> x-r •<^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) K^ k^ '^fi^ :a ^ 4^ 1.0 US ^^^ hbb itt 122 12.2 1.1 It! U u 140 IL25 HI 1.4 ■ 1.6 HiotQgraphic Sciences Corporation k*^' •17 <^ '^. ^\9 a man who would wish to take away a fellow-creature's life or to rob him of a chance of repentance." The General's hand fell, but his eyes flamed with the look of an infuriated beast of prey as he turned them on Miss Leonora. " You are a woman," he said harshly, '* and, as a woman, you may be weak ; but I am a man and a soldier, and would die for the honor of my family. Not take away that man's life? I swear to you that, if I had him here, I would kill him with my own hands ! Does not the Scrip- ture t'-U us that a life shall be ^iven for a lite ? " " It tells us that vengeance is the Lord's, Richard, and that He will repay." "Yes— by the hands of His servants, Leonora. Are you so base as not to desire the punishment of your brother's murderer ! If so, never speak to me, never come tiear my house again! And you, young gentleman, get ready to come with me to London at once I I will see Harbury before the day is over." " My dear General," said Hubert, looking exceedingly perplexed, " I think that you will hardly find Harbury in town. I heard yesterday that he was leaving London for a few days." " Nonsense, sir ! Leaving London before the close of the session ! Impossible ! But we can get his address and follow him, I suppose ? I will see Harbury to-night 1 " '•It will be useless," said Hubert, with resignation, " but, if you insist " " I do insist ! The honor of my house is at stake, and I shall do my utmost to bring that ruffian to the gallows ! I cannot I'nderstand you young fellows of the present day, cold-blooded, eflFeminate, without natural affection — I cannot understand it, I say. Ring the bell for Saunders ; tell him to put up my bag. I will go at once — this vefy moment — this-^ " The General's voice suddenly faltered and broke. For some time his words had been almost rnintelligible ; they ran into one another, as if his tongue was not under the control of his will. His face, first red, then purple, was nearly black, and a slight froth was showing itself upon his discolored lips. As his si and cousin looked at him in alarm, they saw that he s ogered backwards as if about to fall. Hubert sprang forward and helped him tq A LIFE SENTENCE, his chair, wnere he lay back, with his eyes half closed, breathing stertoroiisly, and apparently almost unconscious. The rage, the excitement, had proved too much for his physical strength ; he was on the verge, if he had not absolutely succumbed to it, of an apoplectic At. The doctor was sent for in haste. All possibility of the General's expedition to London was out of the question, very much to Miss Vane's relief. She had been dreading an illness of this kind for some days, and it was this fear which had caused her to telegraph for Hubert before breaking to her brother the news that she herself had learned the night before. She had seen her father die of a similar attack, and had been roused to watchfulness by symptoms of excitement in her brother's manner during the last few days. The blow had fallen now, and she could only be thankful that matters were no worse. When the doctor had come — he was met half-way up the drive by the messenger, on his way to pay a morning visit to Mrs. Sydney — and when he had superintended the removal of the General to his room, Hubert was left for a time alone. He quitted the dining-room and made his way to his favorite resort at Beechfield Hall — a spacious conservatory which ran the whole length of one side of the house. Into this conservatory, now brilliant with exotics, several rooms opened, one after another — a t mall breakfast-room, a study, a library, billiard-room, and smoking-room. These all communicated with each other as well as with the conservatory, and it was as easy as it was delightful to exchange the neighborhood of books or pipes or billiard-balls for that of Mrs. Vane's orchids and stephanotis-blossoms. Poor Mrs. Vane used to grum- ble over the conservatory. It was on the wrong side of the house — the gentlemen's side, she called it — and did not run parallel with the drawing-room ; but the very odd- ness of the arrangement seemed to please her guests. Hubert had always liked to smoke his morning cigar amongst the flowers, and, as he paced slowly up and down the tesselated floor, and inhaled the heavy perfume of the myrtles and the heliotrope, his features relaxed a little, his eyes grew less gloomy and his brow more tranquil. He glanced round him with an air almost of content, and drew a deep breath. - ** If one could live amongst flowers aU on^'s life, away A LIFE SENTENCE, SI from the crimes and follies of the rest of the world, how happy one might be I " he said to himself half cynically, half sadly, as he stooped to puff away the green-fly from a delicate plant with the smoke c f his cigar. *' That's im- possible, however. There's no chance of a monastery in these modern days ! What wouldn't 1 give just now to be out of all this — this misery — this deviltry ? " He put a strong and bitter accent on the last word. " But I see no way out of it — none ! " " There is no way out of it — for you," a voice near him said. Without knowing it, he haa spoken aloud. This answer to his reverie startled him exceedingly. He wheeled round to discover whence it came, and, to his surprise, found himself close to the open library window, where, just inside the room, a girl was sitting in a low cushioned chair. He took the cigar from his mouth and held it between his fingers as he looked at her, his brow contracting with anger rather than with surprise. He stood thus two or three minutes, as if expecting her to speak, but she did not even raise her eyes. She was a tall, fair girl with hair of the palest flaxen, artistically fluffed out and curled upon her forehead, and woven into a magnificent coronet upon her graceful head ; her downcast eyelids were peculiarly large and white, and, when raised, revealed the greatest beauty and the greatest surprise of her face — a pair of velvety dark-brown eyes, which had the curious power of assuming a reddish tint when she was angry or disturbed. Her skin was of the perfect creaminess which sometimes accompanies red hair — and it was whispered by her ac- quaintances that Florence Lepel's flaxen locks had once been of a decidedly carroty tinge, and that their present pallor had been attained by artificial means. Whether this was the case or not it could not be denied that their color was no>v very becoming to her pale complexion, and that they constituted the chief of Miss Lepel's many acknow- ledged charms. For, in a rather strange and uncanny way, Florence Lepel was a beautiful woman ; and, though critics said that she was too thin, that her neck was too long, her face too pale and narrow, her hair too colorless for beauty, there were many for whom a distinct fascina- tion lay in the unusual combination of these features. She was dressed from head to foot in sombre black, M A UFE SENTENCE, which made her neck and hands appear almost dazzh'ntly white. Perhaps it was also the sombreness of her attire which gave a look of fragility — an almost painful fragility — to her appearance. Hubert noted, half unconsciously, that