Cynthia gasped a little.
"I thought he—he must be ill," she said, rather to herself than to Jenkins, who however heard, and was struck with sympathetic emotion immediately.
"I thought you'd think so, ma'am; and therefore I made so bold as to look round," he said respectfully. "He's not been himself, so to speak, for the last few days; and when his sister—Mrs. Vane—was up from Beechfield to see him, he seemed took worse; and Mrs. Vane she sent me for a doctor."
"Is Mrs. Vane with him now, then?" Cynthia asked quickly.
"No, ma'am. She did not stop long; but I expect that she'll be round either to-night or to-morrow morning."
"And is Mr. Lepel to have nobody to nurse him?" asked Cynthia indignantly.
"There's my wife, ma'am, who is used to nursing; and, if my master is worse, a trained nurse can be sent for. Ithought you would like to know, ma'am. I've been talking to the landlady, and she's quite agreeable for my wife to come on for a bit and help to wait on Mr. Lepel. She's there now."
"I am very much obliged to you for coming, Jenkins."
"I thought, ma'am," continued Jenkins, "that, if ever you was passing that way, you might like to look in maybe to ask after Mr. Lepel, you know. If you was good enough always to ask for my wife, you see, ma'am, she could tell you how my master was, or any news about him."
Cynthia grasped the situation at once, and felt her face flush as she listened to the man's awkward kindly words. Evidently Jenkins knew that she was unacquainted with Mr. Lepel's family, and was trying to save her from the unpleasantness of meeting any of them unexpectedly. The thought gave her a moment's bitter humiliation; then she saw the kindliness of the motive and felt a throb of gratitude.
"It is very good of you to tell me that, Jenkins," she said, frankly putting out her hand to him, "and I am very much obliged to you. I shall come to-morrow; it is impossible for me to come to-night."
Jenkins was not accustomed to have his hand shaken by those whom he served, and Cynthia's action embarrassed him considerably. He was glad when she went on to ask a question.
"Do you think that Mr. Lepel is very—very ill?" There was a pathetic tremor in her voice.
"Well, ma'am, he don't know nothing; he lies there and talks to himself—that's all."
"He is unconscious! Oh!" cried Cynthia, as if the words had given her a stab of pain. "Does he talk about any one—anything?" she asked wistfully.
"We can't tell much of what he says, ma'am. But I think he was mainly anxious to see you. He kep' on sending messages to you; and that's partly why I come round this evening."
Cynthia wrung her hands.
"And I can't go—at least to-night; and I must—I must!"
"Don't you take on, ma'am," said Jenkins, evidently much moved by her distress. "I wouldn't trouble about to-night if I was you. Mrs. Vane may be there again, orthe General, and a host o' folks. It would only bother them, and do my master no good, if you went to-night. To-morrow morning'll be the time. And now I must be going; for I could only get away while my wife was there, and she wanted to get back to the children by nine o'clock."
So Jenkins took his leave, and Cynthia went up to her room to dress for her party.
What a mockery it seemed to her to don her pretty frock, her ornaments, her flowers—to see herself a radiant vision of youth and loveliness in her mirror—while all the time her heart was bleeding for her lover's suffering, and he lay tossing upon a bed of sickness, calling vainly upon her name! If she could have done as she liked, she would have relinquished all her engagements and sought his bed-side at once. But—fortunately perhaps—she was bound, for many reasons, to sing at Lady Beauclerc's party. Madame della Scala and others would be injured in reputation, if not in pocket, should she fail to appear. And, although she would not mind sacrificing her own interests, she could not sacrifice those of her friends even for the sake of her love.
She was said never to have looked so brilliant or sung so magnificently before. There was a new strange touch of pathos in her eyes and voice—something that stirred the hearts of those who heard. The new vibration in her voice was put down to genius by her audience, and not by any means to emotion.
"That girl will equal Patti if she goes on like this," said one musical amateur to another that evening.
"But she won't go on like this," his friend replied. "She'll marry, or break down, or something; she won't last; she won't be tied down to a professional life—that's my prophecy. She'll bolt!"
The amateur laughed him to scorn. But he had reason to alter his tone when some years later his friend reminded him of his prediction, and coupled it with the information that Cynthia West's last appearance as a singer had been at Lady Beauclerc's party. She never sang in public again.
But she had no idea, during the evening in question, that it was absolutely her last appearance. Her mind had never been so much set on a professional career as itwas just then. She meant to go to America with her father certainly, but to take engagements as a vocalist in the States. That she was at all likely to cease work so suddenly and so soon never once occurred to her.
She was glad when the evening was over—glad to get back to her own quiet room, and to lay certain plans for the morrow. She would go to Hubert in the morning—not to stay of course, but to see whether he was well nursed and tended; and she would take with her the ornaments that he had presented to her, and which she had meant to give back. She would get Mrs. Jenkins to put them away for her in some safe drawer or box; and, when he was better, he would find them and understand. She would accept nothing more from his hands. Yet, with all her pride and her sense of injured dignity, she wept half the night at the thought that he was suffering and that she could do nothing to alleviate his pain.
She set off the next morning, between nine and ten o'clock, with a little black bag in her hand. It was larger than she needed it to be for mere conveyance of the jewelry which she wanted to restore; but she meant to fill it with fruit—black tempting grapes and red-cheeked hot-house peaches—for the invalid before she reached the house. She left word with Mary that she did not know when she would return, and that Madame was not to wait luncheon or dinner on her account. This message, and the fact of her carrying away a bag, led some persons to believe that she was acting a part in a long-premeditated scheme when she left Madame della Scala's house that morning. But no scheme was present in any shape or form to Cynthia's mind.
She did not at once see a hansom, and therefore she walked for a few yards along the broad pavement of the Bayswater Road, where at that hour not many passers-by were to be encountered. And here, to her great surprise, she met her father—but a father so changed, so utterly transformed in appearance, that she would not have known him but for his voice. He wore an overcoat that she had never seen before, and a tall hat; he had got rid of the white hair and beard, and had even shaved off his whiskers; he remained a lean, brown-faced, resolute-looking man, more refined, but decidedly more commonplace, than he had been before. This man would pass easily in acrowd; people used to stop and gaze after Reuben Dare.
"Oh, I am so thankful—so glad!" cried Cynthia, when the meaning of the change burst upon her. "Nobody would recognise you now, father; your own face is a greater disguise than any amount of snowy hair. What made you alter yourself in this way?"
