Mrs. Vane, on leaving her brother's lodgings, drove straight to Camden Town. She had reasons for wishing to see Sabina Meldreth. The house was a little difficult to find, because the street had recently been renamed and renumbered, and Mrs. Vane was forced, to her great disgust, to descend from the cab and make inquiries in her own person of various frowsy-looking women standing at their own doors. "I wish I had brought Parker," she said to herself more than once; "she would have been useful in this kind of work. Surely Sabina has given me the right address!"
"There goes the gentleman that lodges at Mrs. Gunn's!" said one of the frowsy-looking women at last. "I've heard tell that he was there, though I didn't know the number. Will you tell this lady, please, sir, what number Mrs. Gunn's is?"
The white-bearded old man who was just then passing along the street turned to Mrs. Vane.
"I shall be very happy to show the lady the house," he said half raising his felt hat from his white head with something like foreign politeness. And then he and Flossy exchanged glances which were hard and keen as steel.
He knew her well by sight; but she did not recognise him. She had seen Westwood only once or twice in her life, and this apparently gentle old man with the silvery hair did not harmonise with Flossy's impressions of the Beechfield poacher. Nevertheless she was suspicious enough to remember that all things were possible; and she made a mental note of his dark eyes and eyebrows, the latter being a little out of keeping with his very white hair. As a matter of fact, Westwood had gone too far in selecting his disguise; a more ordinary slightly-grizzled wig would have suited his general appearance better. Theperruquier—an artist in his way—to whom he had applied considered picturesque effect an object not to be overlooked; and Mr. Reuben Dare was accordingly a rathertoo strikingly picturesque individual to be anything but theatrical in air.
He showed Mrs. Vane the house, bowed politely, and then passed down the street.
"She's come to enquire about me—I am sure of that," he said. "I'd better change my lodgings as quick as possible. I'll leave them to-morrow—to-night would look suspicious, maybe: or should I leave them now, and never go back?"
He was half inclined to adopt this course; but he was deterred by the remembrance of a pocket-book containing money which he had left locked up in his portmanteau. He could not well dispense with it; and neither Mrs. Vane nor anybody else could do him any harm, he thought, if he stayed for twenty-four hours longer at Mrs. Gunn's. But he trusted a little too much to the uncertainties of fate.
"Well, Sabina," said Mrs. Vane coolly, as, with a general air of bewilderment, that young person appeared before her in Mrs. Gunn's best parlor, "I suppose that you hardly expected to see me here?"
"No, ma'am, I didn't. I thought you was quite too much of an invalid to leave home."
"It is rather an effort," said Flossy drily, "especially considering the neighborhood in which you live."
"It ain't country certainly," returned Sabina; "but it's respectable."
"Ah, like yourself!" said Mrs. Vane. "That was the reason you came to it, I suppose. Don't look angry, Sabina—I was only meaning to make a little joke. But jokes are a mistake with most people. I came to answer your letter in person and to have a talk with you."
"Won't you have anything to eat, ma'am? We've just finished dinner; but, if there's anything we can get"—Sabina was evidently inclined to be obsequious—"an egg, or a chop, or a cup of tea——"
"No, I don't want anything. Who is this Mr. Reuben Dare?"
"That's what I want to know, ma'am!"
"And who is this Miss West?"—Sabina shook her head.
"She calls him her father—I'm sure of that."
"Where does she come from? Where was she brought up?"
"Couldn't say, ma'am. Jenkins says that Miss West used to act at the Frivolity Theatre—he's seen her there about two years ago. Mr. Lepel took her up, as far as he can make out, about a year and a half ago—soon after he settled in London again."
"Do you think that the man Dare has any connection with Beechfield beside that of his recent visit?"
"Yes, I do. He caught himself up like once or twice when I began to talk of it; and once he put me right—accidental like—about the name of somebody at Beechfield."
"Whose name?"
"I'm not sure as I can remember. Yes, I do, though! It was Mr. Rumbold's first name. I called him 'The Reverend Edward,' and he says 'Alfred'—quick, as if he wasn't thinking. So he must have known the place in years gone by."
Flossy sat thinking.
"Sabina," she said at length, in her smoothest tones, "I will take you into my confidence—I know you can be trusted. Of course it would be a great blow to me if my brother married an actress—a girl whom one knows nothing at all about; besides, he is almost engaged to my husband's niece, Miss Vane." She did not add that she had been subtly opposing this engagement by all the means in her power for the last few weeks. "We must try to break off the connection as soon as we can. The more we know about this Miss West's past life the better. I will go to the Frivolity myself, and see whether I can learn anything about it there. And, Sabina——"
"Yes, ma'am," said the woman, as Mrs. Vane paused.
"That mass of white hair, Sabina—do you think it looks quite natural?"
"Mr. Dare, you mean, ma'am? No, I don't; I believe it's a wig. I've seen it quite on one side."
"Couldn't you find out, Sabina?"
"Well, I don't see how," said Sabina slowly. "I've never seen him without it. One night there was an alarm of fire, and everybody rushed to their doors, and Mr. Dare came too; but his hair and his beard and everything was just the same as usual. Still I'm sure I've seen it a little on one side."
"You provide his food here, do you not? Do you ever help your aunt?"
"Sometimes, ma'am. I take in his tea and all that, you know. We're by way of being very friendly, Mr. Dare and me."
"Sabina, if you had the stuff, could you not quietly put something into his tea which would make him sleep for an hour or two? And, when he was asleep, could you not find out what I want to know?"
Sabina was silent for a moment.
"What should I get for it?" she said at last. "It's always a risk to run."
"Twenty pounds," said Flossy promptly. "There is very little risk."
"And where should I get the stuff?"
"I—I have it with me," said Mrs. Vane.
Sabina, who had been standing, suddenly sat down and burst out laughing.
"Well, you are a deep one," she said, when her laughter was ended, and she observed that Mrs. Vane was regarding her rather angrily; "if you'll excuse me for saying so, ma'am, but you are the very deepest one I ever came across! And you don't look it one bit!"
"I suppose you mean both of these assertions for compliments," said Flossy. "If so you need not trouble to make them again. This is a business matter. Will you undertake it, or will you not?"
"When?"
"To-night."
"To-night! When he comes in to tea? Well, is it safe?"
"You mean the drug? Perfectly safe. He will never know that he has had it. It will keep him sound asleep for a couple of hours at least. During that time I do not think that thunder itself would wake him."
"You've tried it before, I'll warrant?" said Sabina half questioningly, half admiringly.
"Yes," said Flossy placidly, "I have tried it before." She took a little bottle of greenish glass from the small morocco bag which she carried in her hand, and held it up to the light. "There are two doses in it," she said. "Don't use it all at once. A drop or two more or less does not matter; you need not be afraid of making it a little too strong. It is colorless and tasteless. Can you manage it?"
Sabina considered.