her figure was more willowy than ever, that the veins on her temples and her long white hands were marked with extraordinary distinctness, that there were violet shadows on the large eyelids and beneath the drooping lashes. But, for all that, the bitter sternness of his ex- pression did not change. When he spoke, it was in a particularly severe tone. " I shouM be obliged to you," he said, still holding his cigar between his fingers, and looking down at her with a very dark frown upon his face, " if you would kindly tell me exactly what you mean." CHAPTER IV. \' Florence Lepel raised her beautiful eyes at last to her brother's face. " I only repeat what you yourself have said. There is no way out of it — for you." Her voice was quite even and expressionless, but Hubert's face contracted at the sound of her words as if they hurt him. He raised his cigar mechanically to his lips, found that it had gone out, and, instead of relighting it, threw it away angrily from him amongst the flowers. His sister, her eyes keen notwithstanding the velvety softness of their glance, saw that his hands trembled as he did so. " I should like to have some conversation with you," he said, in a tone that betokened irritation, " if you can spare a little time from your duties." "They are not particularly engrossing just now," said Miss Lepel evenly, indicating the book that lay upon her lap. " I am improving my mind by the study of the French language," she said. "The General knows nothing of French authors since the days of Racine, and will think me quite laudably employed in reading a modern French novel." " The General is not likely to find you any wh^r§ tO-da/i »or for many a day to come," a A UFE SENTENCE. K " Is he dead ? " asked his sister, ruffling the pages of her book. She did not look as if anybody's death could disturb her perfect equanimity. " Are you a fiend, Florence," Hubert burst out angrily, " that you can speak in that manner of a man who has been so great a benefactor, so kind a friend, to both of us ? Have you no heart at all ? " " I am not sure. }f ever I had one, I think that it was killed — three months ago." Her voice sank to a whisper as she uttered the last few words. Her breath came a little faster for a second or two — then she was calm again. Her brother looked at her with an air of stupefaction. " How dare you allude to that shameful episode in your life," he said sternly, **and to me, of all people I " " If not to you, I should certainly speak of it to no one," she answered quietly. There was a sudden blaze of light in the red-brown eyes beneath the heavily-veined eyelids. " You are my only safety-valve ; I must speak sometimes — or die. Besides " — in a still lower tone — " I see nothing shameful about it. We have done no harm. If he loved me better than he loved his chattering commonplace little wife, I was not to blame. How could I help it if I loved him too ? . It was kismet — it had to be. You should not have interfered." "And pray what would have happened if I had not interfered ? What shame, what ruin, what disgrace ! " " It Is useless for you to rant and rave in that manner," said Florence Lepel, letting her eyes drop once more to the open pages of her French novel. " You did interfere, and there is an end of it. And ivhat an end ! You must be proud of your work. He dead, Marion dying, the General nearly mad with grief, the man Westwood hanged for a crime that he never committed ! " ** Westwood has been reprieved," said Hubert sharply. " What a relief to you ! " commented his sister, with almost incredible coolness. He turned aw£.\y from her, catching at his throat as if something rose to choke him there. His face was very pale ; the lines of pain about his eyes and mouth were plainer and deeper than tbay had been before. Florence glanced up at him and smiled faintly. There was a straiige malignity in her smile. H A UFk SEl^T£^cn. "You can tell me," she said; ^^hen the silence had lasted for some minutes, "what you meant by saying that the General would not find me here to-day." " He has narrowly escaped a fit of apoplexy. He is to be kept quiet ; he will not be able to see ary one for sone days to come." " Oh ! What brought it on ? " " The news," Hubert answered pluctantly, " of West- wood's reprieve." Miss Lepel smiled again. " Was he so very angry ? " she said. " Ah, he would do anything in his power to bring his brother's murderer to justice — I have heard him say so a hundred times ! You ought to be very grateful to me, Hubert, for remembering that you are my brother." " I wish to Heaven I were not ! " cried the young man. " For some things I wish you were not too," said Florence slowly. She sat up, clasped her white hands round her knees, and looked at him reflectively. " If you had not been my brother, I suppose you would not have interfered," she went on. " You would have left me to pursue my wicked devices, and simply turned your back on me and Sydney Vane. I agree with you. I wish to Heaven — if you like that form of expression — that you were not my brother, Hubert Lepel ! You have made the misery of my life." " And you the disgrace of mine ! " he said bitterly. " Then we are passionless voice quits," she answered, in the listless, that she seemed especially to affect. " We need not reproach each other ; we have each had something to bear at one another's hands." "Florence," said Hubert — and his voice trembled a little as he spoke — "what are you going to do? It is, as you say, useless for us to reproach each other for the past : but for the future let me at least be certain that my sacrifice will avail to keep you in a right path, that you will not again — not again " "This is very edifying," said Florence quietly, as the young man broke off short in his speech, and turned away with a despairing stamp of the foot — his sister's face would have discomfited a man of far greater moral courage than poor Hubert Lepel — " it is something new for me to be lectured by my younger brother, whose course has surely ''s A LIFE SENTENCE, H y, " of West- lot been quite irreproachable, I should imagine ! Come, [Hubert — do not be so absurd ! You have acted according to your ligl\);s, as the old women say, and I according to mine. There is nothing more for us to talk about. Let [us quit the subject ; the past is dead." ^ " I tell you that it is the future that I concern myself 'about. Upon my honor, Florence, I did not know that you were here when I came down to-day ! I thought that you had gone to your friend Mrs. Bartolet at Worcester, as you said to me that you would when I saw you last. Why have you not gone ? You said that life here was now intolerable to you. I remember your very words, although I have not been here for weeks." " Your memory does you credit," said the girl, with slow i scorn. " Why have you stayed ? " " For my own ends — not yours." '* So I suppose." " My dear brother Hubert," said Florence, composing herself in a graceful attitude in the depths of her basket- chair, " can you not be persuaded to go your own way and leave me to go mine ? You have done a good deal of mischief already, don't you know? You have ruined my prospects, destroyed my hopes — if I were sentimental, I might say, broken my heart ! Is not that enough for you ? For mercy's sake, go your own way henceforward, and let me do