Cynthia came softly into the room. She looked timidly towards Hubert's
chair, then rushed forward and rang the bell violently. She had had some
fear of the result of Enid's visit, and her fear was certainly
justified.
Hubert had fainted away when his visitor had left the room.
It was not until some time afterwards that Cynthia allowed him to talk
again. She had medicaments of various kinds to apply, and insisted upon
his being perfectly quiet. She had wanted him to go to bed again; but he
had resisted this proposition; and, in consequence, he was still in the
sitting-room, though lying upon the sofa, at the hour of half-past eight
that evening, when the light was fading, and Cynthia was at his side.
"You feel better now, do you not?" she said to him.
"Yes, thank you." The tone was curiously dispirited.
"I must call Jenkins, and you must go to bed."
He caught her hand.
"Not yet, Cynthia--I want to say something."
"To-morrow," she suggested.
"No, not to-morrow--to-night. I am quite well able to talk. Cynthia,
where is your father?"
The question was utterly unexpected.
"My father?" she echoed. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because I have an impression that he is in England, and that you have
seen him lately."
"If I had," said Cynthia tremulously, "I should be bound not to tell any
one."
"Ah, that is true! And you would not trust even me," he remarked, with a
great sigh. "Well, I suppose that you are right!"
"I trust you perfectly," she said.
"You have no reason to do so. Cynthia, do you know why Enid Vane came
to-day?"
"Yes,--she told me."
"She is engaged to Mr. Evandale. She has set me free."
There was a silence. Cynthia did not move; and at last Hubert said, in a
stifled voice--
"I love one woman, and one only. What can I say to her?"
"Nothing but that," said Cynthia softly; and then she turned and kissed
him.
"I dare not say even that," he muttered.
"Why not? You told me once of an obstacle--Enid Vane was the obstacle,
was she not?"
"One obstacle. But there was another."
"Another!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What could that be?"
She was kneeling beside him, her hand locked fast in his, her arm upon
his shoulder. A sort of sob broke from his lips.
"Oh, my darling," he said, "I am the last man that you ought ever to
have loved!"
"But I love you now, Hubert."
"I am a villian, Cynthia--a mean miserable cur! Can't you accept that
fact, and leave me without asking why?"
"No, I cannot, Hubert; I don't believe it."
"It is no good telling me that--I know myself too well. Believe all that
I say, Cynthia, and give me up. Don't make me tell you why."
"I shall always love you," she whispered, "whether you are bad or good."
"Suppose that I had injured any one that was very dear to you--saved
myself from punishment at his expense? I daren't go any farther. Is
there nothing that you can suppose that I have done--the very hardest
thing in the whole world for you to forgive? You can't forgive it, I
know; to tell you means to cut myself off from you for the rest of my
life; and yet I cannot make up my mind to take advantage of your
ignorance. I have resolved, Cynthia, that I will not say another word
of--of love to you--until you know the truth."
She gazed at him, her lips growing white, her eyes dilating with sudden
terror.
"There is only one thing," she said at length, "that I--that I----"
"That you could not forgive. I am answered, Cynthia; it is that one
thing that I have done."
He spoke very calmly, but his face was white with a pallor like that of
death. She remained motionless; it seemed as if she could scarcely dare
to breathe, and her face was as pale as his own.
"Hubert," she said presently, only just above her breath, "you must be
saying what you do not mean!"
"I would to God that I did not mean it!" he exclaimed, bestirring
himself and trying to rise. "Get up, Cynthia; I cannot lie here and see
you kneeling there. Rather let me kneel to you; for I have wronged
you--I have wronged your father beyond forgiveness. It was I--I who
killed Sydney Vane!"
He was standing now; but she still knelt beside the sofa, with her face
full of terror.
"Hubert," she said caressingly, "you do not know what you say. Sit down,
my darling, and keep quiet. You will be better soon."
"I am not raving," he answered her; "I am only speaking the truth. God
help me! All these years I have kept the secret, Cynthia; but it is
true--I swear before God that it is true! It was I who killed Sidney
Vane. Now curse me if you will, as your father did long years ago."
He fell back on the sofa, and buried his face in his hands with a moan
of intolerable pain.
There came a long silence. Cynthia did not move; she also had hidden her
face.
"Oh," she said at last, "I do not know what to do! My poor father--my
poor father! Think of the shame and anguish that he went through! Oh,
how could you bear to let him suffer so?" And then she wept bitterly and
unrestrainedly; and Hubert sat with his head bowed in his hands.