"If I put it into the tea-pot, it might be wasted; he might not drink all the tea. He never lets me pour it out for him. Would it alter the look of the milk?"
"Not at all."
"Then I could put it into his cream-jug, and give him so little that he's sure to use it all and ring for more. He likes a deal of milk in his tea."
"Then you will do it, Sabina?"
Again Sabina hesitated. Finally she said, with sudden decision—
"Give me that twenty pound, and then I will."
"Not until you have earned it."
"If I don't have it beforehand, I won't do it at all," said Sabina doggedly.
Mrs. Vane shrugged her shoulders slightly, opened her bag, and put the little bottle back into its place.
"You said you could trust me; show me that you can," said Sabina, unmoved by this pantomime. "One of us will have to trust the other. I may do it, and then—who knows?—you may back out of the bargain."
"Did I ever 'back out of a bargain,' as you coarsely express it? I think, Sabina, I have trusted you a good deal already."
"Well, split the difference," said Sabina roughly. "Give me ten down on the nail, and ten when I've done the work. I dare say I can manage it to-night. I can write to you when it's over."
"Very well. Here are ten pounds for you; I will give you the other when your work is done. But do not write to me; come to me at the Grosvenor Hotel to-morrow morning. I shall stay the night in town!"
"Have you any idea who the man is?" said Sabina, as she received the bottle and the ten-pound note from her visitor's hands.
"Yes, I have; but I may be wrong."
"That's not very likely, ma'am. You'd 'a' made a good detective, as I always did think—you're so sharp."
"And I don't look it, as you said before. Perhaps I will tell you to-morrow morning, Sabina. At present I am going to find out all that I can about Miss Cynthia West. You did not give me her address; give it to me now."
She wrote it down in a little pocket-book, and then roseto take her leave. Sabina, who followed her to the cab, heard her tell the man to drive to the box-office of the Frivolity Theatre.
It took Mrs. Vane three-quarters of an hour to reach the Frivolity. It was half-past three when she got there. She asked at once if it was possible to see the manager, Mr. Ferguson. A gold coin probably expedited her messenger and rendered her entrance to the great man possible; for Mrs. Vane was a very handsome and well-dressed woman, and the "important business" on which she sent word that she had come had possibly less influence on the manager's mind than the glowing account given by the man despatched from the box-office on her errand.
Flossy was lucky. Mr. Ferguson was in the building—a rather unusual fact; he was also willing to see her in his private room—another concession; and he received her with moderate civility—a variation from his usual manner, which Mrs. Vane must have owed to her own manner and appearance.
"I shall not detain you for more than a very few minutes, Mr. Ferguson," said Flossy, with the air of a duchess, as she accepted the chair which the manager offered her; "but I have a good reason for coming to you. I think that a young lady called Cynthia West was once acting at this theatre? To put my question in plain words—Do you know anything about her?"
The manager sneered a little.
"A good deal," he said. "Oh, yes—she was here! I don't know that I have anything to tell, however. I should think that Mr. Hubert Lepel, if you know him, could tell you more about her than any one."
"I happen to be Mr. Lepel's sister," said Flossy, with dignity.
"The deuce you are!" remarked the manager to himself. "That explains——" Aloud—"Well, madam, how can I assist you? Do you want to know Miss West's character? Well, that was—if I may use the word—notorious."
Flossy's eyes gleamed.
"So I expected to hear," she murmured. "I am afraid that my poor brother has some thought of—of marrying her."
"Oh, surely not!" said Mr. Ferguson. "Surely he wouldn't be such a fool!"
"Can you tell me anything definite about her?"
"Excuse me, madam, for asking; but you—naturally—wish to prevent the marriage, if possible?"
"I certainly do not wish my brother to ruin himself for life, as he would do if she were such a—such a person as you imply." Mrs. Vane's lips were evidently much too delicate to say in plain terms what she meant. "If she were as respectable as she seems to be talented, of course objections about birth and station might be overlooked. But my brother has expectations from relatives who take the old-fashioned views about a woman's position; and the mere fact of her being a singer or an actress might be against her in their eyes. It would be much better for him if the whole thing were broken off."
She was purposely vague and diplomatic.
"Mr. Lepel's his own master, of course," said the manager; "so perhaps he knows all we can tell him—and more. But you are welcome to use any information that I can give you." His little green eyes gleamed with malice, and a triumphant smile showed itself at the corners of his thick hanging lips. "Miss West's career is well known. Lalli, a member of our orchestra, picked her out of the streets when she was sixteen or seventeen, trained her a bit, and brought her here. We soon found out what sort of person she was, and I spoke my mind to Lalli about it; for, though we're not particular as to a girl's character, still now and then——Well, she was under his protection at the time, and there was nothing much to be done; so we let her alone. He died suddenly about a couple of years ago; and then, I believe, she accosted Mr. Lepel in the street, and went to his rooms and fastened herself upon him, as women of her sort sometimes do. He took her up, sent her to Italy for a bit, put her under the care of that woman della Scala—as a blind to the public, I suppose—and got her brought out as a singer; and she seems to have had a fair amount of success."
Mr. Ferguson's account of Cynthia's career had an intermixture of fact, but it was so artfully combined with falsehood that it was difficult to disentangle one from the other.
Flossy listened with keen attention; it struck her at once that Mr. Ferguson was blackening the girl's character out of spite.
"Do you know where she came from before your musician, Lalli, discovered her, Mr. Ferguson?"
"No, I do not, madam. But I have followed her course with interest ever since"—which was true.
"And do you know where she resided before he died?"
"No, madam—I really do not"—which was utterly false. "Perhaps I could ascertain for you, and let you know."
Flossy thanked him and rose. She had not attained her object precisely; but she had received information that might prove extremely valuable. The manager bowed her out of his room politely, and called to one of his subordinates to show her down-stairs.
This was a little mistake on Mr. Ferguson's part; he did not calculate on his visitor's questioning his subordinate, who happened to be a young man with a taste for the violin.
"Did you know a Mr. Lalli who was once in the orchestra here?" said Flossy graciously.
"Oh, yes, ma'am! He was here for a very long time."
"Do you know where he used to live?"
"Yes, ma'am, No.—, Euston Road; it's a boarding-house, kept by a Mrs. Wadsley. He died there."
Quite astonished by her own success, Flossy slipped a coin into his hand and made him call her a hansom cab. She was beginning to think of speed more than of the probability of being recognised in the London streets.
To Mrs. Wadsley's then in all haste. The dingily respectable air of the house and of the proprietress herself at once impressed Mrs. Vane with the idea that Mr. Ferguson had been largely drawing on his own imagination with respect to Cynthia West. Nothing certainly could be more idyllic than the story of Lalli's devotion to the girl, whom he had brought home one night with an assurance to Mrs. Wadsley that she was the daughter of an old friend, and that he would be responsible for the payment of her board and lodging until she began to earn her own living.