as I please ! " " But what is your way ? What do you please ? " "Is it well for me to tell you after the warning I have had ? " " If you had a worthy plan, an honorable ambition, you could easily tell me. Again I ask. Why are you here ? " " Yes, why ? " repeated Florence, her lip curling, and, for the first time, a slight color flushing her pale cheeks. " Why ? Yoar dull wits will not even compass that, will they? Well, partly because I am a thoroughly worldly woman, or rather a woman of the world — because it is not well to give up a good home, a luxurious life, and a large salary, when they are to be had for the asking — because as Enid Vane's governess, I can havf as much freedom and as little work as I choose. Is not that answer enough for you?" " No," said Hubert doggedly, " it is not." 36 A LIFE SENTENCE, \ She shrugged her graceful shoulders. " It should be, I think. But I will go on. I look three- and-twenty, but you know as well as \ do that \ am twenty- nine. In another year I shall be thirty — horrible thought ! An attack of illness, even a little more trouble, such as this that 1 have lately undergone, will make me look my full age. Do you know whiit that means to a woman ? "• She pressed her eyelids and the hollows beneath her eyes with her fingers. "When I look in the glass, I see already what I shall be when I am forty. I must make the best of my youth and of my good looks. You spoiled one chance in life for me ; I must make what I can of the other." " You mean," said the young man, with white dry lips, which he vainly attempted to moisten as he spoke — " you mean — that you must make what the world calls a good marriage ? " She bowed her head. " At last you have grasped my meaning," she said coldly ; " you have hitherto been i' xceedingly slow to do so." He looked at her silently for a moment or two, almost with abhorrence. Her fair and delicate beauty affected him with a sort of loathing ; he could not believe that this woman with the cold lips and malignant eyes had been born of his mother, had played with him in childhood, had kissed him with loving kisses, and spoken to him in sisterly caressing fashion. It took him some minutes to conquer the terrible hatred which grew up within him towards her, as he remembered all that she had been and all that she had done ; but, when at last he was able to speak, his voice was calm and studiously gentle. " Florence," he said, " I will not forget that you are my sister. You bear my name, you come of my race, and, whatever you do and whatever you are, I cannot desert you. I promised our mother on her death-bed that I would care for you as long as you needed care ; and, if ever you needed it in your life, you need it now ! I have not done my duty to you during the past few weeks. I have left you to yourself, and thought I could never forgive you for what ymi had done. But now I see that I was wrong. If it would be of any service .;o you, I would make a home for you at once — I would place all my means at your disposal. Come back with me to J^ondon, and A LTPM SENTENCE, *7 let us make a home for ourselves together. We are both [weary, both have suffered ; could we not try to console jand strengthen each other? " The wistfulness of his tone, of his looks, would have [softened any heart that was not hard as stone. But [Florence Lepel's pale face was utterly unmoved. " You offer me a brilliant lot," s. e said — " to live in a [garret, I suppose, and darn your stockings, while you earn [a paltry pittance as a literary man, eked out by aunt Leo's charity ! You know very well that sooner than do that I [put up for two years with Marion Vane's patronage and ' the drudgery of the schoolroom ! And now, when the [woman who alternately scolded and cajoled me, the woman [who once took it upon her to lecture me for my behavior |to her husband, the woman whom I hated as I should hate poisonous snake — when that woman is slowly dying aiiv* [leaving the field to me, am I to throw up the game, give [up my chances, and go to vegetate with you in London ? [You know me very little if you think I would do that." " I seem to have known you very little all my life," said [Hubert bitterly. " I certainly do not understand you low. What can you get by staying here? " " Oh, nothing, of course ! " she answered tranquilly. " What is your scheme, Florence ? " " It is of no use telling you — you might interfere again." The anguish of doubt and anxiety in his dark eyes, if [she had looked at him, would surely have moved her. [But she did not look. " I mean to stay here," she said quietly, " teaching Enid |Vane, putting up with aunt Leonora's impertinences as [well as I can, until 1 get another chance in the world. |What that chance may be of course I cannot tell, but I am :ertain that it will come." "You can bear to stay in this house which I — I — in- [finitely less blameworthy than yourself — can hardly endure to enter ? " "The world would not call you less blameworthy. I am glad that you are so far on good terms with your con- science." " Florence," he said, almost threateningly, " take care ! I will not spare you another time. If I find you involved in any other transaction of which you ought to be ashamed, I will expose you. I will tell the world the truth — that ftft A irpP SENTENCE, you were on the point of leaving England with Sydney Vane when I — when I " "When you shot him," she said, without a trace of emotion manifest in either face or voice, " and let Andrew Westwood bear the blame." The young man winced as if he had received a blow. "It was to shield you that I kept silence," he said, passionate agitation showing itself in his manner. " It was to save your good name. But even for your sake I would not have let the man suffer death. If we had obtained no reprieve for him, I swear that I would have given myself up and borne the punishment ! " " You were at work then ? You tried to get the reprieve for him ? " said his sister, with the faintest possible touch of eagerness. " I did indeed." Hubert's voice fell into a lower key, as if he were trying, miserably enough, to justify to him- self, rather than to her, what he had done. "It would be almost useless to confess my own guilt. It would be thought that I was beside myself. Who would believe me — unless you — you yourself corroborated my story? The man Westwood was a poacher, a thief, wretchedly poor and in ill-health ; he has no character to lose, no friends to consider. Besides, he was morally guiltier than I. I know that he was lying in wait for Sydney Vane ; I know that he had resolved to be revenged on him. Now I — I met my enemy in fair fight ; I did not lie in ambush for him." But from the darkness of his countenance it was plain that the young man's conscience was not deceived by the specious plea that he had set up to\ himself. Beneath her drooping eyelids Florence watched him narrowly. She read him in his weakness, his bitterness of spirit, more clearly than he could read himself. Suddenly she sat up and leaned forward so that sne could touch him with one of her soft cold hands — her hnnds were always cold. " Hubert," she said, with a gentle inflection of her voice which took him by surprise, " I am perhaps not as bad as you think me, dear. I do not want to quarrel with you — ; you are my only friend. You have saved me from worse than