"Cynthia," said her father, drawing her into a quiet little side-street, and speaking in low earnest tones, "I have been a great fool! I wish I had taken your advice earlier. That woman Meldreth suspects me. For aught I know, I am already watched and followed. There is not a moment to lose. If I mean to escape, I'd better get out of the country as fast as I can—or find some snug corner where I can lie close until they have left off looking for me. There is a cab—a four-wheeler. Let us get into that, and we can talk as we go. I don't see any one who appears to be dogging me at present. Where were you going?"
"I will go wherever you go, father," said Cynthia.
Westwood was silent until he found himself with his daughter inside the cab.
"Where did you tell him to go?" he then asked of her.
"To St. Pancras Station. I thought that we could more easily evade watchers at a big railway-station than anywhere else."
"They will watch the stations," said the man. "I may have got the start, and I may not. The stations are hardly safe."
"Let the man drive on for a few minutes while you tell me the reason why you think you are watched," said Cynthia, suspecting panic; "he cannot be going far out of the way, and, if we change our minds we can tell him so presently."
"Well," said Westwood, evidently recovering nerve and self-possession under the influence of his daughter's calmer manner and speaking in an easier tone, "it's that woman Meldreth—she is a spy. Who do you think came to herhouse yesterday but Mrs. Vane? The very woman who has most reason to dread me and to wish to get me shut up in prison, if my idea of her is true! I think she wanted to see me with her own eyes. She looked at me as if she would read me through and through."
"Where did you meet her, father?"
"In the street. I was asked to show her Mrs. Gunn's house. It was pure accident of course, but it gave us an opportunity of looking at each other."
"Did you go back to the house after that?"
"Yes, I did, my girl, because I had left my portmanteau there with papers and money, without which I should soon be in 'Queer Street.' Yes, I went back, and found Mrs. Vane gone. But the Meldreth woman had a queer look about her, and I suspected what she was about, though I don't know that I could have balked her but for my peculiar constitution. Sleeping-stuff don't have no effect on me, my dear—it never had. They tried it in the prison when I was there at first, and couldn't sleep for thinking of the woods and the open fields and my own little girl—and it nearly drove me mad. Sabina Meldreth gave me some sleeping-stuff in my tea last night."
"What for, father?"
"That's what I wanted to know. When I felt the old pricks and twitches beginning, I pretended to be very sleepy, and I lay down on the sofa and went off, as she thought, into a deep slumber. Presently she came in, and—what do you think, Cynthy?—she began to examine my hair and beard! Of course she soon saw that it would come off; and then she laughed a little to herself. 'Twenty pounds for this job,' she said—'and more perhaps afterwards. I wonder what Mrs. Vane's up to now? I'll be off to her first thing to-morrow morning. It's somebody she's got a spite against, I'll be bound!' And then she went away and left me alone, having done her work."
"So then you came away?"
"Not immediate, my girl. I was off at five o'clock this morning. I got shaved at a little place in Gray's Inn Road—after disposing of my wig and beard elsewhere, you know; and I bought this rig-out at two different places in Holborn. Then I breakfasted at a coffee-stall and came on here. They'll only just have found out that I've gone by now—if indeed so soon—unless they have found it out accidental-like."
"The woman—Meldreth is her name?—would not know what to do without consulting Mrs. Vane first, would she?"
"No. But then we don't know where Mrs. Vane is—she may have been in the house all the time for aught we know."
"I think not," said Cynthia decisively. "She would have come herself to look at you when Miss Meldreth was examining your hair if she had been in the house."
"Well, perhaps she would. You've got a head on your shoulders, Cynthia—that you have! Miss Meldreth would have to get to Mrs. Vane and tell her this morning, as she said; then Mrs. Vane would let the police know. That gives us till about eleven or twelve o'clock."
"Two hours' start. Is not that sufficient?"
Westwood shook his head.
"The first thing they will do is to telegraph to all the ports."
"But you look so different now, father! And I can make myself look quite different too."
"You! Why, you don't suppose I am going to let you come with me?"
"Oh, yes, father dear, I cannot leave you now!"
"It would be madness, Cynthia. You are well known, and you would be too easily recognised. Everybody turns to look at a handsome girl like you."
"If you can disguise yourself, so can I."
"We have not time for that. Besides, why do you want to leave England so soon and so suddenly?"
"Oh, I don't—I don't!" said Cynthia, suddenly trembling and clinging to him. "Only I can't bear the idea of your being without me now when you are in danger."
"I can send for you, my lass, when I am safe. You will come then?"
"Yes, father."
"You'll come straight, without waiting for any good-byes or to tell any one where you are going?"
"Yes, father—unless——"
"Well? Unless what?"
"Father, Mr. Lepel is very ill. They say that he has brain-fever. If he were dying, you would let me wait to say good-bye to him?"
She had put her hand through his arm, and was leaning against his shoulder. Her father looked at her sideways, with a rough pity mingled with admiration.
"Were you going to him now, Cynthia?"
"Yes, father."
"I've interrupted you. It's hard on you to have a father like me although he is an innocent man."
"I honor my father and I love him," was Cynthia's swift response. "My greatest grief is that he cannot be near me always."
There was a silence; the cab had quitted the smoother roads and entered on a course of rattling stones. It was difficult to speak so as to be heard; but Westwood raised his voice.
"Cynthia!"
"Yes, father."
"It seems to me that you need watching over as much as ever you did when you was a little baby-girl. I don't see why you should be abandoned in your need any more than you're willing to abandon me. If I can be any sort of help to you, I won't try to leave London at all. I can hide away somewhere no doubt as other folks have done. There are places at the East-end where no one would notice me. Shall I stay, Cynthia?"
"Dear father! No, you will be no help to me—no comfort—if you are in danger!"
He put his arm round her and pressed her close to him; but he did not speak again until they reached the station. The streets were noisy, and conversation was well-nigh impossible. When they got out, Cynthia paid the cabman and dismissed him. Her father walked forward, glancing round him suspiciously as he went. It was a quarter to eleven o'clock. Cynthia joined him in a dark corner of the great entrance-hall.
"I will take your ticket," she said, "where will you go?"
Westwood hesitated for a moment.