"He was just like a father to her," said Mrs. Wadsley confidentially; "and teach her he would, and scold her sometimes by the hour together. I assure you, Mrs. Vane, it was wonderful to see the pains that he took with her. I see in the papers that she has been singing at concertslately; and I said to my friend Mrs. Doldrum, 'How pleased poor dear old Mr. Lalli would have been if he had known!'"
"He was quite an old man, I suppose?" said Mrs. Vane. "There was no talk of marriage between them—of an attachment of any kind?"
Mrs. Wadsley drew herself up in rather an offended manner.
"Certainly not, madam—save as father and daughter might be attached one to another. Mr. Lalli was old enough to be the girl's grandfather; and Cynthia—oh, she was quite a child! I hope you do not think that I should have chaperoned her if any such matter had seemed likely to occur; but there was nothing of the kind. Mr. Lalli was quite too serious-minded for anything of that sort—a deeply religious man, although an Italian, Mrs. Vane."
"Indeed, I am glad to hear it," said Flossy solemnly. "Miss West had no engagement—no love-affair, in short—going on when she was with you?"
"Certainly not, Mrs. Vane."
"Did you ever hear her say where she had lived—where she had been educated—before she came to London?"
"I did hear something of a school that she had been at," said Mrs. Wadsley, after a little reflection; "but where it was I could not exactly tell you. They were Sisters, I believe, who taught her—Roman Catholics, very probably. 'St. Elizabeth's'—that was the name of the school; but where it is to be found I am sure I cannot say."
"At St. Elizabeth's, East Winstead?" said Mrs. Vane quickly. She had heard the name from the Rumbolds.
"I am sure I cannot say, Mrs. Vane."
"Miss West was not a Roman Catholic, was she?"
"Not to my knowledge," said Mrs. Wadsley with great stiffness.
Flossy's questions had not impressed her favorably; but the words next uttered by her visitor did away to some extent with the bad impression.
"Thank you so much, Mrs. Wadsley, for your kind information! The fact is that a relative of mine his fallen in love with Miss West, and I was asked to find out who she was and all about her. Everything I have heard is so entirely charming and satisfactory, that I shall be able to set everything right, and assure my friends that we shall behonored by an alliance with Miss West. I hope we shall see you at the wedding, Mrs. Wadsley, when it takes place."
"When it takes place," Flossy repeated to herself, when she stood once more in the noisy London street; "but I do not think it will ever take place. I wonder how far it is to East Winstead; and whether it is worth while going there or not?"
It was not much after five, and the days were very long. Mrs. Vane found that she could reach East Winstead by seven, and, allowing for one hour at St. Elizabeth's, could be back in London by half-past nine. She, who was said to be an invalid, who never walked half a mile alone or exerted herself in any avoidable way, now showed herself as unwearied, as vigorous, as energetic as any able-bodied detective in the pursuit of his duty. She went first to the station where she had left Parker, and gave the maid her instructions. Parker was to go to the Grosvenor Hotel and engage rooms for the night for herself and her mistress, and to see that every requisite for comfort was provided for Mrs. Vane when she arrived. At half-past seven precisely she was to despatch a telegram which Flossy herself had written for the General's benefit, announcing her intention to stay the night in town. It was not to be sent earlier, as in that case the General would be rushing off to London to take care of his wife, and Flossy did not want him in the least. If he got the telegram between eight and nine, he would scarcely start that night, although she knew that she might fully expect to see him in the morning. He was a most affectionate husband, and never believed that his wife was capable of doing anything for herself.
Parker was much amazed by Mrs. Vane's proceedings, and did not believe that the dentist was responsible for them, or Mr. Hubert Lepel either, although Flossy was careful to put the blame of her detention upon these innocent persons. She was not allowed to know what her mistress was going to do, but was sent away from the station to the hotel at once in a hansom-cab. Then Flossy calmly provided herself with sandwiches and a flask ofsherry, took a return-ticket for East Winstead and found herself moving out of the station in a fast train at exactly five minutes to six. It was quick work; but she had accomplished the task that she had set herself to do. Flossy had a genius for intrigue.
She reached East Winstead at seven, and found a cab at the station. The drive to St. Elizabeth's occupied twenty minutes—longer than she had anticipated. She would have to do her work—make all her inquiries—in exactly one quarter of an hour if she meant to catch the next train to London. Well, a quarter of an hour ought to tell her all that she wished to know.
She took little notice of the beauty of garden and architecture at St. Elizabeth's; these were not what she had gone to see. She asked at the door if she could see the Sister in charge of the girl's school.
"Which—the orphanage or the ladies' school?"
"The orphanage," was Flossy's prompt reply; and accordingly she was shown into the presence of Sister Louisa.
"I am afraid that I must appear very brusque and abrupt," said Mrs. Vane, with the soft graciousness of manner which proved so powerful a weapon in her armory; "but I shall have to come to the point at once, as I have only a few minutes to spare. Can you tell me whether you ever had a child in your orphanage called Cynthia West?"
Sister Louisa considered, and then shook her head.
"'Cynthia' is an uncommon name," she said. "I am sure what we never had—at least, within the last ten years."
"It would not be so long ago," said Mrs. Vane. "I have reason, however, to think that 'Cynthia West' is not her real name. Would the name of 'Westwood'—'Cynthia Janet Westwood'—recall any child to your memory?"
Sister Louisa started, and a flush covered her mild thin face.
"Is it possible," she said, "that you mean our lost child Jane Wood?"
"She may have been known under that name," said Florence. "You had a girl here called 'Jane Wood,' then? Why do you think that she has any connection with Cynthia West?"
"You mentioned the name of 'Westwood,'" said Sister Louisa eagerly. "Jane Wood's name was really 'Westwood'; but, as she was the daughter of a notorious criminal, Mrs. Rumbold of Beechfield, who placed her with us, asked that she should be called 'Wood.' She was the child of Westwood, who committed a dreadful murder at Beechfield, in Hampshire—a gentleman called Vane——" Here Sister Louisa glanced at the visitor's card. "You know perhaps," she went on in some confusion; but Flossy interrupted her.
"Mr. Vane, the murdered man, was my brother-in-law. I am the wife of General Vane of Beechfield. I had some notion that this girl Cynthia West was identical with Westwood's daughter, but I could not be sure of the fact. How long was she with you, may I ask?"
Then she heard the whole story. She heard how the child had come to St. Elizabeth's, and been gradually tamed and civilised; of her wonderful voice and talent for music; of the generosity of certain persons unknown, supposed to be the Vanes; of the outburst of passion when "Janey" heard the lay-sister's accusation of her father, and her subsequent disappearance; then—not greatly to Flossy's surprise—of Mr. Lepel's visit, and his search for the girl, which—so far as the Sister knew—seemed to have ended in failure.