death. I will not be ungrateful I will do exa.ctly as you wish." He looked bewildered, almost dismayed. A LIFE SENTENCE:, ^ *■ Do you mean it, Florence ? " he asked doubtingly. " I do indeed. And, in return, oh, Hubert, will you set my mind at rest by promising me one thing ? You will give me another chance to retrieve my wasted, ruined life, will you not? You will never tell to another what you and I know alone ? You will still shield me — from — from — disgrace, Hubert — for our mother's sake ?" The tears trembled on her lashes ; she slipped down from her low chair and knelt by his side, clasping her hands over his half-reluctant fingers, appealing to him with voice and look alike ; and, in an evil hour for himself, he promised at any cost to shield her from the consequences of her folly and his sin. CHAPTER V. " Oh, you two are here together ! " There was a note of surprise in Miss Vane's voice as she turned the corner of a great group of foliage-plants, and came upon brother and sister at the open library window. " I could not tell what had become of either of you. If you have finished your conversation " — with a sharp glance from Florence's wet eyelashes to Hubert's pale agitated face — " I have work for both of you. Florence, Enid has been alone all the morning ; do take the child for a walk and let her have a little fresh air ! And I want you to go for a stroll with me, Hubert ; the General is sleeping quietly, and I have two or three things to consult you about before I go up to Marion." The sudden gleam in Florence's eyes, quickly as it was concealed, did not escape Miss Leonora's notice as she moved away. '' What's the matter with Flossy ? " she asked abruptly, stopping to throw over her head a black-lace scarf which she had been carrying on her arm. "She has been crying." " She feels the trouble that has come upon us all, I suppose," said Hubert rather awkwardly. He pressed forward a little, so as to hold open the conservatory door for his aunt. He was glad of the opportunity of averting his face for a moment from the scrutiny of her keen eyes. ^ A LIFE SENTENCE, " That is not all," said Miss Vane, as she quitted the great glass-house, with its wealth of bloom and perfume, for the freshness of the outer air: She struck straight across the sunny lawn, leaving the house behind. " That is not all. Come away from the house — I don't want what I have to say to you to be overheard, and walls have ears sometimes. Youf sisttir Florence, Hubert, was never remarkable for a very feeling heart. She is, and always was, the most unsympathetic person I ever knew." " She has perhaps greater depth of feeling than we give her credit for," said Hubert, thinking of certain words that had been said, of certain scenes on which his eyes had rested in by-gone days. " Not she — excuse me ! Hubert, I know that she is your sister, and that men do not like to hear their sisters spoken against ; but I must remind you that Florence lived ten years under my roof, and that a woman is more likely to understand a girl's nature than a young man." " I never pretended to understand Florence," said Hubert helplessly ; " she got beyond me long ago." " She is a good deal older than you, my dear, and she has had more experiencvs than she would like to have known. How do I kn^.^v ? I only guess, but I am certain of what I say. She is nine-and-twenty, and she has been out in the world for the last eight years. There is no telling what she may not have gone through in that space of time." Hubert was dumb — it was not in his power just then to contradict his aunt's assertions. " I would gladly have kept her under the shelter of my roof," said Miss Vane, pursuing the tenor of her thoughts without much reference to her listener's condition of "mind ; "but you know as well as I do that she refused to live with me after she was twenty-one — would be a governess. Ugh \ Wonder how she liked it ? " " She seemed to like it very well ; she stayed four years in Russia." "Yes, and hoped to get married there, but failed. I know Flossy. She must have mismanaged matters fright- fully, for she is an attractive girl. She went to Scotland then for a year or two, you know, and was engaged for a time to that young Scotch laird — I never heard why the engagement was broken off." A LIFE SENTENCE, 3' "Why are you deep in these reminiscences, aunt Leonora?" asked Hubert, with an uneasiness which he tried to conceal by a nervous little laugh. " I should have thought that you would ■ bsorbed in anxiety for the General ; and, as for me, ^ ./ant to know what the doctor says about the dear old boy." ^ " I am absorbed in anxiety for him," said Miss Vane decisively ; " and that is just why I am calling these little details of Florence's history to your mind. As to the General's health, the doctor says that we may be easier about it now than we have been fo; many a day. The crisis that we have been expecting has come and passed, and we may be thankful that he is no worse. If he keeps quiet, he will be about again in a few days, and may not have another attack for years." " And Marion ? "^ " Ah, poor Marion ! She is not long for this world, Hubert. I must be back with her at twelve. Till then the nurse has possession and I am free. Poor soul ! It is a dark ending to what seemed a bright enough life. Her mind has failed of late as much as her body." Hubert could not reply. "Sit down here," said Miss Vane, as they reached a rustic seat beneath a great copper-beech-tree on the farther side of the lawn. " Here we can see the house and be seen from it ; if they want me, they will know where to find me. I am not speaking at random, Hubert ; there is a thing that I want to say to you about your sister Florence." Hubert seated himself at her side with a thrill of posii e fear. Had she some accusation to bring against her sister? He was miserably conscious that he was quite unprepared to defend her against any accusation whatso- ever. " What I mean first of all to say," Miss Vane proceeded, looking straight before her at the house, " is that Florence is a girl of an unusual character. She looks very mild and meek, but she is not mild and meek at all. Most girls are, on the whole, affectionate and well-principled and timid ; Flossy is not one of the three." " You are surely hard on her ! " " No, I am not. Long ago I made up my mind that she wanted To get married ; that is nothing — every girl of her disposition wants more or less to be married. But J 3« A LIFE SENTENCE, came across a piece jf information the other day which made me feel almost glad that poor Sydney's life ended as it did. There was danger ahead." " It is all done with now," said Hubert hurriedly ; " Why should you rake up the past ? Cannot it be left alone ? " He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his chin supported by his hands, a look of settled gloom upon his face. Miss Vane's eyes flashed. " You know what I mean then ? " she said sharply. Hubert started into an upright position, crossed his arms, and looked her imperturbably in the face. " I have not the slightest idea of what you are going to >» say " You know something, nevertheless," said Miss Vane, with equal composure. " Well, I don't ask you to betray your sister. I only wish to mention that, in looking over my brother Sydney's papers the other day, I came