But after a time she became calm; and then, without looking up, she
said, in a low voice--
"I should like to hear it all now. Tell me how it happened."
He started and removed his hands from his face. It was so haggard, so
miserable, that Cynthia, as she glanced at him, could not forbear an
impulse of pity. But she averted her head and would not look at him
again.
"You must tell me everything now," she said.
And so he told the story. He found it hard to begin; but as he went on,
a certain relief came to him, in spite of shame and sorrow, at the
disburthening himself of his secret. He did not spare himself. He told
the tale very fully, and, little by little, it seemed to Cynthia that
she began to understand his life, his character, his very soul, as she
had never understood them before. She understood, but she did not love.
The confession left her cold; her father's wrongs had turned her heart
to stone.
"And now," he said, when he had finished his story, "you can fetch your
father and clear him in the eyes of the world as soon as you like. I
will take any punishment that the law allots me. But I think that I
shall not have to bear it long. Even a life sentence ends one day, thank
God!"
Then Cynthia spoke.
"You think," she said very coldly, "that I shall tell your story--that I
shall denounce you to the police?"
"As you please, Cynthia," he answered, with a sadness born of despair.
"You throw the burden on me!" she said. "You have thrown your burdens on
other people's shoulders all your life, it seems. But now you must bear
your own." She rose and moved away from him. "I shall not accuse you.
Your confession is safe enough with me. You forget that I--I loved you
once. I cannot give you up to justice even for my father's sake. You
must manage the matter for yourself."
"Cynthia," he cried hoarsely--"Cynthia, be merciful!"
"Had you any mercy for my father?" she asked him, looking at him with
eyes in which the reproach was terrible to his inmost soul. "Did you
ever think what he had to bear?" Her hand was on the door. "I am going
now," she said--"I am going to my father; I have learned the place in
which he lives. But I shall not tell him what you have just told me.
Justify him to the world if you like; till that is done, I will never
speak to you again."
"Cynthia--Cynthia!" cried the wretched man.
He rose from the sofa and stretched out his arms blindly towards her.
But she would not relent.
As she left the room, he fell to the floor--insensible for the second
time that day. She heard the crashing fall--she knew that he was in
danger; but her heart was hardened, and she would not look back. The
only thing she did was to call Jenkins before she left the house and
send him to his master. And then she went out into the street, and said
to herself that she would never enter the house again.
Jenkins went up to the drawing-room, and found Mr. Lepel lying on the
floor. He and his wife managed with some difficulty to get him back to
bed. Then they sent for the Doctor. But, when the Doctor came, he shook
his head, and looked very serious over Hubert's state. A relapse had
taken place; he was delirious again; and no one could say whether he
would recover from this second attack. Cynthia was asked for at once;
but Cynthia was nowhere to be found.
"She will come back, no doubt, sir," Jenkins said.
"I hope she will," the Doctor answered, "for Mr. Lepel's chances are
considerably lessened by her absence."
But the night passed, and the next day followed, and the next; but
Cynthia never came.
In the meantime there was one person in the house who knew more of her
than she chose to say. Miss Sabina Meldreth had been keeping her eye, by
Mrs. Vane's orders, upon Cynthia West. She had listened at the door
during the conversation between Enid and Hubert, but without much
result. Their voices had been subdued, and she had gained nothing for
her pains. But it was somewhat different during the interview between
Cynthia and Hubert. The emotion of the two speakers had been rather too
difficult to repress. Some few of Hubert's words, as well as Cynthia's
passionate sobs, had reached her ears; and Cynthia's last sentences,
spoken in a clear penetrating voice, had not been lost on her. She was
behind the folding-door between the two rooms when Cynthia made her
exit. Sabina Meldreth's heart beat with excitement. Miss West would go
to her father, would she? Then she, Sabina, would follow her--would
track the felon to his hiding-place! The hint that Hubert could clear
him if he would was lost upon her in the delight of this discovery. She
could not afford to miss this opportunity of pleasing Mrs. Vane and
earning three hundred pounds. She followed Cynthia down-stairs, seized a
hat from a peg in the hall, and walked out into the street.
It was already dark, but the girl's tall graceful figure was easily
discernible at some little distance. Miss Meldreth followed her
hurriedly; she was determined to lose no chance of discovering Westwood
and delivering him up to the authorities.
Down one street after another did she track the convict's daughter.