"But you have found her after all!" cried the good Sister, when Flossy acknowledged that she was the sister of Hubert Lepel, and presumably interested in his charitable enterprises. "I am so glad! And she is growing quite famous? Dear me, I wonder that Mr. Lepel did not let us know!"
"Possibly he thought that you would be more grieved than delighted by the discovery of her present position," said Flossy, not sorry to aim an arrow at the unknown Cynthia behind her back, and perhaps deprive her of some very useful and affectionate friends. "Miss West, as she calls herself, does not bear a good character." She felt a malicious pleasure in bringing the color into the Sister's delicate cheeks, the moisture into those kindly, mild gray eyes. "She went upon the stage almost at once, and lived—well, I need not tell you how she lived perhaps; you can imagine it no doubt for yourself. I am afraid she was a thoroughly bad girl from the first."
"Oh, no, no—I hope not!" exclaimed Sister Louisa, the tears flowing freely over her pale face. "Our poor Janie! She was a dear child, generous and kind-hearted, although impetuous and wilful now and then. If you see her, Mrs. Vane, tell her that our arms are always open to her—that, if she will come back to us, we will give her pardon and care, and help her to lead a good and honest life."
"I am afraid she will never return to you—she would probably be ashamed," said Mrs. Vane, rather venomously, as she took her leave. "I am so sorry to hurry away, Sister, but I am afraid that I must catch my train. You are quite sure then that Jane or Janie Wood, who had such a beautiful voice, and ran away from you in July, 187-, was really the daughter of the convict Westwood, and that Mr. Lepel and Mrs. Rumbold placed her with you and sought for her afterwards?"
"Quite sure," said Sister Louisa.
There was a vague trouble at her heart—an uneasiness for which she could not account. Something in Mrs. Vane's manner—something in her tone, her smile, her eyes—was distasteful to the unerring instincts of the pure God-fearing woman, as it had been to the trained observation of Maurice Evandale. Flossy might do her best to be charming—she might disarm criticism by the sweetness of her manner; but, in spite of her efforts, candid and unsullied natures were apt to discern in her a want of frankness—a little taint of something which they hardly liked to name. Sister Louisa grieved sorely over what she had heard of Cynthia; but she was also disturbed by an unconquerable distrust of this fair fashionable woman of the world.
"I think there is scarcely any link wanting in the chain," said Mrs. Vane to herself, when, having just caught her train, she was being whirled back to the metropolis. "Jane Wood was Cynthia Janet Westwood. She had a fine voice, and was about sixteen years old when she left St. Elizabeth's, July, 187-. In July, 187-, the same year, Lalli appeared at Mrs. Wadsley's with a girl of sixteen, who also had a fine voice, who had been at St. Elizabeth's, and who called herself Cynthia West. Mr. Lepel had put Jane Wood at school; Mr. Lepel turns up later on as the lover—protector—what not?—of Cynthia West. There is not the slightest reasonable doubt that Jane Wood andCynthia West are one and the same person. That prosy old Sister would prove it in a moment if we brought them face to face. And Jane Wood was Westwood's daughter. Cynthia West is Westwood's daughter. Very easily traced! What will the world say when it knows that the rising young soprano singer is the daughter of a murderer? It won't much care, I suppose. But Hubert will care lest the fact be known. He has been too careful in hiding it for that not to be the case. Let me see—Cynthia West—presumably Westwood's daughter—meets a mysterious stranger in Kensington Gardens and addresses him as her father. The mysterious stranger comes from America, and has white hair and a white beard—quite unlike Mr. Andrew Westwood, be it remarked. Westwood escaped from Portland some years ago, and is rumored to have settled in the backwoods of America. I think there is very good reason for supposing that the mysterious stranger is Westwood himself, returned to England in order to secure his daughter's aid and companionship. And, if so, what a fool the man must be, when once he had got safely away, to run his head into a nest of enemies! He must be mad indeed! And, if mad," said Mrs. Vane, with a curiously cold and cruel smile, "the best thing for him will be incarceration at Portland prison once again."
It was growing dark, and she was beginning to feel a little tired. She put her feet upon the seat and closed her eyes. Before long she had fallen into a placid slumber, which lasted until she reached the London terminus. Then she drove straight to the Grosvenor Hotel, where she found Parker waiting, and a dainty little supper prepared for her.
Flossy did justice to her meal, and then went to bed, where she slept the sleep of the innocent and the righteous, until Parker appeared at her bedside the next morning with a breakfast-tray.
"And there's Miss Meldreth in the sitting-room inquiring for you, ma'am. Is she to come in? I wonder how she knew that you were here?"
"Oh, I saw her accidentally yesterday afternoon," said Mrs. Vane, "and told her to call! I want to know what she is doing in London. Yes—she can come in."
Parker accordingly summoned Miss Meldreth, and then, in obedience to a sign from her mistress, retired rather sulkily. She was not very fond of Mrs. Vane; but sheresented any attempt on the part of a former servant to come between her and her mistress' confidences; and she had an impression that there was something between Mrs. Vane and Sabina which she did not know.
"Well, Sabina, how did the experiment succeed?" said Mrs. Vane easily. In spite of her look of fatigue and her languid attitude amongst the pillows, she spoke as if she had not a care in the world.
"It succeeded all right," answered Sabina, a little shortly.
"What did you find out?"
"They're not real—his hair and beard, I mean. It's a wig. He's got grayish dark-brown hair, and very little of it underneath, and whiskers. He ain't nearly so old as we thought."
"Tell me how you managed it," said Mrs. Vane—"from beginning to end."
"Well, ma'am, he came in about five, as usual, to his tea; and I says to aunt Eliza, 'I'll carry in the tray'; and I says, 'what a lot of milk you've given him! I'll pour a little back.' And says she, 'you'd better not, for he likes his tea half milk, and he'll only ring for more.' 'Well, then,' I says, 'it'll give me a chance of going in a second time—and, you know, I like that.' So I emptied part of the milk away, and then I put half of the stuff that you gave me into his jug, and I took it into Mr. Dare's sitting-room. He looked at me very sharp when I went in, almost as if he suspected me of something; but he didn't say nothing, and neither did I. I set down his tray before him, and he pours out the tea. Almost before I was out of the door, 'Miss Meldreth,' he says, 'a little more milk, if you please.' 'Oh, didn't I bring you enough, sir?' I says. 'If you'll pour that into your cup then, I'll send out for some more, and it'll be here by the time you've done your first cup. The cat knocked a basin of milk over this afternoon,' says I, 'and so there isn't as much as usual in the house.'"
"All that was pure invention, I suppose?" interrogated Mrs. Vane cynically.
"One had to say something, ma'am. He looked a little put out, and hesitated for a minute or two; then he took and emptied the milk-jug straight into his cup, and began to drink his tea; and I went out and filled the jug again. I waited for a few minutes before I came back, and I foundhim leaning back in his chair, with a sleepy look coming over him directly. 'Miss Meldreth,' he said, 'I'm sorry to have troubled you, for I really don't think I want any more tea'—and then he yawned fit to take his head off—'and I'm going to lie down on the sofa to get a little rest, for I am so uncommonly drowsy.'"