across a letter from Florence which I consider extremely compro- mising. It was written from Scotland while she was still engaged to that young laird, but it showed plainly that some sort of understanding subsisted between her and Sydney Vane. They must have met several times without the knowledge of any other member of our family; and it seems that she proffered her services to Marion as Enid's governess at his instigation. What do you think of that ? " " I think," said Hubert deliberately, " that Florence has always proved herself something of a plotter, and that the letter shows that she was scheming to get a good situation. You can't possibly make anything more out of it, aunt Leonora " — with a stormy glance. " I think you had better not try." Miss Vane sat for a moment or two in deep meditation. " Well," she said at length, " that may be true, and I may be an old fool. Perhaps I ought not to betray the girl to her brother either ; but " " Oh, say the worst and get it over, by all means ! " said Hubert desperately, "Out with your accusation, if you have any to make ! " Leonora Vane studied his face for a minute or two before replying. She did not like the withered paleness about his mouth, the look of suffering that was so evident in his haggard eyes. • "It is hardly an accusation, Hubert," she said; ♦"ith A LIFE SENTENCE, 33 sudden gentleness. " I mean that I believe that she was in love — as far aS^ girl of her disposition can be in love — with my brother Sydney. I need not tell you how I have come to think so. In the first hours of oin: great loss she betrayed herself. To me only — you need not be afraid that she would ever wear her heart upon her sleeve, but to me she did betray her secret. Whether Sydney returned her affection or not I am not quite sure — for his wife's sake, I hope not." Again she looked keenly at her young kinsman ; but he, with his eyes fixed upon the ground and his lips com- pressed, did not seem disposed to make any remark on what she had said. " I felt sorry for the girl," Miss Vane went on, " although I despised her weakness in yielding to an affection for a married man. Still I thought that her folly had brought its own punishment, and that I ought not to be hard on her. Otherwise I should have recommended her to leave Sydney's daughter alone, and get a situation in another house. I wish I had. I cannot express too strongly to you, Hubert, how ipuch I now wish I had ! " "Why?" " I misunderstood her," said his cousin slowly. " I thought that she had a heart, and that she was grieving — innocently perhaps — over Sydney's death." " Well, was she jiot ? " " I don't think so. If she ever cared for him at all, it was because she wanted the ease and luxury that he could give her. For, if she cared for him, Hubert — I put it to yQU . as a matter of probability — could she immediately after his death begin to plan a marriage with somebody else ? " Hubert looked up at last, with a startled expression upon his face. " What do you mean ? " " I mean, my dear boy, that your sister Florence now wants tc marry the General." In spite of his distress of mind, Hubert could not stifle a short laugh. " Aunt Leonora, you are romancing ! This is really too much ! " * " I should not mention it to you if I had not good said Miss Vane, with a series of mysterious nods. reason »> H A LIFE SENTENCE, can see as far as most wants to marry the »» " I have sharp eyes, Hubert, and people. I repeat it — Florence General." " She will not do that." ** 1 am not sure — if she is left here when 1 am gone. I must go back to London at come time or other, I suppose. But it won't do to leave Flossy in possession." " She would not think of staying, surely, if — " If poor Marion died ? Yes, she would. Believe me, I know what I am saying. I have watched her manner to him for the last few weeks, and I feel sure of it. She has her own ends in view." " I have no doubt of that," said Hubert, rather bitterly. " But what are we to do ? " " Let our wits work against hers," replied Miss Vane briskly. " If poor Marion dies, we must suggest to the General that Enid should go to school. In that way we may get Florence out of the house without a scene. But — mark my words, Hubert — she will not go until she is forced. She is my second cousin once removed and your sister, but for all that she is a scheming unprin- cipled intriguer and adventuress, who has never brought and never will bring good to any house in which she lives. You may try to get her away to London if you like, but you'll never succeed." " I have tried already ; I thought that she would be better with me," said Hubert. " But it was of no use." "You offered her a home? You ?.re a good fellow, Hubert 1 You hai t always been a good brother to Flor- ence, and I honor you for it," said Miss Vane heartily. " Don't say so, aunt Leo ; I'm not worth it" .said the young man, starting up and walking two or three paces from her, then returning to her side. " I only wish that I could do more for her — poor Florence ! " " Poor Florence indeed ! " echoed Miss Vane, with tart significance. " But I must go, Hubert. See her again, and persuade her, if you can, to leave Beechfield. Don't tell her what I have said to you. She is suspicious already and will want to know. Did you notice the look she gave me when I said that I wished to talk to you ? Be on your guard." " I shall not have time to talk with her much. I must go back to London by the four o'clock train," A LIFE SENTENCE. %% " Must you ? Well, do your best. See — the blind is drawn up in Marion's dressing-room — a sign that I am wanted ; " and Miss Vane turned towards the house. Hubert's anticipations were verified. Florence was not to be persuaded by anything that he could say. And, when he begged her to tell him why she wanted so much to stay at Beechfield, and hinted at the reason that existed in Miss Leonora's mind, Florence only laughed him to scorn. He was obliged sorrowfully to confess, to Miss Vane, when she walked with him that afternoon before he set out for London, that he had obtained no information concerning Flossy's plans, and that he could hope to have no influence over her movements. He had five minutes to spare, and was urging her to walk with him a little way along the road that led to the nearest railway-station, when Miss Vane's attention was arrested by two little figures in the middle of the road. She stop- ped short, and pointed to them with her parasol. " Hubert," she cried, in a voice that was hoarse with dismay, " do you see th.?t* " " I see Enid," said Hubert rather wonderingly. " I suppose she ought ngit to be here alone ; she must have escaped from Florence. Why are you so alarmed ? She is talking to a beggar-child- -that is all." Miss Vane pressed his arm with her hand. " Are you blind ? " she said. " Do you not know to whom she is talking? Can you bear to see it ? " " Upon my soul, aunt Leo," said the young man, " I don't know what you mean ! " He looked at the scene before him. The white country road stretched in an undulating line to right and left, its smooth surface mottled with patches of sunlight and tracts of refreshing shade. A broad margin of grass on either side, tall hedges of hawthorn and hazel, soothed the eye that might be wearied with the glare and whiteness of the road. On one of these grassy margins