Enid's conscience was not at rest. During her interviews with Mr.
Evandale she was inclined to think that he knew everything, understood
everything--even the difference between right and wrong--better than she
herself knew and understood it; but when he was away her heart failed
her. What if Hubert cared for her all the time? Would she not then be
doing him a grievous wrong by forgetting that she had promised to marry
him when she was twenty-one? The General's opposition to her engagement
would probably vanish like a dream when she was a little older, if she
and Hubert showed any inclination to each other. There was no real
reason why they should not marry; and Hubert knew that. And what would
he say when he heard that she had weakly fallen in love with another
man, and wanted to break her word to himself?
Enid shrank back and blushed with shame at the prospect before her. It
was all very well for Maurice to say that she must not sacrifice
herself; but was it not a woman's duty to sacrifice herself for the good
of others? She said so to Maurice; and his answer was very ready.
"For the good of others? But do you think it is for Hubert's good to
marry a woman who does not love him, and especially if it is a woman
whom he does not love?"
"Ah, if I could only be sure of that!" sighed Enid.
She was not long left in doubt. The General could not keep a secret;
and, as soon as he and his wife returned to Beechfield, Enid felt that
something was wrong--something which concerned herself. Flossy was very
quiet; she eyed Enid strangely once or twice, but she did not tell her
about the events of the past week. It was the General who sighed over
her, petted her, kissed her at unusual times, and looked at her with an
air of pity that the girl found almost intolerable. After three or four
days of it, she broke through her usual rule of reserve, and asked
Flossy what the General meant.
"You had better ask him," said Mrs. Vane, arching her delicate brows.
"I have asked him, and he will not tell me."
"I suppose it is simply that Hubert is ill. He thinks probably that you
are distracted by anxiety about him."
Enid colored guiltily.
"But we have good accounts of him," she said, as if explaining away her
own apparent indifference; "he is going on as well as we can expect. And
I suppose you would be with him if he were dangerously ill?"
"I am not sure of that," said Flossy rather drily; but she would say no
more.
It was after breakfast one morning that Enid insisted upon being
satisfied. She and the General had, as usual, breakfasted together, and
a letter had just been received from the Doctor in attendance on Hubert,
over which the General coughed, fidgeted, sighed, and was evidently so
much disturbed that Enid's attention was roused to the uttermost. For
the earlier part of the meal she had been sitting with her hands clasped
before her, not attempting to touch the food upon her plate. She had no
appetite; she had passed a bad night, and was little inclined to talk.
But the General's movements and gestures excited her curiosity.
"Have you had bad news, uncle Richard?"
"No, no, my dear! He's going on very well--very well indeed."
"You mean Hubert?"
"Yes--yes, of course! Whom else should I mean? You needn't be alarmed
about him at all; he'll soon be about again."
There was a tone of mingled vexation and perplexity in the General's
voice.
"Is he conscious now?" Enid asked eagerly.
"Well, no--not exactly--light-headed a little, I suppose. At least----"
"Who has written, uncle Richard? Can I see the letter?"
"No, no, no! Not for you to read, my dear! It's from the doctor--nothing
much--nothing for you to see."
Enid was silent for a few minutes; then she spoke with sudden
determination.
"Uncle Richard, you are treating me like a child! There is something
that you are hiding from me which I ought to know--I am sure of it! Will
you not tell me what it is?"
"You are quite mistaken, my dear! There is nothing to tell--nothing,
that is, in the least particular--nothing that you need trouble about at
all."
"There is something! Oh, uncle Richard"--and she rose from her seat and
knelt down beside him, putting one arm around his neck and fixing her
wistful blue eyes upon his weather-beaten countenance--"you do not know
how much anxiety you cause me by being silent, when I am sure that there
is something in your mind which concerns me, and which I am not to know!
Even if it is a great misfortune--a great sorrow--I would rather know it
than imagine all sorts of dreadful things, as I do now. Whatever it is,
please tell me. It is cruel to keep me in ignorance!"
The General looked puzzled and troubled.
"You had better ask Flossy, dear," he said, pulling the ends of his long
white moustache, and looking away from the pleading face before him. "If
there's anything to tell, she could tell it better than I."