"That seems a little sudden," said Mrs. Vane thoughtfully. "Are you sure that he did not suspect anything?"
"No, ma'am—I don't think so. Well, he laid down, and I went in and out taking away the things; and, if you'll believe me, in ten minutes he was fast asleep and snoring like—like a grampus!"
"Well, Sabina?"
"I let him stay so for nearly half an hour, so as to be sure that he was thoroughly off, ma'am, and then I went up to him and touched his hair. It was very nicely fitted on; but it was a wig for all that, and one could easily see the dark hair underneath. The beard was more difficult to move—there was some sticky stuff to fasten it on as well as an elastic band behind the ears; but it was plainly a false one too. He's a dark-looking man, almost like a gipsy, I should say, with hair that's nearly black—something like his eyebrows. Do you think he's the man you want, ma'am?"
"I'm sure of it, Sabina. Do you want to earn three hundred pounds besides your twenty?"
"What, ma'am!"
"Three hundred pounds, I remember, was offered for the arrest of Andrew Westwood, escaped prisoner from Portland prison, five years ago. This man is Andrew Westwood, Sabina, who murdered Sydney Vane. You shall have the money to keep as soon as it is paid."
Sabina drew back aghast.
"A murderer," she said—"and him such a nice quiet-looking old gentleman! Why, aunt Eliza was always planning a match between him and me! It's awful!"
Flossy laughed grimly.
"People don't carry their crimes in their face, Sabina," she said. "Now you can go away and wait in the sitting-room until Parker has dressed me. Then you will come with me to Scotland Yard—I believe that is the place to go to. I want that man arrested before nightfall. Here are your ten pounds."
"Oh," said Sabina—"I wish I'd known!"
"Do you mean that you would not have helped me?"
"I'm not sure, ma'am; I don't like the idea of shutting the poor man up for ever and ever in a gaol."
"Perhaps you don't mind the idea of murder?" said Mrs. Vane sarcastically. "Don't be a fool, Sabina! Think of the three hundred pounds too! You shall have it all, I promise you; and I will content myself with the satisfaction of seeing him once more where he deserves to be. Now call Parker."
Sabina went back to the sitting-room, not daring to disobey. Her reluctance, moreover, soon vanished as the thought of those three hundred pounds took possession of her. She was absorbed in golden dreams when Mrs. Vane rejoined her, and was quite prepared to do or say whatever she was told.
Mrs. Vane left Parker at the hotel with a message for the General, should he appear, that she was going to her dentist's and thence to her brother's lodgings. But she and Sabina Meldreth went straight to Scotland Yard and had an interview with one of the police authorities.
Mrs. Vane's statement was clear and concise. She was complimented on the cleverness that she had displayed; and Sabina was shown a photograph of Andrew Westwood taken while he was at Portland. She could not be quite so certain that it was Mr. Dare as Flossy would have desired her to be; but the evidence was on the whole so far conclusive, that it was determined to arrest Mrs. Gunn's lodger on suspicion. If he could give a satisfactory account of himself, and if he could not be identified, he would of course have to be set free again; but it seemed possible, if not probable, that Reuben Dare was the very man for whom the police had searched so vainly and so long. A cab was summoned, and an inspector of police as well as a detective in plain clothes and a constable politely followed Sabina into it. Mrs. Vane thought it more becoming to her position not to assist at the arrest. She therefore remained behind, unable to resist the temptation of awaiting their return with the prisoner.
She waited for nearly two hours. Then the cab came back again, and out of it emerged two police-officers and Sabina; but no detective, and no Reuben Dare. Flossy's heart beat quickly with a mixture of rage and fear. Had she taken all this trouble for nothing, and had Reuben Dare given a satisfactory account of himself after all?
"The bird has flown, ma'am," said the inspector, entering the office where she sat, with a rather crestfallen air. "He must have got some notion of what was in the wind; for he went out this morning soon after Miss Meldreth left the house, and evidently does not intend to come back again. He has left his portmanteau; but he has emptied it of everything that he could carry away, and left two sovereigns on the table in payment of his rent and other expenses for the week."
"He has gone to his daughter!" cried Flossy, starting up. "Why have you not been to her? I gave you her address."
"No use, ma'am," said the inspector, shaking his head. "We've been round there already, and left Mullins to watch the house. But I expect we are too late. We ought to have known last night. Amateurs in the detective line are sometimes very clever; but they are not always sharp enough for our work. The young woman has also disappeared."
Mrs. Vane's unusual absence from her home had not been without its results. Little Dick held high carnival all by himself in the drawing-room and the conservatory; and Enid, feeling herself equally freed from the restraint usually put upon her, wandered out into the garden, and found a cool and shady spot where she could establish herself at ease in a comfortable basket-chair. She did not feel disposed for exertion; all that she wished to do was to lie still and to keep silence. The old unpleasant feeling of illness had been growing upon her more and more during the last few days. She was seldom free from nausea, and suffered a great deal from faintness and palpitation of the heart. As she lay back in her cushioned chair, her face looked very small and white, the blue-veined eyelids singularly heavy. She was sorry to hear the footsteps of a passer-by resounding on a pathway not far from the spot which she had chosen; but she hopedthat the gardener or caller, or whoever it might chance to be, would go by without noticing her white dress between the branches of the tree. But she was doomed to be disappointed. The footsteps slackened, then turned aside. She was conscious that some one's hand parted the branches—that some one's eyes were regarding her; but she was too languid to look up. Let the stranger think that she was asleep; then surely he would go upon his way and leave her in peace.
"Miss Vane," said a deep manly voice that she did not expect to hear, "I beg your pardon—do I disturb you?"
Enid opened her heavy eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Evandale—not at all, thank you!"
"I was afraid that you were asleep," said the Rector, instantly coming to her side; "and in that case I should have taken the still greater liberty of awaking you, for there is a sharp east wind in spite of the hot sunshine, and to sleep in the shade, as I feared that you were doing, would be dangerous."
"Thank you," said Enid gently.
She sat erect for a minute or two, then gradually sank back amongst her cushions, as if not equal to the task of maintaining herself upright. The Rector stood beside her, a look of trouble in his kind frank eyes.
"Shall I give you my arm back to the house?" he said, after a pause.
"Oh, no, thank you—I am not ill, Mr. Evandale!"
"But you are not well—at least, not very strong?"
"Well—no. No—I suppose that I am not very strong."
She turned away her head; but, notwithstanding the movement, he saw that a great tear was gathering underneath the veined eyelid, ready to drop as soon as ever it had a chance.
"Miss Vane," said the rector suddenly, "are you in any trouble? Excuse me for asking; but your face tells its own story. You were happier a year ago than you are now."