Cynthia went through quiet quarters--if she had ventured into a crowded
thoroughfare, she would soon have been lost to view. But she had no
suspicion that she was being pursued, or she might have been more
careful. In a quiet little court on the north side of Holborn she
presently came to a halt. There was a dingy little house with "Lodgings
to Let" on a card in the window, and at the door of this house she
stopped and gave three knocks with her knuckles. In a few moments the
door was opened, and she stepped in. Sabina could not see who admitted
her.
She waited for some time. A light appeared after a while in an upper
window, and one or two shadows crossed the white linen blind. Sabina
went a little higher up the court and watched. Shadows came
again--first, the shadow of a woman with a hat upon her head--ah, that
was Miss West!--next that of a man--nearer the window and more distinct.
Sabina thought that she recognised the slight stoop of the shoulders,
the stiff and halting gait.
"I've caught you at last, have I, Mr. Reuben Dare!" she said to herself,
with a chuckle, as she noted the number of the house and the name of the
court. "Well, I shall get three hundred pounds for this night's work!
I'll wait a bit and see what happens next."
What happened next was that the lights were extinguished and that the
house seemed to be shut up.
"Safe for the night!" said Sabina, chuckling to herself. "I won't let
the grass grow under my feet this time. I'll tell the police to-morrow
morning, and I'll write to Mrs. Vane as well. He shan't escape us now!"
She retraced her steps to Russell Square, and at once indited a letter
to Mrs. Vane with a full account of all that she had seen and heard. She
slipped out to post it that very night, and lay down with the full
intention of going to Scotland Yard the next morning. But in the morning
she was delayed for an hour only; but that hour was fatal to her plans.
When the police visited the house in Vernon Court, they found that the
rooms were empty, and that Cynthia and her father had disappeared.
Nobody knew anything about them; and the police retired in an
exceedingly bad humor, pouring anathemas upon Sabina's head. But Sabina
did not care; she had received news which had stupefied her for a time
and hindered her in the execution of her designs--little Dick Vane was
dead.
The child had never rallied from the accident which had befallen him.
For several days and nights he had lain in a state of coma; and then,
still unconscious, he had passed away. His watchers scarcely knew at
what moment he ceased to breathe; even the General, who had seldom left
his side, could not tell exactly when the child died. So peacefully the
little life came to a close that it seemed only that his sleep was
preternaturally long. And with him a long course of perplexity and
deceit seemed likely also to have its end.
Mrs. Vane had disappointed and displeased the General during the boy's
illness; she had steadily refused to nurse him--even to see him, towards
the end. The General was an easy and indulgent husband, but he noticed
that his wife seemed to have no love for the child who was all in all to
him. The worst came when Flossy refused to look at the boy's dead face
when he was gone. The General reproached her for her hardness of heart,
and declared bitterly that the child had never known a mother's love.
And Flossy did not easily forgive the imputation, although she professed
to accept it meekly, and to excuse herself by saying that her nerves
were too delicate to bear the shock of seeing a dead child.
Troubles seemed to heap themselves upon the General's head. His boy had
gone; Enid, whom he tenderly loved, had left his house; Hubert, to whom
also he was much attached, lay ill again, and was scarcely expected to
recover. By the time the funeral was over, the General had worked
himself up to such a state of nervous anxiety, that it was felt by his
friends that some immediate change must be made in his manner of life.
And here a suggestion of Flossy's became unexpectedly useful--she
proposed that the General should go to his sister's for a time, and that
she should stay at Hubert's lodging.
It was not that she cared very much for her brother, or that she was
likely to prove a good nurse, but that she was afraid, from what Sabina
said, that Hubert might be doing something rash--making confession
perhaps, or taking Cynthia West into his confidence. If she were on the
spot, she felt that she could hinder any such rash proceeding with
Sabina's help.
But Sabina was not to the fore. When she heard that Mrs. Vane was coming
to town, she threw up her engagement and went back to her aunt's at
Camden Town. A trained nurse took her place, and Mrs. Vane lodged in the
house.
Contrary to the doctor's expectations, Hubert survived the crisis of his
fever, and passed at last into the convalescent stage; though very weak,
he was pronounced to be out of danger, and he began to grow stronger
every day. But, as every one who had known him in happier days had
reason to remark, he bore himself like an utterly broken-hearted,
broken-spirited man. It seemed as if he would never hold up his head
again--all hope went from him when Cynthia left his side.