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 him and 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 della Scala 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, Cynthia _mia_? Where is Mr. Lepel--_ce bel homme_ who
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 tell Madame 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, and saw 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."
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. I thought 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, or the 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 bedside 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 it was 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 a crowd; 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.