"I don't think so, uncle dear," said Enid softly. Her eyes filled with
tears. "I would rather hear evil tidings from your lips than from those
of any other person, because--because I know you love me and would not
grieve me willingly. Is Hubert worse than I know? Is he--is he dead?"
"Bless my soul, no!" cried the General. "Why, what put that idea into
your mind, child? No, no--he is going on as well as possible--upon my
word, he is!"
"What is it then, dear uncle Richard?"
"It's his nurse," said the General desperately.
"His nurse?" Enid's eyes grew large with amazement.
"She isn't a proper, respectable, trained nurse at all. She is just an
amateur--a young woman who has no business to be there at all--not much
older than yourself, Enid, my dear. That is the reason that Flossy would
not stay. We found this young person nursing him, and so we came away.
Flossy was very much shocked--very much annoyed about it, I can tell
you. I wrote to ask if she was still there, and the doctor says she is."
Enid's white cheeks had turned crimson, but more with surprise than with
anger. The General crossed one leg over the other, and carefully averted
his eyes as he went on--
"I don't mean to say anything against her. Flossy says--but you and I
have nothing to do with that--she's not a very nice girl; that is all.
These professional singers and actresses seldom are. You don't know
anything about such people, my little girl, and it is all the better for
you. But Hubert should not have friends among people of that kind. I am
very much disappointed in Hubert--very much disappointed indeed!"
"This girl is a friend of Hubert's then?"
"I suppose so. Well--yes, of course."
"Who is she? What is her name?"
"She is a singer, my dear," said the General, putting his arm
affectionately round the girl's shoulders, "and she is an uncommonly
pretty girl--I don't deny that. Oh, of course there is nothing for you
to be anxious about! Hubert befriended her, I believe; and she was
grateful, and wanted to repay him--and--and all that, you know." The
General was rather proud of having given this turn to the story.
"But I think that was very kind and good of her," said Enid, with
kindling eyes. "Why are you so distressed about it, uncle Richard? I
should like to have done the same for poor Hubert too. What is the
girl's name?"
"They call her," said the General, looking very much abashed--"they call
her Cynthia West. But that isn't her real name."
"Cynthia West?" said Enid, in a low tone. Then she was silent. She was
recalling the day when she had questioned Hubert about Cynthia West. He
had said that he knew her--a little. And this girl whom he knew "a
little" had gone to nurse him in his hour of need! Well, was there
anything particularly wrong in that?
The General, having once begun the story, could not keep it to himself.
"It is a most extraordinary thing," he said, "how Hubert came to know
her at all. I should have thought that he would steer clear of her--as
clear as of poison--when he was engaged to you and all."
"Oh, he would not think of me!" said Enid quietly. "Why should he have
avoided Cynthia West?"
"Why?" said the General, bringing his fist down on the table with a bang
that made the dishes rattle, and caused Enid to give a nervous start.
"Why, because she is not Cynthia West at all! She is the daughter of
that ruffian--that murderer--to whom your desolate orphaned condition
is due, my darling! She is Westwood's child, the man who killed your
dear father and ought to have been hanged for it long ago!"
Enid's hand slipped from her uncle's neck. She knelt on, looking up at
him with dazed incredulous eyes and quivering white lips. The
communication had given a great shock to her trust in Hubert.
"Perhaps--perhaps," she said at last, "Hubert did not know."
"Oh, but he did--he did!" said her uncle, whose memory for dates and
details was generally at fault. "If not at once, he knew before very
long; and he ought never to have spoken to her again when once he knew.
As for all that stuff about his not being quiet unless she was in the
room--about her being the only person who could manage him when he was
delirious, you know--why, that was stuff and nonsense! They ought to
have got a strait-waistcoat and strapped him down to the bed; that would
surely have kept him as quiet as any Miss Cynthia West!"
The General said the name with infinite scorn.
"Is that what they said--that he was quiet when she was there?" Enid
inquired.
"So they said--so they said! I don't see the sense of it myself,"
replied the General, feeling that he had perhaps said a little too much.
"Then did he send for her?"
"No, my dear; he was unconscious when she came. I believe that his man
Jenkins was at the bottom of it all. He went and told her that poor
Hubert was ill."
"But I don't quite understand. If Hubert did not send for her, what
right had she to come?"
