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 Fouque'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 of exquisite
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 fully convinced 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 says that 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 to Liverpool--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.