two children were standing face to face. Hubert recognised his little cousin Enid Vane, but the other — a sunburnt, gipsy-looking creature, with unkempt hair and ragged clothes — who could she be? " You were at the trial," Miss Vane whispered to him, in dismayed, reproachful tones. " Do you not know her? it is no fault of hers, poor child, of course ; and yet it does 3» A LIFE SENTENCE. give me a shock to see poor little Enid talking in that friendly way with the daughter of her father's murderer." For the child was no other than little Jenny V/estwood, whom Hubert had seen for a few minutes only at her father's trial three weeks before. ■Ill CHAPTER VI. Hubert stopped short. If Miss Vane had been looking at him, she would have seen that his face flushed deeply and then turned very pale. But she herself, with her gold eye-glasses fixed very firmly on the bridge of her high nose, was concentrating her . whole attention upon the children. " Enid," she called out rather sharply, " what are you doing there? Come to me." Enid turned to her aunt. She was a singularly sensitive looking child, with lips that paled too rapidly and veins that showed with almost painful distinctness beneath the soft white skin. Her features were delicately cut, and gave promise of future beauty, when health should lend its vivifying touch to the white little face. Her eyes, cf a tender violet-gray, were even now remarkable, and her hair was of rippling gold. Her somire black dress and the sunshine that poured down upon i.ic spot where she was standing contributed to the dazding effect produced by her golden hair and white skin. There could not have been a greater contrast than that between her and Andrew Westwood's daughter, upon whom at that moment Hubert Lepel's eyes were fixed. Jenny Westwood, as she was generally called, although her father gave her a different name, was thinner, browner wilder-looking, than she had even been before. Miss Vane knew her by sight, but she had imagined that the child had been taken away from the village by friends, or sent to the workhouse by the authorities. It was a shock to her to find the little creature at the park gates of Beech- field Hall. Enid did not seem to be embarrassed by her aunt's call. She ran up to her at once, dragging the ragged child with her by the hand. Her face was anxious and puzzle''. A LIFE SEPfTEPfCE. VI " Oh, aunt Leo/* she said, " this little girl has nowhere to go to — no home — no anything ! " " Let her hand go, Enid ! " said aunt Lee, with some severity. " You have no business to be out here in the road, talking to children whom you know nothing about." £nid shrank a little, but she did not drop the child's hand. " But, aunt Leo, she is hungry and " '* Were you begging of this young lady ? " Miss Vane said magisterially, her eyes bent full on the ragged girl's dark face. But Andrew Westwood's daughter would not speak. " I'll talk to her," said Hubert, in a low tone. " You take Enid back to the house, aunt Leo, and I'll send the child about her business." " No, no ; you'll miss your train. It is time for you to go. Enid can run back to the house by herself. Go, Enid ! " '* Why may I not speak to the little girl too ? " said Enid wistfully. It was not often that she was rebellious, but her face worked now as if she were going to cry. " Never mind why — do as I tell you ! " cried Miss Vane, who was growing exasperated by the pain and difficulty of the situation " I will see what she wants." Enid hesitated for a moment, then flung herself impetu- ously upon Hubert. "Won't you help her?" she said, looking up into his face with sweet entreaty. " I am sure you wil! be kind. The poor little girl has had nothing to eat all da) . I asked her. You will be kind to her, for you are alwav.^ kind." Hubert pressed her to him without speaking for a moment, then answered gently — *J Both your aunt and I will be kind to her and help her, Enid — you may be sure of thiv t. Now run away home and leave us ; we will do all we can." For the first time, the little outcast who had excited Enid's pity broke the silence. " I don't want nothing ; I wasn't begging, nor meaning to beg. She found me asleep by the road and asked me if I was hungry — that was all." " And she is hungry," said Enid, with passion, " and you don't want me to help her, You are unkind ! Here, 38 A Upn S£J^T£NCE. little girl — here is my shilling ; it's the only one I've got, and it has a hole in it, but you may have it, and then you can get yourself something to eat in the village." She dashed forward with the coin, eluding a movement of Miss Vane's hand designed to stop her in her course. The shilling lay in Jenny Westwood's grimy httle hand before the lady could interfere. " Don't take it iway," Hubert whispered in his aunt's ear ; " it will only make her remember the scene for a longer time." ** I know," Miss Vane answered grimly ; and she stood still. Enid turned sorrowfully, half ashamed of her momentary rebellion, towards the park gate. The other child seemed dazed by the excitement of the speakers, and only half understood what had been going on. She stood looking first at the coin in her hand and then at the donor, with a strange questioning expression on her little brown face. Miss Vane and Hubert also waited in silence, until Enid was out of hearing. Then, as if by the same instinct, each drew a long breath and looked doubtfully at the other and then at the child. " You will miss your train," said Miss Leonora. " I have done that already ; so we may as well find out what brings the girl here. Why not take her inside the park gates ? If any one passes by " " You are right, Hubert, as usual. Come here, child — come inside for a minute or two ; I want to speak to you." The little girl glanced doubtfully at Miss Vane's hand- some imperious face. She seemed inclined to break away from her questioners and run down the road ; but a look from under her long lashes at Hubert seemed to reassure her. The young man's face had certainly an attractive quality — there was some sort of passion and pain in it, some mark of a great struggle which had not been all ignoble, even if he had failed to win the victoi-y, a look which worked its way into the hearts of many who would have refused the,, hands to him in sign of fellowship if they had known the whole story of his life. This subtle charm had its influence on little Jenny Westwood, although she had no suspicion of its cause. She moved a little closer to him, and followed him inside the iron gates of A LIFE SENTENCE. 