At that moment Enid recalled, by one instinctive flash of memory, the
words that Maurice Evandale had said to her. If ever she saw "the ghost"
again, she was to speak to it--she was not to be afraid. God would take
care of her. With a sort of mental clutch at the strength residing in
those words, she maintained herself in a sitting posture and looked the
white woman full in the face. Yes, it was Flossy's face; but was it
Flossy herself? For the figure made a strange threatening gesture, and
glided smoothly towards the door as if to disappear--though in natural
and not very ghost-like fashion, for the door stood wide open, and it
was the soft cool night-breeze of summer that had opened Enid's
slumbering eyes. In another moment the visitor would be gone, and Enid
would never know whether what she saw was a reality or a dream.
That should not be. Strength and courage suddenly returned to her,
inspired by the remembrance of her lover and his words, she would speak.
"Why are you here?" she said.
Still no answer. The figure glided onward, and its eyes--glittering and
baleful--were never once removed from Enid's face. With one supreme
effort, the girl sprang from the bed and threw herself in the strange
visitor's way. The figure halted and drew back. Enid laid a hand upon
its arm. Ah, yes, thank Heaven, she felt the touch of flesh and blood!
No weird reflected image of a wandering brain was before her; a
woman--only a wicked desperate woman--stood in her way. Enid was not
afraid.
"Florence," she said, "why are you here?"
The woman dashed down the detaining hand. She knew that it was of no use
to assume any longer the character with which she had hoped to impress
the mind of the sensitive, nervous, delicate girl. She was no ghost
indeed; she could figure no longer as a nightmare in Enid's memory. She
stood revealed. But she did not lose her self possession. After a
moment's pause, she spoke with dignity.
"I came here," she said, "to see whether you were sleeping quietly.
Surely I may do so much for my husband's niece?"
"And what were you doing there?" said Enid, pointing to the mantelpiece.
"Why were you tampering with what Mr. Ingledew sends me to take?"
"Tampering, you silly girl? You do not know the meaning of your own
words!"
"Do I not? What have you in your hand?"
She grasped at the little phial which Flossy had half hidden in the
white folds of her dressing-gown--grasped at it, and succeeded, by the
quickness of her movement, in wrenching it from Mrs. Vane's hand. Then,
even by the dim light of the candle, she could see that Flossy's color
waned, and that her narrow eyes were distended with sudden fear.
"Why do you take that? Give it me back!"
"Yes," said Enid, upon whom the excitement had acted like a draught of
wine, giving color to her face and decision to her tones--"yes, when I
have found out what it contains."
"You little fool--you will not know when you look at it!"
"I will keep it and ask Mr. Ingledew or Mr. Evandale. You were pouring
from it into the medicine that Mr. Ingledew gave me--for what purpose
you know, not I."
A gasp issued from Flossy's pale lips. Her danger was clear to her now.
"Give it back to me!" she said. "I will have it--I tell you I will!"
Enid's hand was frail and slight; not for one moment could she have
resisted Mrs. Vane's superior strength--for Flossy could be strong when
occasion called for strength--and she did not try. With a quick sweep of
her arm she hurled the little bottle into the grate! It broke into
fragments as it fell, the crash striking painfully on the ear in the
stillness of the night. The two women looked into each other's faces;
and then Flossy quailed and fell back a step or two.
"What good or harm will that do?" she asked slowly. "Why did you break
it?"
"Better for it to be broken than used for others' harm."
"How do you know that it was meant to do harm?"
"I don't know it; I feel it--I am sure of it. If you lie and cheat and
rob, where will you stop short? Is it likely that I of all people can
trust you?"
Florence caught at the bed as if for support. She was trembling
violently; but her face had all its old malignancy as she said--
"You are going to slander me to your uncle, I suppose? Every one knows
that you would gain if I--I and little Dick were out of the way!"
Enid looked at her steadily.
"You are very clever, Florence," she said, "and it is exceedingly clever
of you to mention little Dick to me. You know that I love him, although
I do not love you. I shall do no harm to him that I can help. But
this--this burden is more than I can bear alone! I shall go to another
for help."
"You have promised to speak to nobody but Hubert on the subject," said
Flossy, turning upon her with a look of tigress-like fury.
"To nobody but my husband or my promised husband."
"And that is Hubert."
"No; it is not Hubert."
"Not Hubert? Then who--who?"
"That is nothing to you. You will hear in good time. You have no right
to question me; you lost your authority over me long ago."
"Not Hubert?" Flossy repeated once more, as if bewildered by the news.
Then she burst into a low wild laugh. "You are right," she said. "He has
replaced you already; he is desperately in love with Cynthia Westwood,
the daughter of the man who murdered your father, and he has given you
up. He never cared for you; he wanted your money only. Did that never
occur to your innocent mind? As soon as he is better, he will make
Cynthia his wife."
"He is free to do so if he pleases," said the girl, with a touch of
scorn in her voice. "I am thankful to escape from you both. You will not
expect me to live under the same roof with you again."