"It's not safe, Cynthia. I will not go at all. I should only be arrested at the other end; I am sure of it. I'll tell you what we will do. You may go and take a ticket for Liverpool and bring it to me—in full view of that policeman there, who is eyeing us so suspiciously. Then you must say 'good-bye' and walk straight out of the station. I will mingle with the crowd on the platform; but I will not go by train—I'll slip eastward and lose myself in Whitechapel. I've made up my mind—I don't start for Liverpool to-day."
"Perhaps you are right," said Cynthia, in a faltering voice. "But how shall I know where you are?"
"Better for you not to know, my dear. I shall put them off the scent in this way, and you will have no idea of what has become of me. Now get my ticket and say good-bye—as affectionate and as public as you like. It will all tell in the long run; that bobby has his eye on us."
Cynthia did as she was desired. Her father kissed her pale, agitated face several times, and made his adieux rather unnecessarily conspicuous. Then Cynthia left the station, and her father made his way to the platform, where he mingled with the crowd, and finally got away by another door, and turned his face towards the illimitable east of London.
Cynthia did not take a cab again. It was a relief to her to walk, and she was in a neighborhood that she knew very well. She turned into Euston Square, then down Woburn Place, and through Tavistock Square to Russell Square. She could not stay away from Hubert any longer.
She knew the house—it was the place to which she had come one autumn day when Mr. Lepel wanted to hear her sing. She had never been there since. The square looked strangely different to her; the trees in the garden, in spite of their green livery, gave no beauty to the scene. It was as cheerless and as dark as it had been on the cold autumnal morning when she had gone to learn her fate from the critic's lips; and yet the sun was shining now, and the sky overhead was blue. But Cynthia's heart was sadder than it had been in the days of her friendlessness and poverty.
She rang the bell and asked for Mrs. Jenkins, who appeared almost at once and led the girl into Hubert's deserted sitting-room.
"Oh, miss, I'm so glad you have come!" she said. "For we can't get Mr. Lepel to be quiet at all, and we were just on the point of sending off for you, because he calls for you constant, and the doctor, he says, 'could you get the lady that he talks about to come and sit beside him for a little time? That might calm him,' he says; 'and if we calm him, we may save his life.'"
"Oh, is he so ill as that?" cried Cynthia.
"He couldn't be much worse, miss, the doctor says.Can you stay, miss, now you're here? Just for an hour or two at any rate!"
"I can stay as long as I can be of any use," said the girl desperately. "Nobody wants me—nobody will ask for me; it is better for me to be here."
The words fell unheeded on Mrs. Jenkins' ears. All that she cared about was the welfare of her husband's employer. Both Jenkins and his wife adored Mr. Lepel, and the thought that he might die in his illness had been agony to them—and not on their own account alone. They genuinely believed in Miss West's power of soothing and calming him, and Mrs. Jenkins could not do enough for the girl's comfort.
"You'll take off your things here, miss, will you not? And then I'll take you to Mr. Lepel's own room. But wouldn't you like a glass of wine or a cup of tea or something before you go in? You look terrible tired and harassed like, miss; and what you are going to see isn't exactly what will do you good. Poor Mr. Lepel he do look dreadful—and that's the long and the short of it!"
"I don't want anything, thank you, Mrs. Jenkins," said Cynthia, faintly smiling; "and I should like to go to Mr. Lepel at once."
"Have you ever seen anything of sick people, miss, or done any nursing?"
"Never, Mrs. Jenkins."
"Don't be too frightened then, miss, when you first see Mr. Lepel. People with fevers often look worse than they really are."
Cynthia set her lips; if she was frightened, she would not show it, she resolved.
Then, after some slight delay, she was admitted to Hubert's room; and there, in spite of her resolution, at first she stood aghast.
It startled her to perceive that, although she knew his face so well, she might not have recognised it in an unaccustomed place. It was discolored, and the eyes were bloodshot and wandering; the hair had been partially cut away from his head, and the stubble of an unshaven beard showed itself on cheeks and chin. Any romance that might have existed in the mind of a girl of twenty concerning her lover's illness was struck dead at once and forever. He was ill—terribly ill and delirious; he looked at herwith a madman's eyes, and his face was utterly changed; his voice too, as he raised it in the constant stream of incoherent talk that escaped his lips, was hoarse and rasping and unnatural. Anything less interesting, less attractive to a weak soul than this delirious fever-stricken man could not well be imagined; but Cynthia's soul was anything but weak.
She was conscious that never in her life had she loved Hubert Lepel so intensely, so devotedly as she loved him now. Something of the maternal instinct awakened within her at the sight of his great need. He had no one to minister to his more subtle wants—no one to tend him out of pure love and sympathy. The man Jenkins, who sat beside the bed, ready to hold him down if in his delirium he should attempt to throw himself out of the window, was awkward and uncouth in a sick-room. Mrs. Jenkins, although ready and willing to help, was longing to steal away to her little children at home. The landlady down-stairs had announced that she could not possibly undertake to wait upon an invalid. All these facts became clear to Cynthia in a very little time. She saw, as soon as she entered the room, that the window-blind was awry and the curtains were wrongly hung, that the table and the chest of drawers were crowded with an untidy array of bottles, cups and glasses, and that the whole aspect of the place was desolate. This fact did not concern her at present however; her attention was given wholly and at once to the sick man.
She stood for a minute or two at the foot of the bed, realising with a pang the fact that he did not know her. His eyes rested upon her as he spoke; but there was no recognition in them. She could not hear all he said; but, between strings of incoherent words and unintelligible phrases, some sentences caught her ear.
"She will not come," said the sick man—"she has given me up entirely! Quite right too! The world would say that she was perfectly right. And I am in the wrong—always—I have always been wrong; and there is no way out of it. Some one said that to me once—no way out of it—no way out of it—no way out of it—oh, Heaven!"
The sentence ended with a moan of agony which made Cynthia writhe with pain.
"He's always saying that," Jenkins whispered to her—"'No way out of it!' He keeps coming back to that as if—as if there was something on his mind."
Cynthia raised her hand to silence him. The torrent of words broke out again.
"It was not all my fault. It was Flossy's fault; but one cannot betray a woman, one's sister—can one? Even she would say that. But she has gone away, and she will never come back again. Cynthia—Cynthia! I might call as long as I pleased—she would never come. Why don't you fetch her, some of you? So many people here, and nobody will bring Cynthia to me! Cynthia, Cynthia, my love!"
"I am here, dear—I am here, beside you," said Cynthia.