"You may well ask that. What right indeed! An abominable thing, I call
it, for Westwood's daughter to go and nurse one of our family! Don't
grieve about it, my darling! If Hubert was led astray by her wiles for a
little time, you may be sure that he will be ashamed of himself before
very long. He has a good heart, and will not let you go; he loves you
too sincerely for that, I am quite sure. So you must not fret."
"I don't; I shall not grieve--in that way, uncle," said Enid gravely,
but with perfect calm. "You mean that Hubert cares for her, and that she
loves him too?"
"I don't know what she does," said the General, with a rather ominous
growl. "I only know that there were some entanglement--understanding
between them--a flirtation I dare say--young men are not always so
careful as they ought to be--and perhaps the girl has taken it
seriously."
"Poor girl," said Enid softly--"I am very sorry for her!"
"Sorry? Sorry for Westwood's daughter? Enid, you forget what is due to
yourself and to your father! Do not speak of her! Forget her; and rest
assured that when Hubert is better he will dismiss her with thanks--if
thanks are necessary--and that we shall soon see him here at Beechfield
again. And, my dear, when he is better, I will put no further obstacle
in your way, if you still desire the--the engagement to go on."
"You forget, uncle Richard," said Enid very quietly, "that there was no
real engagement."
She had always maintained to herself before that there was one. He
looked at her with wonder.
"But, my dear, there was a sort of an understanding, you know; and
Flossy always said that you were so fond of each other."
"Flossy did not know," Enid answered coldly. Then she withdrew herself
from the General's encircling arm and rose to her feet. "You have not
told me yet, uncle," she went on, "what news you had from the doctor
this morning."
"Oh, nothing fresh!" said the General, in rather a guilty tone; and
then, as she pressed him, he explained further. "You see, my dear child,
we thought that this Miss West ought to go away, because none of us can
go to see Hubert while she is there--if for no other reason, because she
is that man's daughter; and I wrote to the doctor to inquire whether
Hubert could not do without her now; and he says, No--that there would
be danger of a relapse if she should go."
"Then of course you will say that she must be asked to stay until Hubert
is better, uncle."
"Certainly."
"Do you think so, my dear?"
"But it is naturally very painful to you, and to all of us, to think
that Hubert's recovery is dependent on that girl. I call it positively
degrading!" cried the General, crumpling up his papers, and rising from
his seat in a sudden fury.
"It is painful--yes," said Enid, with a heavy sigh; "but I suppose that
it cannot be helped;" and she turned away, so that he might not see the
quivering of her lip or the tear that rolled down her pale cheeks as she
said the words.
She went out into the conservatory and sat down amongst the flowers. She
had been too proud to show the General how much she was hurt; but, as a
matter of fact, she was very deeply wounded by what she heard. Her
affections were not bruised--she had never cared for Hubert so little in
her life; but her pride had received a tremendous blow. Even if he had
only "flirted" with Cynthia West, as the General had suggested, the
flirtation was an insult to the girl whom he had asked in marriage.
Indeed it seemed worse to Enid than a _grande passion_ would have
seemed; for her readings in poetry and fiction had taught her that a
genuine and passionate love sometimes caused people to forget the claims
of duty and the bonds of a previous affection. But the General had not
seemed to think that anything of this kind existed; although the fact
that Hubert's delirium could not be quieted except in Cynthia's presence
showed, even to Enid's innocent eyes, that some strong sympathy, some
great mutual attraction, united them. If it were so, Enid asked herself,
could she blame him? What had she herself done? Had she not given her
heart away to Maurice Evandale, although her word was plighted to Hubert
Lepel?
But then, she said to herself, she had never professed any great
affection for Hubert; she had not taken the initiative in any way. He
need not have asked her to marry him--he might have left her perfectly
free. She felt indignantly that she had been trifled with--that he had
asked her to be his wife without caring to make her so, and that he
might perhaps have trifled in the same manner with Cynthia West. If that
were the case, Enid Vane said to herself that she could never forgive
him. He had profaned love itself--the holiest of earth's mysteries--and
she resented the action, although she might gain by it her own freedom
and happiness.