"Oh, yes," the girl sighed—"much happier!" and then the great tear fell.
"Can I do nothing to help you? My mission is to those who are in any trouble; and, apart from that, I thought once that you looked upon me as a friend." There was a touch of human emotion in the last words whichseemed to bring him closer to Enid than the earlier sentence could have done. "But I know you have no need of me," the Rector added sorrowfully; "you have so many friends."
"I have not a friend in the world!" the girl broke out; and then she half hid her face with her transparently thin fingers, and tried to conceal the fact that she was weeping.
"Not a friend, Miss Vane?" Mr. Evandale's tone betrayed complete bewilderment.
"Whom would you call my friend?" said Enid, almost passionately. "Not a man like my poor uncle, duped, blinded, deceived by any one who chooses to cajole him? Not a woman like his wife, who hates me, and wants me out of the way lest I should claim a share of the estate? Oh, I know what I am saying—I know too well! I can trust neither of them—for he is weak and under her control, and she has never been a friend to me or mine. I do not know what to do or where to go for counsel."
"I heard a rumor that you were engaged to marry Mr. Hubert Lepel," said the Rector gravely. "If that be true, he surely should be counted amongst your friends."
"A man," said Enid, with bitterness of which he would not have thought her capable, "who cares for me less than the last new play or the latestdébutanteat Her Majesty's! Should I call him a friend?"
"It is not true then that you are engaged to him?"
"I thought that I was," said Enid, still very bitterly. "He asked me to marry him; I thought that he loved me, and I—I consented. But my uncle has now withdrawn the half consent he gave. I am to be asked again, they tell me, when I am twenty. I am their chattel—a piece of goods to be given away and taken back. And then you ask me if I am happy, or if I call the man who treats me so lightly a friend!"
"I see—I see. But matters may yet turn out better than you think. Mr. Lepel is probably only kept back by the General's uncertainty of action. I can quite conceive that it would put a man into a very awkward position."
"I do not think that Hubert cares much," said Enid, with a little sarcasm in her tone.
"He must care!" said Evandale impetuously.
"Why?" the girl asked, suddenly turning her innocent eyes upon him in some surprise. "Why should he care?"
The Rector's face glowed.
"Because he—he must care." The answer was ridiculously inadequate, he knew, but he had nothing else to say. "How can he help caring when he sees that you care?—unless he has no more feeling than a log or a block of stone." He smote his hand angrily against the trunk of a tree beside him as he spoke.
Still Enid looked at him with the same expression of amazement. But little by little his emotion seemed to affect her too—the blush to pass from his face to her pale cheeks.
"But—but," she stammered, at length, "you are wrong—in that way—in the way you think. I do not care."
"You do not care? For him do you not care?"
"As a cousin," said Enid faintly—"yes."
"Not as a lover?" The Rector spoke so low she could hardly hear a word.
"No."
"Not as a husband?"
"No."
"Then why did you consent to marry him?"
One question had followed another so naturally that the strangeness of each had not been felt. But Enid's cheeks were crimson now.
"Oh, I don't know—don't ask me! I felt miserable, and I thought that he would be a help to me—and he isn't. I can't talk to him—I can't trust him—I can't ask him what to do! And we are both bound, and yet we are not bound; and it is as wretched for him as it is for me—and I don't know what to do."
"Could you trust me better than you have trusted him?" said the Rector hoarsely.
He knew that he was not acting quite in accordance with what men usually termed the laws of honor; but it seemed to him that the time had come for contempt of a merely conventional law. Was Perseus, arriving ere the sacrifice of Andromeda was completed, to hesitate in rescuing her because the sea-monster had prior rights, forsooth? Was he—Maurice Evandale—to stand aside while this gentle delicate creature—the only woman that he had ever loved—was badgered into an early grave by cold-hearted kinsmen who wanted to sacrifice her to some family whim? He would do what he could to save her! There was something imperious in his heart which would not let him hold his tongue.
"Trust you? Oh, yes—I could trust you with anything!" said Enid, half unconscious of the full meaning of her words.
"Do you understand me?" said Mr. Evandale. He dropped upon one knee beside her chair, so as to bring his face to a level with hers, and gently took both her hands between his own as he spoke. "I want you to trust me with your life—with yourself! Make no mistake this time, Enid. Could you not only trust me, but care for me? For, if you can, I will do my best to make you happy."
"Oh, I don't know!" said Enid. She looked at him as if frightened, then withdrew her hands from his clasp and put them before her face. "It is so sudden—I never thought——"
"You never thought that I loved you? No; I have kept silence because I thought that you loved another. But, if that is not true, and if you are only trying to uphold a family arrangement which is painful perhaps to both of you, why, then, there is nothing to keep me silent! I step in and offer you a way out of the difficulty. If you can love me, I am ready to give you my whole life, Enid. I have never in my life loved a woman as I love you. And I think that you could care for me a little; I seem to read it in your eyes—your poor tired eyes! Rest on me, my darling—trust to me—and we will fight through your difficulties together."
He had drawn her gently towards him as he spoke. She did not resist; her head rested on his shoulder, her slender fingers stole again into his hand; she drew a sigh of perfect well-being and content. This man, at any rate, she could trust with all her heart.
"Do you love me a little, Enid?"
"I think so."
"You are not yet sure?"
"I am not sure of anything; I have been so tossed about—so perplexed—so troubled. I feel as if I could be at rest with you—is that enough?"
"For the present. We will wait; and, if you feel more for me, or if you feel less—whatever happens—you must let me know, and I will be content."
"You are very good! But, oh"—with a sudden shrinking movement—"I—I shall have broken my word!"
"Yes; I am sorry that you have to do it. But better break your word than marry a man you do not love."
"And who does not love me," said Enid, in an exceedingly low tone.
"Are you really sure of that, Enid?"
"Indeed—indeed I think so! He is so cold and indifferent, and we never agree when we talk together—he seems impatient of my ideas. Our tastes are quite different; I am sure that I should not be happy with him, nor he with me."
"You will be brave then, my love, and tell him so?"
"Yes." But again she shrank from him. "Oh, what shall I do if she—if Flossy tells me that I must?"
Mr. Evandale frowned.
"Are you so much afraid of Mrs. Vane?"
"Yes," she said timorously—"I am. She—she frightens me! Oh, don't be angry! I know I am very weak; but indeed I cannot help it!"—and she burst into despairing tears.
"My darling, my poor little Enid, I am not angry at all! We will brave her together, you and I. You shall not be afraid of her any longer; you will know that I am always near you to protect you—to strengthen you. And you will trust to me?"
She tried to answer "Yes;" but her strength suddenly seemed to die away from her. She slipped from his arm and lay back upon the cushions; a bluish tinge overspread her lips; her face turned deathly white; she seemed upon the verge of a swoon.