"Go where you please," returned Florence, "say and do what you please; I
shall be only too glad to think that I shall never see your face again.
I always hated you, Enid Vane; from the time that you were a child I
hated you, as I hated your mother before you. Some day you will perhaps
know why."
"I don't want to know. I have always felt that you hated me," said Enid,
the hot color receding from her cheeks. She was one of those people on
whom the consciousness of being disliked produces a chilling effect.
"But I never hated you; I do not hate you now. Oh, Flossy, is there no
way of setting things straight without letting anybody know?"
Florence sneered at the almost child-like appeal.
"For myself," she said, "I have a resource which will not fail me even
if you do your worst. Do you think that I would ever live to bear public
disgrace? Not for twenty-four hours! Remember this, Enid Vane--the day
when the whole story, as we know it, comes to light will be my last. If
you betray me, you will be my murderess. You will have killed me as
truly as ever--as ever a cruel assassin killed your father Sydney Vane!"
With a gesture of her arm, as if to keep the girl from touching her, she
swept towards the open door. Enid did not attempt to stop her. A
sensation of awe, of affright even, seized her as she watched the white
figure gliding steadily along the passage until the darkness hid it from
her view. Then she sank down on the bed once more, trembling and afraid.
The desperate boldness which had for a long time possessed her was
succeeded by a reaction of horror and dismay. How could she hide herself
from Flossy's hate--how save herself from Flossy's sure revenge?
As she thought of these things, she knew by certain well-marked
symptoms that one of her old attacks of almost cataleptic stupor was
coming upon her. In the old days she would have succumbed to it at
once. But Evandale's words rang in her ears. What had he said? He
thought that she might control herself--that she might prevent these
nervous seizures from overcoming her. She sat up, and by a violent
effort roused herself a little. Then she tried the experiment of
walking across the room to the open window, where the fresh air
revived her. A glass of water, a few turns across the room, and, quite
suddenly, she was once more mistress of herself. She had conquered the
feeling of faintness--conquered the terrible rigidity of limb which
used to attack her at these times. The Rector's words had proved the
tonic that her weakened nerves seemed to require. For the first time
in her life she was a conqueror. There was no reason why she should
not conquer again and again until her nerves recovered their tone and
the fatal tendency was overcome.
New strength came to her with this consciousness. She lighted a lamp and
donned a dressing-gown; then, after a little deliberation, she went to
Parker's room. She found the maid up and partially dressed. There was a
scared look on the woman's face which caused Enid to suspect that her
conversation with Mrs. Vane had been partially if not altogether
overheard. But this Enid resolved not to seem to know.
"Parker," she said quietly, "I am thinking of going to London. Will you
come with me?"
"Yes, miss, that I will--to the end of the world if you like!" was the
unexpectedly fervent response.
But Enid showed no surprise.
"Can you tell me about the trains? What is the earliest?"
"There's one at six, miss; but you wouldn't start so early as that,
would you?"
"The sooner the better, I think. I will dress now, and call you
presently to pack my bag. The boxes can be sent afterwards."
"Yes, miss."
"And, Parker, if you come with me, you must remember that you are
quitting Mrs. Vane's service. She will never take you back if you leave
her now."
"I wouldn't come back--not if she paid me double!" cried Parker, honest
tears starting to her beady eyes. "I don't care what she does; but I'll
never work for her again--not after what I have heard and seen!"
"You must not speak either to me or any one else about what you have
heard or seen," said Enid gravely, "particularly in the house to which
we are going. Will you remember that?"
"Oh, yes, miss--I'll not say a single word! And you have settled where
to go, miss, if I may make so bold as to ask?"
"I am going to my aunt--Miss Vane," said Enid briefly; and Parker
retired, not daring to ask any more questions, being a little overawed
by the growth of some new quality in the girl's nature--some novel
development of strength and character which imposed silence on her
companion in this self-enforced exile.
The dawn was breaking when Enid began to make her preparations for
departure. The faint yellow light of day stole into the room when she
drew back the window-curtains and stood looking--perhaps for the last
time, she thought--upon the flower-gardens and the lawn, upon the sheet
of water in the distance, the beech woods, and the distant hills--spots
that she had known from childhood, and which were dearer to her than any
new scenes could ever be. And yet she did not falter in her purpose.
Even to herself she did not seem the same gentle submissive maiden that
she had hitherto been considered. Some new strength had passed into her
veins; she was eager to act as became the woman who was one day to be
the wife of Maurice Evandale.
She had one task to perform that was very hard to her. She could not go
without writing a farewell letter to the General, who had always been so
kind and good to her. She made it as short and simple as possible, and
she explained nothing. Without consulting Mr. Evandale, and perhaps her
aunt Leo, of whom she was genuinely fond, she felt that she was not free
to speak.
"Dearest uncle Richard," she wrote--"I think it best to go to
London to-day and see aunt Leo. I am taking Parker with me. Forgive
me if I say that I do not think I can ever come back again. I hope
you will not look on me as ungrateful for all your kindness to me.
I will write again, and shall hope to see you in London. Your
loving niece, ENID."