But he did not seem to understand. She touched his hot hand with her own, and smoothed his fevered brow. The restless tongue went on.
"She has given me up, and I shall never see her any more! She gave me too hard a task; I could not do it—not all at once. It is done now. Yes, I have done it, and it has divided us for ever. Why did you make me speak, Cynthia? He was not miserable—he was happy. But I am to be miserable for ever and ever now. There is no way out of the misery—no way out of it—darkness and loneliness all my life, and worse afterwards. Cynthia, Cynthia, you are sending me to perdition!"
He half rose from his bed, and made as if he would struggle with her. Jenkins came to the rescue; but Cynthia would not move aside.
"Lie down, dearest," she was saying—"lie down and rest. Cynthia is here—Cynthia is with you; she will never leave you any more unless you send her away. Lie down, my darling, and try to rest."
He did not understand the words; but the sweet rhythm of her voice caught his ear. He fell back upon the pillows, staring, helpless, subdued. She kept her cool hand upon his brow.
"Is that Cynthia?" he said suddenly.
"Yes, dearest, it is Cynthia."
"How kind of her to come!" said Hubert, looking away from the girl as if Cynthia were on the other side of the room. "But she should not look so angrily at me. I have done what I could, you know. It is all right now, Cynthia, I have done what I could—I have savedhim—indeed I have! I'll take the punishment—no way out of it but that! A life sentence—a life sentence for me!"
The words died away upon his lips in a confused babble that they could not understand. He murmured inarticulately for a time, but there came long pauses between the words, his eyelids drooped a little, and he grew perceptibly less flushed. In about half an hour the doctor came into the room. He cast a swift look at Cynthia, and another at his patient; then he nodded sagaciously.
"Better," he said curtly. "I thought so. Some more ice, Jenkins. He has been quieter since you came, I conclude, madam?"
Cynthia bowed her head.
"You are the lady for whom he has been asking so often? I know your face—Miss Cynthia West, I believe? Can you stay?"
"Yes," said Cynthia, without hesitation.
"If you keep him as quiet as that, you will save his life," said the doctor; and then he beckoned Jenkins out of the sick-room, and gave him various stringent orders and recommendations—to all which Jenkins lent an attentive if a somewhat puzzled ear.
The doctor looked in again before he went away. Mr. Lepel was lying back on his pillows, perfectly motionless and silent; Miss West, kneeling beside the bed, still kept one hand on his, while with the other she put cooling applications to his head or merely laid her hand upon his forehead. As long as she was touching him the patient seemed perfectly content. And again the doctor nodded—and this time he also smiled.
So passed the hours of that long summer day.
When the light was fading a little, there was a new sound in Hubert Lepel's sick-room—the rustle of a silk dress, the tripping of little high-heeled shoes across the floor. Cynthia looked round hastily, ready to hush the intruder; for Hubert was much quieter than he had been, and only murmured incoherent sentences from time to time.A fresh outburst of delirium was of all things to be warded off if possible, and there was a faint hope that he might sleep. If he slept, his life, humanly speaking, was saved. But it was hardly likely that sleep would come so soon.
Cynthia looked round, prepared to rebuke the new-comer—for she had taken upon herself all the authority of nurse and queen-regent in the sick man's room; but her eyes fell upon a stranger whose face was yet not altogether unknown to her. She had seen it years before in the Beechfield lanes; she remembered it vaguely without knowing to whom it belonged. In her earlier years at school that face had stood in her imagination as the type of all that was cold and cruel and fair in ancient song or story, fable or legend. It had figured as Medusa—as Circe; the wonderful wicked woman of the Middle Ages had come to her in visions with just such subtle eyes, such languorous beauty, such fair white skin and yellow hair; the witch-woman of her weirdest dream had had the look of Florence Lepel; just as Hubert's far different features, with the dark melancholy expression of suffering stamped upon them, had stood for her as those of Fouqué's ideal knights, or of Sintram riding through the dark valley, of Lancelot sinning and repenting, of saint, hero, martyr, paladin, in turn, until she grew old enough to banish such foolish dreams. She had been a strangely imaginative child; and these two faces seemed to have haunted her all her life. That of her hero lay beside her, stricken with illness, fevered, insensible; that of the evil woman—for this Cynthia instinctively believed Florence Vane to be—confronted her with a strange, mocking, malignant smile.
Cynthia put up her hand.
"Hush!" she said quietly. "He is not to be disturbed."
"Are you the nurse?" said Mrs. Vane's cool light voice.
"I am a friend," replied Cynthia quietly. "If you wish to talk to me, I will come into the other room."
"Upon my word, you take things very calmly!" said Florence. "I really never dreamt——It is a most embarrassing situation!"
But she did not look embarrassed in the least; neither did Cynthia.
A heavier step on the boards now made itself heard, and the General's face, ruddy and framed in venerable gray hairs, pressed forward over his wife's shoulder.
"Oh, dear—oh, dear—this is very bad!" he grumbled, either to himself or to Flossy. "Poor lad—poor lad! He looks very ill—he does indeed!"
Flossy came closer to the bed. As soon as she drew near, her brother seemed to grow uneasy; he began to turn his head from side to side, to move his hands, and to mutter incoherent words.
"You disturb him," said Cynthia, looking at Mrs. Vane. "The Doctor says that he must be kept perfectly quiet. Will you kindly go into the other room, and, if you want me, I will come to you."
"We are not particularly likely to want you, young woman," said Florence coldly. "If you are not a qualified nurse, I do not see why you should try to turn Mr. Lepel's own sister out of the room. It is your place to go—not mine."
For all answer, Cynthia turned again to Hubert, and began applying ice to his fevered head. She seemed absorbed by her task, and took no further notice of the visitors. For once Flossy felt herself a little quelled.
She turned to Mrs. Jenkins, who had followed her into the room.
"Has not the doctor procured a proper nurse yet for Mr. Lepel?" she said.
Mrs. Jenkins fidgeted, and looked at Cynthia.
"The young lady," she said at last, "seems to be doing all that is required, ma'am. The doctor says as we couldn't do better."
"In that case, my dear," said the pacific General, "I think that we had better not interfere with existing arrangements. We will go back to the hotel and inquire again in the morning."
"Go back to the hotel, and leave that person in possession?" cried Flossy, with fine and virtuous scorn. "Are you mad, General? I will not put up with such a thing for a moment! She will go out of this house before I go!"