Evandale, alarmed as he was, did not lose his presence of mind. Fortunately he had in his pocket a flask of brandy which he had been about to carry to a sick parishioner. In a moment he had it uncorked and was compelling her to swallow a mouthful or two; then he fanned her with the great black fan which had lain upon her lap; and finally he remembered that he had seen a great watering-can full of water standing in the garden path not far away, and found that it had not been removed. The cold water with which he moistened her lips and brow brought her to herself; in a few minutes she was able to look up at him and smile, and presently declared herself quite well. But Evandale was very grave.
"Are you often faint, Enid?" he asked.
"Rather often; but this"—with a little tinge of color in her pale cheeks—"this is just a common kind of faintness—it is not like the other."
"I know; but I do not like you to turn faint in this way. May I ask you a few questions about yourself?"
"Oh, yes—I know that you are quite a doctor!" said Enid, smiling at him with perfect confidence.
So the Rector put his questions—and very strange questions some of them were, thought Enid, though he was wonderfully correct in guessing what she felt. Yes, she was nearly always faint and sick; she had a strange burning sensation sometimes in her chest; she had violent palpitations, and odd feelings of a terrible fright and depression. But the doctor had assured her that she had not the faintest trace of organic disease of the heart; and that these functional disturbances would speedily pass away. Mr. Ingledew had sounded her and told her that she need not be alarmed—and of course he was a very clever man.
"Enid," said the Rector at last, after a long pause, and rather as if he was trying to make a sort of joke which, after all, was not amusing, "I am going to ask you what you will think a very foolish question. Have you an enemy in the house—here, at Beechfield Hall?"
Enid's eyes dilated with a look of terror.
"Why—why do you ask?"
"It is a ridiculous question, is it not? But I thought that perhaps somebody had been playing on your nerves, and wanting to frighten you about yourself. Is there anybody who might possibly do so?"
Her lips parted twice before any articulate word issued from them. At last he caught the answer—
"Only Flossy."
He was silent for a moment.
"Do you take any medicine?" he asked, at length.
"Yes; Mr. Ingledew sent me some."
"What is it like?"
"I don't know; it is not disagreeable. Flossy looked at it, and said that it was a calming mixture."
"I should like to see the prescription; perhaps it does not quite suit you. And who gives it to you?"
"I take it myself; it is kept in my bed-room."
"And what else do you drink and eat?" said the Rector, smiling. "You see, I am quite a learned physician. I want to know all about your habits."
"Oh, I eat and drink just what other people do."
"Are you thirsty at night?"
"Yes—very. How did you guess that? I have orange water or lemonade put beside me every night, so that I may drink it if I wake up."
And then Evandale, who was watching her intently, saw that her face changed as if an unpleasant thought had suddenly recurred to her.
"What is it, dear?"
"It was only a dream I have had several times—it troubles me whenever I think of it; but I know that it is only a dream."
"Won't you tell me what it was? I should like to hear! Lay your head back on my shoulder again and tell me about it."
Enid sighed again, but it was with bliss.
"Perhaps I shall not dream it if I tell it all to you," she murmured. "It seems to me sometimes as if—in the middle of the night—I wake up and see some one in the room—a white figure standing by my bed; and she is always pouring something into my glass; or sometimes she offers it to me and makes me drink; and she looks at me as if she hated me; and I—I am afraid."
"But who is it, my darling?"
"I suppose it is nobody, because nobody else sees it but me. I made Parker sleep with me two or three times; but she said that she saw nothing, and that she was certain that nobody had come into the room. I suppose it was a—a ghost!"
"Nonsense, dearest!"
"Then it was an optical illusion, and I am going out of my mind," said Enid despairingly.
"Was the figure like that of anyone you know?"
"Yes—Flossy."
"Mrs. Vane? And you think that she does not like you?"
"I know that she hates me."
"My darling, it is simply a nightmare—nothing more." But he felt her trembling in his arms.
"It is more than a nightmare, I am sure. You know that people used to say that I might go out of my mind if those terrible seizures attacked me? I have not had so many of them lately; but I feel weaker than ever I did—I feel as if I were going to die. Perhaps it would be better if I were to die, and then I should not be a trouble and a care to anybody. And it would be better to die than to go mad, would it not?"
"Enid," said the Rector very gravely, "I believe that your malady is entirely one of the nerves, and that it can be controlled. You must try to believe, my darling, that you could conquer it if you tried. When you feel the approach of one of these seizures, as you call them, resolve that you will not give way. By a determined effort I think that it is possible for you to ward them off. Will you try, for my sake?"
"I will try," said Enid wearily; "but I am afraid that trying will be useless."
"And another thing—I do not believe that Mr. Ingledew is giving you the right kind of medicine. I want you quietly to stop taking it for a week, and to stop drinking lemonade or orange-water at night. In a week's time let us see how you feel. If you are no better, I will talk to Ingledew myself. Will you promise me that? Say, 'Yes, Maurice.'"
"Yes, Maurice—I promise you."
"And one more thing, my own dearest. When that nightmare attacks you again, try to conquer your fear of it. Do not lie still; rise up and see what it really is. You may find that your dreamy state has misled you, and that what you took for a threatening figure is merely that of a servant, who has had orders to come and see whether you were sleeping or not. Nightmares often resolve themselves into very harmless things. And of the supernatural I do not think that you need be alarmed; God is always near you—He will not suffer you to be frightened by phantoms of the night. Remember when you wake that I shall be thinking of you—praying for you. I am often up very late, and I do not sleep heavily. I shall probably be awake thinking of you, or I may be praying for you, darling, in my very dreams. Will you think of that and try to be brave?"
"I feel braver now," said the girl simply. "Yes, Maurice, I will do all you ask. I do not think that I shall feel afraid again."
He left her soon afterwards, and returned on the following morning, to hear, not with surprise, that she had sleptbetter, that she had had no nightmare, and that she suffered less from nausea and faintness than usual. Mrs. Vane was away for a second night, and he had time to see Enid again before her return. She had not touched her medicine-bottles, and there was again a slight but marked improvement in her condition. Mr. Evandale induced her to fetch one of the bottles of Mr. Ingledew's mixture, which he put into his pocket and conveyed it to his own home. Here he smelt, tasted, and to some extent analysed it. The result was such as to plunge him for a short time into deep and troubled thought.
"I expected it," he said at last, with an impatient sigh. "The symptoms were those of digitalis-poisoning. There is not enough in this concoction to do her much harm however. It is given to her in some other form—in that lemonade at night perhaps. Well, I shall soon see whether my suspicions are correct when Mrs. Vane comes home."
