfield?"
"Oh, dear, no! I came up to see my dentist," said Flossy carelessly, "and I thought that I would give you a callen passant. So these are your rooms? Not at all bad for a bachelor!"
"That is high praise from you, I suppose," said Hubert, smiling faintly.
"But you do not look at all well, Hubert. What is the matter with you? You look terribly fagged!"
Her remark was justified by his appearance. His face had a drawn look which added ten years to his age; his eyes seemed almost to have sunk into his head. He made an impatient gesture, and looked away.
"I have not been very well," he said; "but there is no need to speak about it. I am very busy, and I want rest—change of scene and air."
"Why not come down to Beechfield?"
He gave a slight but perceptible shudder.
"No," he said briefly, and then stood leaning against his writing-table, and was silent.
"Hubert," said his sister, a little more quickly than usual, "I said that I wanted to see my dentist, but I had another reason for coming to town. Can you tell me where I can find a file of theTimesnewspaper for the early months of the year 187-?"—she mentioned the year of Sydney Vane's death and the trial of Andrew Westwood.
"You want—the trial?" said her brother, with an evident effort. She bowed her head.
"Why?"
"I have forgotten one or two points in the evidence. I want to recall them to my mind."
He stood looking at her silently.
"It doesn't matter," she said, feigning indifference, and rising as if to take her leave; "I can see the papers in apublic library, no doubt. The General would not have a copy left in the house. I will go elsewhere."
"It is needless," Hubert answered, in a gloomy tone. "I have kept copies myself. Wait a moment, and I will bring them to you."
"I thought that you would probably possess them," said Flossy softly, as she settled herself once more in her comfortable chair.
He went into another room, and soon returned bearing in his arms a little pile of papers, yellow indeed with age, but, as Mrs. Vane noticed, completely free from dust. It was evident that some one else had been very lately perusing them; but she made no comment on the subject.
"Go on with your writing," she said, beginning to take off her gray gloves with admirable coolness. "I can find what I want without your aid."
He gave her a long look, then set the papers on a little table beside her and returned to his own seat. He did not however begin to write again. He turned the chair almost with its back to Mrs. Vane, and clasped his hands behind his fine dark head. In this position he remained perfectly motionless until she had finished her examination of the newspapers. In a quarter of an hour she declared herself satisfied.
"Have you found all that you wanted?"
"Oh; yes, thank you!" One important item she had certainly secured—the fact that Westwood's daughter had been named "Cynthia Janet." "Cynthia Janet Westwood"—"Cynthia West"—it was plain enough to her quick intelligence that the two were one and the same. Hubert had never thought of looking for the name of Westwood's little daughter in theTimes.
"By-the-bye," said Flossy lightly, "I hear sad tales of you in town. How often is it that you go to see the new singer—Miss West? Has poor Enid a rival?"
He did not look round; but she saw that her question sent a shock through his nerves.
"I do not know what you mean," he answered coldly.
"Oh, do you not? You may as well speak the truth—to me, Hubert. Are you going to marry Miss West or Miss Vane—which?"
"Neither, I think."
"Don't be absurd. Are you going to marry Miss West?"
"No."
"Shall you marry Enid Vane?"
"It is not very likely that she will marry me."
Something in the intense dreariness of his tone struck painfully on Florence's ear. She rose and put her hand on Hubert's shoulder.
"What is the matter with you, Hubert?"
He shook off her hand as if it had been a noxious reptile of which he desired to rid himself, and rose to his feet.
"You must not mind what I say to-day, Florence. I am not well. I—I shall see you another time."
"Of course you will—plenty of times, I hope!" A look of dismay began to show itself in Flossy's velvet-brown eyes. "You are not contemplating any new step, I hope? I——"
"Don't be alarmed!" he said, with a hoarse unnatural laugh. "Before I take any new step I will come to you. I will not leave you without a warning." Then he seemed to recover his self-possession and spoke in more measured tones. "Nonsense, Florence—don't concern yourself about me! I have a bad headache—that is all. If I am left alone, I shall soon be better."
"I hope you will," said Flossy, rather gravely, "for you look alarmingly ill to-day. You should send for the doctor, Hubert. And now I will say good-bye, for I have two or three other things to do to-day, besides going to my dentist's. The cab is at the door; you need not come down."
He rose, as she really expected him to do, to see her to her cab; but a sensation of dizziness and faintness made him sit down again and bury his head in his hands. Considerably alarmed, Florence rang for Jenkins, his man, and gave strict orders that the doctor should be sent for at once. Then, feeling that she had for the present at least done her duty, she took her leave, promising to call again before she left town that afternoon.
Jenkins went for the doctor, as Mrs. Vane had told him to do. When that gentleman arrived, he found Mr. Lepel stretched on a sofa in a half-unconscious state, and declared him to be in one of the incipient stages of brain-fever.