It was even possible that this gain might be denied to her. Suppose,
when he was better, that he came back and claimed her promise,
repudiated Cynthia's attempt to earn his gratitude, and explained his
conduct in such a manner that no fair-minded person could refuse him
credence? What then could she do? Enid felt that she might not have the
strength to fight against him unless Maurice were at her side; and
Maurice had, unfortunately for her, been suddenly summoned to the North
of England to attend his father's death-bed. He had left Beechfield with
many fears for Enid's welfare; but he was of course obliged to go, and
had had no opportunity of declaring himself to the General as a suitor
for Enid's hand before his departure. For the moment therefore Enid was
quite alone; and, seeing the net in which she was caught--a net of fraud
and trickery and lies--her heart failed her, and she felt herself
helpless indeed.
She was in far more danger than she guessed; for Mrs. Vane looked upon
her as a deadly enemy, and was resolved that she should never have the
chance of confiding what she knew to another person. From what Hubert
had said, the girl had made up her mind to tell him all she knew when
once she was his wife. To tell Hubert was what Flossy was resolved that
Enid should never do. She should never marry Hubert or any other man;
sooner than betray Flossy's secrets, Enid Vane should die. The white
still woman with the brown eyes and yellow hair was ready to face the
chances of detection--ready to take life, if necessary, rather than see
her plans defeated and herself disgraced. With Enid out of the way, she
might not be safe; but she would be safer than she was now.
She took note however of the warning that Parker had given her. She had
been going too fast; she must be more careful for the future. She must
proceed by such slow degrees that Mr. Ingledew himself should be
deceived. And she must change her plans also; for she found that Enid no
longer touched the cooling drinks that were placed beside her every
night--the girl said that she did not care for them, and sent them away
untouched. But surely there were plenty of other ways!
Mr. Evandale had said a few guarded words to Mr. Ingledew about his
treatment of Miss Vane, and his remarks had caused the surgeon to send a
simple tonic mixture instead of the soothing draughts which had formerly
excited some surprise and even some indignation in the Rector's mind. He
did not much believe in soothing draughts, as he soon elicited from Mr.
Ingledew that they had been made up in conformity with Mrs. Vane's views
of the case rather than according to what Mr. Ingledew himself thought
necessary; and a word from the Rector, whose medical knowledge was
really considerable, caused Mr. Ingledew to change his opinions very
speedily. At the same time, tonics, like other things, could be
doctored; and, as Mr. Evandale was out of the way, Enid's welfare lay,
for the time being, at Flossy's mercy.
She began to suffer in the old way--from dizziness and nausea and pains
for which she could not account, with an utterly inexplicable weakness
and languor, different from all her former symptoms. Perhaps Mrs. Vane
had altered her treatment. At any rate, it was certain that some
mysterious factor was at work stealing the girl's energy away from her,
diminishing her vitality, bringing her, in short, to the very gates of
death. And so insidiously did the work proceed that even Parker, who had
had suspicions of her mistress, scarcely noticed the advance of Enid's
malady. There were no more fainting-fits--nothing definitely alarming;
but day by day the girl grew weaker, and no one noticed or guessed the
reason why.
Enid's nights were restless; but she had not been disturbed since
Flossy's return from London by the white figure which she had seen at
her bedside. She told herself that Maurice was right--that her nerves
had played her false, and that the appearances had been a mere phantasm
of her imagination. She quite lost her fear of seeing it again; and,
although she had held no further conversation with the Rector after Mrs.
Vane's arrival in the house, she was reassured and strengthened by the
remembrance of his words. When she awoke in the night-time now, she knew
no fear.
And yet--it was about three weeks after the beginning of Hubert Lepel's
illness--her heart gave a wild leap when she opened her eyes one night,
and saw in her room, by the faint light of a glimmering taper, the
ghostly figure of a woman clothed from head to foot in white. She stood,
not by the bedside, but by the mantelpiece, with something--was it a
medicine-phial?--in her hand. What the visitant was doing Enid could not
exactly see; but she started up, and at the movement the white woman
turned and showed her face.
Enid uttered an exclamation--a sort of gasp of terror--for her worst
fears were realised. The phantom which she had dreaded had come to her
again in spite of Maurice's promises of aid. He had forgotten to pray
for her perhaps--a childish notion crossed her mind that perhaps because
of his forgetfulness the ghost was there.
But was it a ghost--a phantom of the senses, and not a living woman
after all? For the face which met the girl's eyes was not one that she
could easily mistake--it was the face of Florence Vane.