39 md she stood fBeechfield Park. The great trees flung their shade over 'the broad drive which ran between mpssy banks for a mile before the house was reached. Between their trunks the sunshine flickered on sheets of bracken, already turn- ing a little yellow from the heat ; the straight spikes of the foxglove, not yet in bloom, were visible here and there amongst the undulating forms of the woodland fern. Hubert closed the gate carefully behind him, and stood with his aunt so as to screen the child from observation, should frends or acquaintances pass by. He had a keen perception of the fact that Miss Vane was making an enormous effort over pride and prejudice and affectionate prepossessions of all kinds in even speaking a word to Andrew Westwood's child. He himself, in the troubled depths of his soul, was stirred by a wild rush of pity and remorse, of sharp unaffected desire to undo what had been done already, to amend the injury that his hand had wrought — a far greater injury indeed than he had dreamt of doing. He had always fancied Andrew Westwood as lonely a man as — in the world's eyes — he was worthless ; he had not known until the day of the trial that the prisoner had a child. "Your name is 'Westwood,' I think?" Miss Vane began stonily. Hubert was keenly aware of the harshness of her tones. The girl nodded. "Your father is Andrew Westwood?" She nodded again, a dull red creeping into her brown cheeks. " What are you doing here ? " There was a tragic intensity of indignation in Miss Vane's way of putting the question, which Hubert wondered whether the child could comprehend. " You ought to be far away from Beechfield — it is the last place to which you should come ! " The child lowered her face until it was nearly hidden on her breast, and spoke for the second time. " Hadn't nowhere to go," she muttered. " Have you no home ? " said Miss Vane sternly. " O ,ly the cottage down by the pond where father lived. It ii all shut up now." " Where have you lived for the last few weeks ? I heard that you were in the workhouse." " Yes," Then, evidently with difficulty—" I ran away," 40 A LIFE SENTENCE. • " Then you were a bad wicked girl to do so," said Miss Vane, with severity*; "and you ought to be sent back again — and well whipped, into the bargain ! " Hubert made an impatient movement. He had never seen his aunt so much to her disadvantage. She was harsh, unwomanly, inhuman. Was it in this way that every woman would treat the poor child, remembering the story of her father's crime ? Miss Vane read the accusation in his eyes. She turned aside with an abrupt gesture, half of defiance, half of despair. " I can't help i^ Hubert," she said in an undertone. She raised her handkerchief to her eyes and dashed away a tear. " I feel it a wrong to Sydney, to Marion, to the child, that I should try to benefit any of Westwood's family. I can't bear to speak to her — I can't bear her in my sight. It makes me ill to se^ her.'* She covered her eyes with her hand, so that she might not see the ragged miserable-looking little creature any longer. " It would make matters no better if the child were to die of neglect and starvation at your gates, would it?" said Hubert bitterly. " She must be got out of Beechfield at any rate; you will never be able to bear seeing her about the roads — even amongst the workhouse child- en." " No, no, indeed ! And Enid — Enid might meet her again ! " " Go back to the house, aunt Leo," said the young man tenderly, "and leave her to me. It is too great a strain upon your endurance, I see. I will take the child to the Rectory ; Mrs. Rumbold will know of some home \. here she will be taken in — the farther away from Beechfield the better." Miss Vane was unusually agitated. Her face was pale', and her lips moved nervously ; she carefully averted her eyes from the little girl whom she had undertaken to question. Evidently she was on the verge of a break- down. " I never was so foolish in my life as I have been to-day. My nerves are all unstrung," she said, turning her back on little Jenny Westwood. " I think I'll take your advice, Hubert. Ask Mr. and Mrs. Rumbold, from me, to see ftfter the chjld, If they want money, I don't mind supply- A LIFE SENTENCE. At ing it. But do make them understand that the child must be kept out of Beechfield." And with these words she 'walked briskly down the avenue, without looking back. iAs she had said, the very sight of Andrew >\estwood's 'daughter made her ill. Hubert turned again towards the girl, wondering whether she had overheard the conversation, which had been carried on in low tones, and, if she had overheard it, how much she had understood. He could not find out from her face. It was not a face that lacked intelligence, but it was at present sullen and forbidding in expression. The black hair that hung over her eyes hid her forehead, and gave her a rough, almost a savage look. " You do not want to go back to the workhouse, do you ? " Hubert said, keenly regarding the stubborn face. " No — I won't go back." "Why not?" A hot burning blush sprang to the child's cheeks. " They call me names, " she said in a low voice. " They ? Who ? And what names ? " " The other girls, and the mistress too, and the women. They said that my father's wicked, and that I am wicked too. They say that he is to be hanged." The child suddenly burst out crying ; her sobs, loud and unrestrained, fell painfully on Hubert's ear. ** I went to the prison to see him, but they would not let me ; and then I came back here." She sobbed for a minute or two longer, and then beoame quiet as suddenly as she had broken into tears, rubbing her eyes with one hand, and peering furtively at Hubert between the black fingers. " They were wrong," Hubert said at length. '* Your father is not dead ; he is not to be hanged at all." He paused before he spoke again. " He is in prison ; he will be in prison for the rest of his life — a life sentence ! " He spoke rather to himself than to the child. Never had he realised so fully as at that moment what prison actually meant. To be shut up, away from friends, away from home, away from the sweet wild woods, the country air, the summer sun, to labor all day long at some heavy monotonous task, such as breaks the spirit and the heart of man with its relentless uniformity of toil — to wear the prison garb, to be known by a number, as one dead to the 4a A LlFk SENTeNCM. ordinary life of men, leaving at the prison gates that name ivhich would be henceforth only a badge of disgrace to all who bore it in the outer world — these aspects of Andrew Westwood's sad case flashed in a moment across Hubert Lepel's mind with a thrill of intolerable pain. What could he do ? Rise up and offer to bear that terrible punish- ment himself? It could not be — for Florence's sake, he told himself, it could not be. And yet — yet Would that at the very beginning he had told the truth, and stood where Andrew Westwood stood, so that the ruffian and the poacher might not have to bear a doom that separated him for ever from his only child ! ** Do you mean," said Jenny Westwood slowly, "that father will never come out of prison any more ? " ** Perhaps — after many years — he may come out." " Many years? Three — or five ? " " More — more, I am afraid, my little girl — perhaps in twenty years — if he is still alive." He scarcely knew what impulse prompted him then to tell her the truth. He repented it the next moment, for, after a horrified stare into his face, the child suddenly flung herself down upon the gravelled path and burst into tears, accompanied by passionate shrieking sobs and wild convulsive movements of her limbs. " He shall come out — he shall come out ! " Hubert heard her cry between her gasps for breath. " He can't do without me. Take me to him, or I shall die ! " ' In utter dismay Hubert tried persuasion, argument, rebuke, for some time in vain. At last he turned away from her, and began walking up and down a short stretch of the drive, bitterly regretting the impulse that had caused him to take the care of this strange child, even for a few moments, on his hands. But he had promised to