These words reached Cynthia's ears. The girl simply smiled. The smile said, as plainly as words could have done, that she would not leave Hubert Lepel's rooms unless she was taken away from them by force.
Meanwhile Mrs. Jenkins was whispering and explaining, the General was expostulating, and Flossy waxed apparently more and more irate every moment. Cynthia, with her hand on Hubert's pulse, felt it growing faster; his incoherent words were spoken with energy; he was beginning to raise his head from the pillow and gaze about him with wild excited eyes. She turned sharply towards the visitors.
"Go into the other room at once!" she said, with sudden decision. "You have aroused him already—you have done him harm! Keep silence or go, if you wish to save his life!"
The passionate ring of her voice, low though it was, had its effect. The General stopped short in a sentence; Mrs. Jenkins looked at the bed with a frightened air; Flossy, with an impatient gesture, walked towards the sitting-room. But at the door she paused and looked back at Cynthia, whose eyes were still fixed upon her. What there was in that look perhaps no one else could see; but it magnetised Cynthia. The girl rose from her knees, gently withdrew her hand from Hubert's nerveless fingers, and signed to Mrs. Jenkins to take her place. Then, after watching for a moment to see that the patient lay quietly and did not seem distressed by her departure, she followed Mrs. Vane into the other room. The General hovered about the door, uncertain whether to go or to remain.
The two women faced each other silently. They were both beautiful, but they bore no likeness one to the other.
There could not have been a more complete contrast than that presented by Florence Vane and Cynthia Westwood as they confronted each other in the dim light of Hubert's sitting-room. Cynthia stood erect, looking very tall and pale in her straight black gown; her large dark eyes were heavy from fatigue and grief, her lips had taken a pathetic downward curve, and her dusky hair had been pushed back carelessly from her fine brow. There was a curious dignity about her—a dignity which seemed to proceed chiefly from her own absence of self-consciousness, swallowed up as this had been in the depth of a great sorrow. Opposite to her stood Florence, self-conscious and alert in every nerve and vein, but hiding her agitation under an exterior of polished grace and studiedly haughty courtesy, her fair beauty framed in an admirable setting ofexquisite colors and textures, her whole appearance indescribably dainty and delicate, like that of some rare Eastern bird which hesitates where to set its foot in a strange place.
Thus the two saw each other; and Flossy felt vaguely that Cynthia ought to be at a disadvantage, but that in some strange and miraculous manner she was not. Indeed it was Cynthia who took the lead and spoke first.
"If you wish to speak to me," she said, "I am here; but I cannot leave Mr. Lepel for long."
"I have no wish to speak—necessity alone compels me," said Mrs. Vane, giving the girl a haughty stare from under her half-closed eyelids. "I am compelled, I fear, to ask you a few questions. I presume that a nurse is coming?"
"I think not. The doctor said that he need not send one so long as Jenkins and I were here."
"And pray how long do you mean to remain here?"
"As long as he has need of me."
"You are under a mistake," said Mrs. Vane loftily. "Mr. Lepel did not send for you, I believe?"
"He called for me in his delirium," answered Cynthia, whose eyes were beginning to be lighted up as if from an inward fire. "He is quiet only when I am here."
Flossy laughed derisively.
"A good reason! Is he not quiet now, with the woman Jenkins at his side? You will perhaps allow that his relatives—his family—have some right to attend to him during his illness; and I must really say very plainly—since you compel me to do so—that I should prefer to see him nursed by a professional nurse, and not by a young girl whose very presence here is a scandal to all propriety."
Cynthia drew herself up to her full height.
"I think I can scarcely understand you," she said. "I am acting under the doctor's orders, and am here by his authority. There can be no scandal in that. When Mr. Lepel is conscious and can spare me, I will go."
"Spare you! He will be only too glad to spare you!" cried Mrs. Vane. "I do not know what your connection with him has been—I do not want to know"—the insinuation conveyed by her tone and manner was felt by Cynthia to be in itself an insult; "but this I am fullyconvinced of, that my poor brother could not possibly have known that you were the daughter of that wretched criminal, Andrew Westwood—the man who murdered Sydney Vane! If he had known that, he would never have wished to see your face again!"
She saw the girl wince, as if she had received a cut with a whip, and for a moment she triumphed.
The General, who was just inside the room, listening anxiously to the conversation, now came to her aid. He stepped forward hurriedly, his face growing crimson, his lower jaw working, his eyes seeming to turn in his head as he heard the words.
"What is that? What—this young person the daughter of Westwood the murderer? Abominable! What business has she here? It is an insult to us all!"
Cynthia turned upon him like a wild animal at bay, defiance flashing in her mournful magnificent dark eyes.
"My presence insults you less than the words Mrs. Vane has spoken insult me!" she cried, tossing back her head with the proud stag-like gesture which Hubert had learned to know so well. "She is more cruel than I ever thought one woman could be to another! She must know that I have nothing to reproach myself with—that my life is as pure as hers—purer, if all one hears is true." She could not deny herself the vengeful taunt, but was recalled to her better self when she saw Florence blanch under it and suddenly draw back. "But about myself I do not choose to speak. Of my father I will say one word—to you, sir, who I am sure will be just at least to one who craves only for justice—my father, sir, was innocent of the crime for which he was condemned; and some day his innocence will be manifested before all eyes. Mr. Lepel knows—he knew before he was taken ill—that I am Andrew Westwood's daughter. I told him a few days ago."
"And he was so much horrified by the news that this illness is the result. I see now," said Mrs. Vane coolly, "why this break down has taken place. The poor boy, General, has been so harassed and overcome by the discovery that his brain has for the time being given way. And yet this girl pretends that he wants her to remain!"
"I appeal to the doctor!" said Cynthia, suddenly turning as white as Florence herself had done. "If he supports me, you will yield to his decision? If he saysthat I am not necessary here, I will go. I have no wish to inflict my presence on those to whom it is unwelcome."
She glanced proudly from Mrs. Vane to the General. The old man was much perturbed. He was walking about the room, muttering to himself, his lips protruding, his brow wrinkled with anger and disgust.
"Too bad—too bad!" Cynthia heard him say. "Westwood's daughter—nursing Hubert too! Tut, tut—a bad business this!"
Cynthia resolved upon a bold stroke—she would address him.