Cynthia, unconscious of the plots of which she was at present the innocent centre, was meanwhile contending with a sensation of profound discouragement, mental and physical. She had a severe headache, and was deeply depressed in spirits. She had lain awake almost entirely for two nights trying to reconcile her ideal of Hubert with the few words that had escaped him—words which surely pointed to a darker knowledge, a deadlier guilt than any which her love could of itself have attributed to him. Had he known then all the time that her father was not a murderer? Was her father's theory correct? Had he been screening his sister at the poor working-man's expense? Cynthia's blood ran cold at the thought, for, in that case, what side was she to take? She could not abandon her father—she might abandon Hubert; but, strange mystery of a woman's heart, she could not love him less. What she could do she knew not. For Enid's sake indeed she had set him free; but in the hour of her anguish she questioned her right to do so; for surely, if he knew more of the manner of Sydney Vane's death than the world knew, there was even a greater barrier between himand Enid than between him and Cynthia herself. Enid would give him up—Cynthia felt sure of that; and, if she gave him up too, he would be indeed alone. The world might say that he deserved his loneliness; but she could not take the world's view. To her the man that she loved was sacred; his faults were to be screened, his crimes forgiven. Whatever he did, she could never cease to love him. So she said to herself; but, after all, her hour of trial had not come; she did not know as yet all that Hubert Lepel had done.
She had seen Hubert leave her with a sensation of the deepest dismay. She felt that a crisis had come and gone, and that in some way she had failed to turn it to the best account. In spite of her expressed resolve to see Hubert no more, she was disappointed that he did not return to her. She expected to see him on the following day—to remark his face at a concert where she was to sing on the Wednesday evening. He had left her on a Tuesday; she was sure that she would get a letter from him on Thursday. But Thursday was almost over, and she had neither seen nor heard from him. Had he resolved to give her up? Was he ill? Why had she not heard a word from him since Tuesday? She racked her brain to discover a cause for his silence other than her own wild appeal to him; for she did not believe that that alone would suffice to keep him away. But it was all of no avail.
Another source of anxiety for her lay in the fact that she had also not heard from her father since Tuesday morning. She did not know whether he had left Mrs. Gunn's house or not, and did not like to risk the sending of a letter. That he trusted far too much to his disguise Cynthia was well aware. His rashness made her sometimes quiver all over with positive fright when she thought of it. He was running a terrible risk—and for what cause? At first, simply because he wanted to see his daughter; now because he fancied that he had found a clue to the murderer of Sydney Vane—a slight, faint, elusive clue, but one which seemed to him worth following up. And Cynthia, who at first had hesitated to leave England, would now have been glad to start with him at once, if only she could get him away. She began to fear that he would stay at any risk.
"You are losing your beauty, child," Madame dellaScala had discontentedly said to her that morning at breakfast-time; "you have grown ten years older in the last week. And it is the height of the season, and you have dozens of engagements! To-night, now, you sing at Lady Beauclerc's—do you not?"
"Yes, Madame; but I shall be all right by that time. I have a headache this morning."
"You are too white, child, and your eyes are heavy. It does not suit your style to be colorless. You had better get my maid to attend to you, before you go out to-night. She is incomparable at complexions."
"Thank you—I shall not need rouge when I begin to sing," said Cynthia, laughing rather joylessly; "the color will come of itself."
"I know one who always used to bring it," said Madame, casting a sharp glance at the girl's pale face. "He had it in his pocket, I suppose, or at the tips of his fingers—and I never saw it fail with you. Where is the magician gone, Cynthiamia? Where is Mr. Lepel—ce bel hommewho brought the rouge in his pocket? Why, the very mention of his name does wonders! The beautiful red color is back again now!"
"I do not know where Mr. Lepel is," said Cynthia, wishing heartily that her cheeks would not betray her.
"You have not quarrelled?"
"I do not know, Madame."
"Ah, then, you have! But you are a very silly child, and ought to know better after all that you have gone through. Quarrelling with Mr. Lepel means quarrelling with your bread-and-butter, as you English people term it. Why not keep on good terms with him until your training, at any rate, is complete?"
Cynthia raised her dark eyes, with a new light in them.
"I am to be friendly with him as long as I need his help? Is that it, Madame? I do not quite agree with you; and I think the time has come when I must be independent now."
"Independent! What can you do?" said Madame, throwing up her hands. "A baby like you—with that face and that voice! You want very careful guarding, my dear, or you will spoil your career. You must not think of independence for the next ten years."
Cynthia meditated a little. She did not want to tellMadame della Scala, who was a confirmed chatterer, that she thought of going to America; and yet, knowing that her departure would probably be sudden and secret, she did not want to omit the opportunity of saying a few necessary words.
"If I took any steps of which you did not approve, dear Madame, I hope that you would forgive me and believe that I was truly grateful to you for all your kindness to me."
"What does that mean?" said Madame shrewdly. "Are you going to be married,cara mia? Is an elopement in store for us?Dio mio, there will be a fine fuss about it in the newspapers if you do anything extraordinary! You are becoming the fashion, my dear, as they say in England; and, when you are the fashion, your success is assured."
"I am not going to do anything extraordinary," said Cynthia, forcing a smile, "and I do not mean to elope with anybody, dear Madame; I only wanted to thank you for all that you have done for me. And now I must practise for the evening. Perhaps music will do my headache good."
But, even if music benefited her head, it did not raise her spirits. Each time that the postman's knock vibrated through the house, her heart beat so violently that she was obliged to pause in her singing until she had ascertained that no letter had come for her. No letter—no message from either Hubert or her father—what did this silence mean?
The day wore on drearily. She would not go out, much to Madame's vexation; she practised, she tried to read, she looked at her dresses—she tried all the usual feminine arts for passing time, going so far even as to take up some needlework, which she generally detested; but, in spite of all, the day was cruelly long and blank. She dined early in the afternoon, as she was going to sing that evening; and it was about seven o'clock that she resolved to go and dress for the party to which she was bound, saying to herself that all hope was over for that day—that she was not likely to hear from Hubert Lepel that night.
Just as she was going up-stairs a knock came to the door. She lingered on the landing, wondering whether any visitor had come for her; and it was with a great leap of the heart that she heard her own name mentioned, andsaw the maid running up the stairs to overtake her before she reached her room.
"It's Jenkins—Mr. Lepel's man, miss," said Mary breathlessly; "and he wants to know if he can speak to you for a moment."
Cynthia was half-way down-stairs before the sentence was out of the girl's mouth. Jenkins was standing in the hall. He was an amiable-looking fellow, and, although he had spoken flippantly enough to Sabina Meldreth of his master's friendship for Miss West, he had a genuine admiration for her. Cynthia had won his heart by kindly words and looks; she had found out that he had a wife and some young children, and had made them presents, and visited the new baby in her own inimitably frank, gracious, friendly way; and Jenkins was secretly of opinion that his master could not do better than marry Miss Cynthia West, although she was but a singer after all. He spoke to her with an air of great deference.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am; but I thought that I'd better come and tell you about Mr. Lepel."
"Have you a message—a note?" cried Cynthia eagerly.
"No, ma'am. Mr. Lepel's not able to write, nor to send messages. Mr. Lepel's ill in bed, ma'am, and the doctor's afraid that it is brain-fever."