She placed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and left it in a
conspicuous position on the dressing-table. Then she put on her hat and
cloak, and asked Parker whether she was ready to leave the house. The
clock had struck five, and they had some distance to walk before they
could reach a railway-station. Parker prevailed upon her to eat and
drink before they started; but the girl's appetite was small, and she
left her biscuits almost untouched upon the plate.
As the two stole silently down the corridor, Enid noticed that the door
of Dick's night-nursery was half open. She hesitated, then with a mute
sign to Parker to go on, she entered the room and made her way to the
child's bedside. Parker lingered long enough to see her kneel down
beside it, and lay her face for a few moments on the pillow beside the
sleeping boy. She kissed him very gently; and when, with a sleepy
movement, he turned and put his arm round her, as if to hold her there,
the tears began to fall down her pale cheeks. But she dared not stay too
long. She rose presently, put his hand back under the coverlet, and
kissed him once again.
"Dear little Dick," she murmured sorrowfully, "will you some day think
that I did not love you, when you know what I have done, and what I
shall have to do?"
When Enid rejoined Parker she was pale, but calm; the tears lingered on
her eyelashes, but had been carefully wiped away from her cheeks. They
left the house in silence by a side-door which could be easily unbolted;
and for some time Parker did not venture to open her lips. Her young
mistress looked like a different being with that grave determination on
her face, that steady serious light in her sad but serene blue eyes.
Just when they reached the point from which the Hall could last be seen,
Enid turned and looked at it for a moment. It was her last farewell; and
the yearning tenderness that stole into her face as she gazed and gazed
again brought the tears to Parker's eyes. The maid had taken a strong
liking to Miss Enid Vane, and was ready to devote her whole strength to
her service. At the same time, the thought of the revenge that Mrs. Vane
might wreak upon her for this desertion was misery to Parker; for what
should she do if her mother learned that she had once been dismissed
from a situation in disgrace, or if she could not earn enough to keep
her mother in the comfort to which she had grown accustomed? She was
quite ready and willing to leave Mrs. Vane; but she was afraid when she
considered the future; and, as she walked along the road beside her
young mistress, the tears now and then brimmed over, and had to be
surreptitiously wiped away.
"If you are regretting what you have done, Parker," said Enid at length,
"you are quite at liberty, you know, to go back to Beechfield Hall."
"Oh, no, miss--I wouldn't go back for anything! There's some things that
even a servant can't bear to see going on. It's only my poor mother,
miss, that I'm thinking about."
"Why?" said Enid gently--at that moment it was easy to her to sympathise
with sorrow. "Is it your wages that you are thinking of? I am sure that
you will not be a loser by coming with me."
"It's not the money, miss, thank you--it's--it's my character," said
Parker, with a sudden gush of tears--"it's what my mother may hear of me
that I care about! I wouldn't deceive you, miss, for the world! I'll
tell you about it, if you'll kindly hear."
And then, as the two women walked along the lonely country road in the
shining freshness of the early summer morning, Parker made her
confession. She told the story of her disgrace and summary dismissal, of
Mrs. Vane's apparent kindness to her, and of the way in which she had
been used as a tool in the furtherance of Mrs. Vane's designs. Enid
turned a shade paler as she heard of how she had been tracked, watched,
spied upon; but there was no anger in her voice as she replied.
"I think we ought both to be thankful, Parker, to get away just now from
Beechfield Hall. It will be better for us if we never see Mrs. Vane
again. I do not think that she will hurt you however, or tell your story
to your mother. She will have other things to think about just now."
Parker wondered vaguely what those other things were; but she did not
say a word. For a minute or two Enid also was silent, and thought of
Flossy. What was she doing? Of what was she thinking now?
As a matter of fact, Flossy was at that moment just awakening to a sick
shuddering consciousness of what had happened. She had gone to her room
and fallen to the floor in a death-like swoon. When she was able to
move, she crept to the bell and rang again and again for Parker. But
Parker of course did not come; and little by little Mrs. Vane became
aware that she was deserted, that Enid and her maid had left the house,
and that, for all she knew, instant ruin and disgrace hung like an
inevitable fate above her head.
When Enid spoke, it was in kindly tones.
"You must forget the past and start afresh, Parker. We all have to do
that, you know, Mr. Evandale says. We will make a new beginning."
"I have often thought, miss, that I should like to tell Mr. Evandale all
about it, and hear what he would say."
"You shall do so, Parker. We shall see Mr. Evandale in London very
likely." Enid paused a little, and then said, in her even, serious
voice, "I will tell you what I have told to no one else, Parker, because
you have trusted me--I am going to marry Mr. Evandale."
"Are you, miss? I'm sure I'm very glad to hear it! We all thought, miss,
that it was Mr. Lepel."
"No; I shall never marry Mr. Lepel."
"Is it a secret, miss?" said Parker.
"Until Mr. Evandale comes back from Yorkshire--that is all. After that
we will have no more concealments of any kind. I think," said Enid
softly but seriously--"I think that perfect truth is the most beautiful
thing in the whole world."