"Sir," she said, taking a step towards him, "will you listen to me for a moment? I promise you that I will go if the doctor says that I am not wanted. You need not fear that I shall force myself upon you. I only ask you to forgive me the fact of being my father's daughter until Mr. Lepel is a little stronger—if the doctor says that I must not leave him yet. When he is better, I vow—I swear that you shall see and hear no more of me! I shall leave the country, and you will never be troubled by me again. But, till then, have pity! Let me help to nurse him; he has been my best friend in the whole world, and I have never yet been able to do anything for him! When he is better, I will go away. Till then, for pity's sake, sir, let me stay!"
Her voice broke; she clasped her hands before her and held down her head to hide her tears. The General, brought to a sudden stop by her appeal to him, eyed her with a mixture of native pity and long-cultivated detestation. He could not but be sorry for her, although she was Westwood's daughter and, by all reports, not much better perhaps than she should be; for he firmly believed in the truth of all Flossy's malignant hints and innuendos. But Cynthia was a handsome woman, and the General was weak; he could not bear to see a handsome woman cry.
"My good girl," he stammered—and then Flossy's significant smile made him stammer all the more—"my girl, I—I do not wish to blame you—personally, of course—not your fault at all—we can't help its being painful, you know."
"Painful—yes," cried Cynthia eagerly; "but pain is sometimes necessary! You will not drive me away from Hubert's bedside if I can be of any use to him?"
"No, no—I suppose not," said the General, melting in spite of himself. "I wouldn't for the world do anything to harm poor Hubert. Suppose we hear what the doctor says?"
Cynthia's hand was on the bell immediately, and Jenkins showed himself at the door without delay.
"Jenkins," she said, "it is very important that we should have the doctor here at once. Mrs. Vane—General Vane—want——"
"Give your own orders, General," said Flossy abruptly. She could not lose a chance of annoying and insulting Cynthia.
"H'm, ha—the doctor, my man," said the General, rather taken aback by the demand upon him—"get us the doctor as soon as you can. Tell him—tell him that Mr. Lepel's relatives are here, and no doubt he will come at once."
There was a little silence in the room when Jenkins had disappeared upon his errand. The General stood, with his hands clasped behind him, looking out of a window; Mrs. Vane had sunk into a chair, in which she lay back, her graceful neck turned aside, as if she wanted to avoid the sight of Cynthia, who meanwhile stood upon the hearthrug, head bent and hands folded, waiting gravely and patiently for what she felt to be the decision on her fate.
Presently Mrs. Vane moved a little, fixed her cold eyes on the motionless figure before her, and spoke in tones so low that they did not reach the General's ears.
"What have you done with your father?" she asked.
Cynthia raised her eyes to Mrs. Vane's face for a moment with a flash of scorn in their lustrous depths. She made no other answer.
"You need not think," said Florence deliberately, "that I do not know where he has been until to-day. I know all about him."
"Yes; you set your spies on him," said Cynthia, in equally low but bitter tones. "I was aware of that."
"I know of his movements up to eleven o'clock this morning, and so do the police," said Mrs. Vane. "He came to you this morning—perhaps by appointment, perhaps not—how do I know?—and you drove away with him to St. Pancras Station. There you took his ticket toLiverpool—there you said good-bye. Why did you not wait to see him off? The answer is easy to read—because he never went to Liverpool at all. Did you think we were children like yourself that you could throw dust in our eyes as easily as that?"
Cynthia's dilated eyes asked a question that her lips would not utter. Flossy smiled.
"You want to know if he has been taken?" she said. "Not yet; but he soon will be. You should not have been seen with him if you wanted him to escape. I suppose you were not aware that the relationship was known?"
No, this certainly Cynthia had not known.
"You have been the means of identifying him to the police," Mrs. Vane went on, with the cruel smile still playing about her thin lips; "otherwise we should hardly have been sure that he had changed his disguise. I almost wonder that you never thought of that."
Then Cynthia made a desperate attempt to stem the tide.
"You are mistaken," she said—Mrs. Vane laughed softly.
"You had better not try to tell lies about it—it is not your forte. Brazen it out, as you have done hitherto, and you may succeed. A detective has been to Madame della Scala's house already, and he will probably find you out—if you stay here—before long. I am afraid that you are not a very good hand at keeping a secret; but I have put you on your guard, and you should thank me."
"I do not thank you for torturing me," said Cynthia, with a hard dry sob that seemed to be born of agony. "I would rather face all the police and the magistrates of London than you! They will have no difficulty about finding me. If I cannot stay here, I will go back to Madame's house."
"Which you will find closed to you," said Flossy. "After the story that she has heard, Madame della Scala refuses to receive you there again. You seem to think very little of your father's crime, Miss Westwood; but you will not find society condone it so easily."
Cynthia's face flushed hotly, but she did not reply.
"You had better go away," said Mrs. Vane, leaning forward and speaking almost in a whisper. "Go, and tell no one where you are going—it will be better for you. The police will be here before very long, and possibly they may arrest you."
"I do not think they can do that. No, I shall not hide myself."
"It would be safer for your father," said Flossy, almost inaudibly. "Listen—I will make a bargain with you. If you go, I will hide part of my own knowledge—I will not let the woman Meldreth describe him accurately—I will help you to put the detectives off the track; and, in return, you will go away at once—where I care not—and never see Hubert again. You may save your father then."
"I will make no bargain with you," said Cynthia solemnly. She looked straight into the white, subtle face—straight into the velvet-brown languorous eyes, full now of a secret fear. "You forget that God protects the innocent and punishes the guilty. I will stay with Hubert; and God will defend my father and the right."
"Your father will be hanged yet," said Flossy, turning away restlessly. It was her only answer to the girl's courageous words.
A little bustle was heard outside the door; and then the doctor came in. He was a middle-aged man, tall, spare, thoughtful-looking, a little abrupt in manner, but with a kindly face. He had not advanced two steps into the room before he stopped short, held up his hand, and said—
"Hallo—what's that?"
It was the patient's voice again uplifted in snatches of delirious talk.
"Cynthia!" they distinctly heard him calling. "Where's Cynthia? Tell Cynthia that she must come!"
"And why are you not there?" said Doctor Middlemass, darting his finger in Cynthia's direction. "Why don't you go to him at once? It's madness to let him cry out like that!"
Cynthia's look was piteous; but for the moment she did not move.
"Would it not be better for a qualified nurse to be obtained for my brother?" said Mrs. Vane. "This young—lady"—a perceptible pause occurred before the word—"has had no experience in nursing; and it is surely not necessary——"
"Oh, doctor," the girl burst out, "must I not stay? I cannot go away when he calls for me like that!"
Her hands were strained on her bosom; her eyes had the hungry look of a mother who hears her child cry aloud and cannot go to him. The doctor shot a look at her pale tortured face, and observed the cold composure of the finely-dressed lady in the arm-chair, and the subdued uneasiness of the old gentleman in the background. He began to suspect a tragedy—at any rate, a romance.
"Go to him at once," he said to Cynthia, pointing to the bed-room door, "and keep him quiet at any cost. A trained nurse would not do him half the good that you can do him, if you choose. And now, madam," he continued rather sternly, as Cynthia disappeared with a joyful face into the other room, "may I ask what this interference with my orders may mean?"
"I am Mr. Lepel's sister," said Flossy coldly, "and it was I who sent for you, Doctor Middlemass. I think I have some right to take an interest in my brother's condition."
"Certainly, madam"—the doctor spoke with portentous grimness and formality—"but—excuse me—no right to tamper with any of my prescriptions. I prescribed Miss West to my patient; and she was doing him all the good in the world when I went away. He has got another fever-fit upon him now, a little higher temperature, and we shall not be able to do anything more for him at all. If you do not wish my orders to be followed, madam, have the goodness to send for another doctor and I will throw up the case."
"You misunderstand, sir—you misunderstand!" said the General fussily, coming forward with his most imposing air. "My wife and I, sir, have not the slightest desire to interfere. We only wish to know what your prescriptions are. That young woman, sir, has no right to be here at all."
"From what I have been told," said the doctor dryly, "I should have said that she had the greatest possible right to be here; but, however, that is no business of mine. She has a wonderfully soothing effect on Mr. Lepel's condition, and, as long as she is here, he is quiet and manageable. Listen! He is scarcely speaking at all now; her presence and her touch have calmed him at once. It would be positive madness to take her away!"
"Would it not be well," said Mrs. Vane quietly, "to send a trained nurse here too? There is a woman whom I know; she would be very glad to come, and she would relieve that young lady of the more painful and onerous portions of her task. I mean, dear," she said, looking towards her husband, "old Mrs. Meldreth's daughter—Sabina. She is an efficient nurse, and she has nothing to do just now."
"Has she had experience in cases of brain-disease?" said Doctor Middlemass snappishly.
"I really do not know." She knew perfectly well that Sabina's knowledge of nursing was of the most perfunctory kind. "She has had experience of all kinds of illness, I believe, and she is thoroughly trustworthy. She could be installed here as an attendant on Miss—Miss West."
Attendant! "As spy" she meant, on all poor Cynthia's movements.
"I should like to see the woman first," said the doctor bluntly. He was not easy to manage, as Flossy swiftly perceived. "If she is competent for the task, I have no objection—Miss West must not be allowed to overdo herself; but I myself should prefer to send a person who is accustomed to deal with illnesses of this kind."
"As you please, of course," said Flossy. She saw that it would be of no use to press Sabina Meldreth upon him, much as she would have liked to secure the services of a spy and an informer in the house. As she paused, the General came forward.
"I should like to know, sir," he said, bristling with indignation, "what you mean by saying that that young lady—that girl—has a right to be here? I do not understand such language?"
"Why, of course she has a right to be here," said the doctor, staring at him in a purposely matter-of-fact way, "since she is the lady that he is engaged to marry."
"Marry! Bless my soul—no such thing!" roared the General, utterly forgetting that there was an invalid in the adjoining room. "Why, he's going to marry my——"
"Dear Richard, hush, hush!" said his wife, laying her hand entreatingly upon his arm. "Don't make such a noise—think of poor Hubert!"
"Kindly moderate your voice, sir," was the doctor's dry remark. "My patient will hear you if you don't take care."
"It does not matter to me whether he hears me or not," the General began; but Flossy's hand tightened its grasp upon his arm in a way which he knew that he must obey.
The General was a docile husband, and his protest died away in inarticulate angry murmurs.
"Don't trouble about it, General—I will arrange everything," said his wife caressingly. "Go over to the window again and leave me to speak to Doctor Middlemass for a moment;" and, as the General retired, still growling, she half smiled, and raised her eyes to the doctor's face as if she invited sympathy.
But Doctor Middlemass looked as unresponsive as a block of wood.
"I must go to my patient," he said, "It was to see him, I presume, that I was summoned?"
"Not entirely," said Flossy very sweetly. "We wanted to know whether it was absolutely necessary that Miss West should stay with my brother."
"Absolutely necessary, madam!"
"Then of course we should not think of objecting to her presence, which, I must tell you, is painful to us, because——"
"Excuse me, madam," said the doctor, who was certainly a very uncivil person, "if I say that these family-matters are of no interest to me, save as they affect my patient."
"But they do affect your patient, doctor. I think it was the worry of the affair that brought on this illness. We have found out that this Miss West's name is really 'Westwood,' and that she is the daughter of the dreadful man who shot my husband's brother Beechfield some years ago. Perhaps you remember the case?"
"Oh, yes—I remember it!" said the doctor shortly. "That's the daughter? Poor girl!"
"It is naturally unpleasant to think that my brother—a cousin also of the General's—should be contemplating a marriage with her," said Mrs. Vane.
"Ah, well—perhaps so! We are all under the dominion of personal and selfish prejudice," said Doctor Middlemass.
"I hoped that this illness might break the tie between them," sighed Flossy pensively.
"So it may, madam—by killing him. Do you wish to break it in that way?"
"This doctor is a perfect brute!" thought Mrs. Vane to herself; but she only looked in a reproachful manner at the "brute," and applied her handkerchief delicately to her eyes. "I trust that there is no likelihood that it may end in that way. My poor dear Hubert," she sighed, "if only you had been warned in time!"
Perhaps this display of emotion softened Doctor Middlemass' heart, or perhaps he was not so insensible to Mrs. Vane's charms as he tried to appear; at any rate, when he spoke again it was in a qualified tone.
"I trust that he will get over this attack. He is certainly a little better than I expected to find him; but I cannot impress your mind too strongly with the necessity for care and watchfulness. Anything that tends to tranquilise the mind of a person in his condition must be procured for him at almost any risk. When the delirium has passed, an ordinary nurse may be of greater use than Miss West; but at present we really cannot do without her. You heard for yourself how he called her when she went out of the room?"
"Yes, I heard. Then shall I send the woman of whom I spoke, doctor? She might be a help to Miss West, whose work I of course would rather assist than retard in any way."
"You can thoroughly rely upon her?" said the doctor dubiously.
"Thoroughly. She is a most valuable person."
"She might come for a day or two, and we shall see whether she is of any use or not. Will you send for her?"
Yes, Mrs. Vane would send. And then the doctor went to look once more at Hubert, of whose condition he again seemed somewhat doubtful; and afterwards he took his leave. When he had gone, Mrs. Vane also departed, taking her docile husband back with her to the Grosvenor Hotel. She had gained her point and was secretly triumphant; for she had secured the presence of a spy upon Cynthia, and could depend upon Sabina Meldreth to give a full account of Miss West's habits and visitors.
Flossy had great faith in her system of espionage. She sent Parker at once with a note summoning Sabina to the hotel, and there she laid her plans. Sabina was to go that very night to Mr. Lepel's rooms, and was to make herself as useful as she could. It was presumed that Cynthia had not seen with sufficient clearness for the encounter to be a source of danger the woman in black who had followed Westwood to Kensington Gardens. Sabina was told to keep herself in the background as much as possible—to be silent and serviceable, but, above all, to be observant; for it was likely that Westwood would try to communicate with his daughter, and, if he did so, Sabina would perhaps be able to track him down.
Flossy had completely lost all fear for herself in the excitement of her discoveries. It seemed to her that she and her secret were entirely safe. Nobody, she thought, had ever known of her understanding with Sydney Vane in days gone by; nobody had any clue to the secret of his death; so long as Hubert was silent, she had nothing at all to fear; and Hubert had succumbed to her for so long that she did not dread him now. Nothing seemed to her more unlikely than that after so many years he should deliberately divest himself of name and fame, clear Westwood's reputation at the cost of his own, and sacrifice his freedom for the sake of a scruple of conscience. Flossy did not believe him foolish enough or self-denying enough to do all that—and in her estimate of her brother's character perhaps, after all, Flossy was very nearly right.
Sabina Meldreth presented herself to Cynthia and Mrs. Jenkins that evening, and was not very graciously received. However, she proved herself both capable and willing, and was speedily acknowledged—by Mrs. Jenkins, at least—to be "a great help in the house." Cynthia said nothing; she hardly seemed to know that a stranger was present. Her whole soul was absorbed in the task of nursing Hubert. When he slept, she did not leave the house; she lay on a sofa in another room. She could not bear to be far away from Hubert; and more and more, as the days went on and the delirium was not subdued, did she shrink from the knowledge that any other ears beside her own should hear the ravings of the patient—should marvel at the extraordinary things he said, and wonder whether or no there was any truth in them.
"He talked in this way because he has brooded over my poor father's fate!" Cynthia said to herself, with piteous insistence. "He must have been so much distressed at finding that I was the daughter of Andrew Westwood that his mind dwelt on all the details of the trial; and now hefancies almost that he did the deed himself. I have read of such strange delusions in books. When he is better, no doubt the delusion will die away. It shows how powerfully his mind was affected by what I told him—the constant cry that he sees no way out of it shows how he must have brooded over the matter. No way out of it indeed, my darling, until the person who murdered Mr. Vane is discovered and brought to justice! And I almost believe that my father is right, and that the murderer, directly or indirectly, was Mrs. Vane."
To Cynthia, Hubert's ravings were the more painful, because they bore almost entirely upon what had been the great grief—the tragedy—of her life. He spoke much of Sydney Vane, of Florence, and of Cynthia herself, but in such strange connection that at times she hardly knew what was his meaning, or whether he had any definite meaning. Presently, however, it appeared to her as if one or two ideas ran through the whole warp and woof of his imaginings. One was the conviction that in some way or another he must take Westwood's place—give himself up to justice and set Westwood free. Another was the belief that it was utterly impossible for Cynthia ever to forgive him for what he had done, and that the person chiefly responsible for all the misery and shame and disgrace, which had fallen so unequally on the heads of those concerned in "the Beechfield tragedy," was no other than Florence Vane.
Farther than these vague statements he did not go. He never said in so many words that he was guilty of Sydney Vane's death, and that he, and not Westwood, ought to have borne the punishment. Yet he said enough to give Cynthia cause for great unhappiness. She tried not to believe that there was any foundation of truth for his words; but she could not succeed. The ideas were too persistent, too logical, to be altogether the fruit of imagination. More and more she clung to the belief that Flossy was responsible for Mr. Vane's sudden death, that Hubert knew it, and that for his sister's sake he had concealed the truth. If this were so, it would be terrible indeed; and yet Cynthia had a soft corner in her heart for the man who had sacrificed his own honor to conceal his sister's sin.
Cynthia did not go back to Madame della Scala's house. Flossy had done her work with the singing-mistress as shehad done it elsewhere. She blackened Cynthia's name wherever she went. So, two days after the girl's departure from Norton Square, her boxes and all her belongings were sent to her from her former home without a word of apology or explanation. She felt that she was simply turned out of Madame's house—that she could never hope to go back to it again. She was now absolutely homeless; and she was also without employment; for she had withdrawn from several engagements to sing at concerts, and at more than one private house she had received an intimation that her services could be dispensed with. No reason in these cases was given; but it was plain that the world did not think Miss West a very reputable person, and that society had turned its back upon her. Cynthia had not leisure to think what this would mean for her in the future; at present she cared for nothing but her duties in Hubert Lepel's sick-room.
Her boxes were deposited at last in Mrs. Jenkins' little house at the back; and there a small room was appropriated to Cynthia's use. She was "supposed to be lodging at Mrs. Jenkins'," as Sabina told her mistress; but she practically lived in Hubert's rooms. Still it was a comfort to her to think that she had that little room to retire to when Hubert should recover consciousness; and till then she did not care where or how she lived.
Sabina found little to report to Mrs. Vane, who had now returned to Beechfield. Cynthia went nowhere, and received neither visitors nor letters. She had been interviewed by the police-officials; but they had not been able to get any information from her. As for Andrew Westwood, he seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth; and some of the authorities at Scotland Yard went so far as to say that the report made to them of his discovery must have been either an illusion of the fancy or pure invention on the part of Sabina Meldreth and Mrs. Vane.