get rid of her, and he must do so, if only for Enid's sake. It would never do to let this little wild creature go on roaming about the village, asking questions about her father. And there were better motives at work within the young man's breast. It seemed to him that he had brought a duty on himself — that he was at least responsible for Andrew Westwood's forlorn and neglected child. He had not paced the drive for many minutes before the sobs began to grow fainter. Finally they ceased, and the child drew herself into a crouching position, with her A LIFE SENTENCE, 43 head resting against the steep mossy bank just within the gate. Seeing her so quiet, Hubert thought that he might venture to speak to her again. " You must not cry so bitterly," he said, almost as he might have spoken to a grown-up person, not to a child. " Grieving can do your poor father no good. Wait and grow up quickly. He may come out of prison some day, and want his little daughter. If I take you to a place where you can be taught to be a good girl, like other girls, will you stay there ? " The child raised her head and fixed her dark eyes upon him. "Not to the workhouse ? " she said apprehensively. " I promise you — not to a workhouse, if you will be a good child." She scrambled to her feet at once, and, rather to Hu- bert's surprise, put one hot and dirty little hand into his own. " I will be good," she said briefly ; " and I will go wherever you like." Nothing seemed easier to her just then. CHAPTER Vn. " But, dear me, Mr. Lepel," said Mrs. Rumbold, " there's no place for a child like that but the workhouse." Hubert stood before the Rector's wife in a pretty little room opening out upon the Rectory garden. Jenny had been left in the hall, seated on one of the high-backed wooden chairs, while her protector told his tale. Mrs. Rumbold — a short, stout, elderly woman with a good- natured smile irradiating her broad face and kind blue eyes — sat erect in the basket-chair wherein her portly frame more usually reclined, and positively gasped as she heard his story. " To think of that child's behavior ! I assure you, Mr. Lepel, that we tried to do our duty. We knew how pain- ful it would be for the dear General and Miss Vane if any niember of that wretched man's family were left in the village, and we thought it simplified matters so much that there was only one child— didn't we, Alfred ? " 44 A LIFE SENTENCE, Alfred was the Rector, a tall thin man, very slow in expressing his ideas, and therefore ^ nerally resigning the task of doing so to his wife's more nimble tongue. On this occasion, unready as usual with a response, he crossed his legs one over the other, cleared his throat, and had just prepared to utter the words, •* We did indeed, my dear," when Mis. Rumbold was off again. " Some neighbors took care of her before the trial," she said confiaentially. " Indeed we paid them a small sum for doing so, Mr. Lepel — we didn't like to send the child to the workhouse before we knew how matters would turn out. But, when the poor wretched man was condemned, I said to Alfred, ' We really can't let the Smiths be burdened any longer with Andrew Westwood's child — she must go to the Union ! ' And Alfred actually went to Westwood, and asked him if he had any relatives to whom the child could be sent — didn't you, Alfred ? — and, when he said that there were none, and that the girl might as well be brought up in the workhouse as anywhere else, for she would always be an outcast like himself — 1 quote his very words, Mr. Lepel — his graceless, reckless, wicked words ! — why, then, I just put on my hat and cloak, and I went to the Smiths at once, and I said, * Mrs. Smith, I've come to take little Westwood to the workhouse ; ' and take her I did that very afternoon." " Do you know when she ran away ? " Hubert asked. Mrs. Rumbold shook her head. " I haven't heard. Not more than a day or two ago, I should fancy, for nobody seems to have been looking for her in this direction. I wonder she came back to Beech- field, the hardened little thing ! " " Oh, come, I don't think she is that, Mrs. Rumbold ! " said Hubert, affecting a lightness.which assuredly he did not feel. " I fancy that she wandered back to Beechfield out of love for her father and her old home, poor child. She is not to be blamed for her father's sins, surely ! " he added, seeing rather an odd expression on Mrs. Rumbold's face as the involuntary words of pity passed his lips. " Oh, no, no — of course not ! " Mrs. Rumbold hastened to reply. " It is very kind of you, Mr. Lepel, and very kind of Miss Vane too, to interest yourselves in the fate of Andrew WestWQod's daughter-— very Christian, I am sure I " "I awaj go 01 be p^ {( And I (( withl into who Wins said the i (( Mf his else had to be won by the work of his own hands. And- yet, as he passed up the staircase to his own rooms, he was wondering whether he could not manage to dispense with Miss Vane's hundred a year. . He had let himself in with his latch-key, and the room which he entered was lighted only by the lamps in the street. He had not been expected so early, and his land- lady had forgotten to bring the lamp which he was in the habit of using. He struck a match and lit the gas, pulled down^ the blinds, and threw himself with a heavy sigh into the great leathern arm-chair that stood before his writing' table. He felt mortally tired. The events of the day had been such as would have tried a strong man's nerve, and Hubert Lepci was at this time out of sorts, physically as well as mentally. He had seldom gone through such hours of keen torture as he had borne that day ; and his face — pale, worn, miserable — seemed to have lost all its youth as he lay back in the great arm-chair and thought of the past. He rose at last with an impatient word. " It is madness to brood over what cannot be undone," he said to himself. " I must * dree my own weird ' with- out a word to any living soul. Florence has my secret, and I have hers ; to her I am bound by a tie that nothing on earth can break. And I can have no other ties. I am bad enough, Heaven knows, but I am not so bad as to render myself responsible for the happiness of a wife, for the welfare of children, for a home ! With this hanging over me, how can I hope for any happiness in life ? I am as much under punishment as poor Westwood in his prison- cell. I have no rights, no hopes, no love. A life sentence did I say that he had received ? And have I not a life sentence too?" He was standing beside his writing-table, and his eyes fell upon a photograph which had adorned it for the last six months. It represented a girl's face — a bright, pretty, careless face, with large eyes and parted smiling lips. For the first time he did not admire it very much ; for the first time he found it a trifie soulless and vapid. " Poor Mary," he said, looking at it with a kind of wonder in his eyes — ^" what will she say when she fin'^s that I do not go to her father's house any more ? I do not think ^o tore It across ^henK^''"^°^'ts frame anHrl ru smaJJest possible r ''^ '^^ ^""sejf to L.? "^^ '^e^ately upon hisSlt^h^'r^'""^'"' heylavlr."/^ ^^^ ^e performed thf,^,- «'« ^^ce vvaf g'Yv " aVd" • -'/^^ His fancy for ' Uo »' .^"^ ^^ showed litfll . *^ "^'^ as ">e pink paper I-Th ""''"' ^'d to hiWelf i • Ponsible for?WsroL'i>''7,t'"g '■"^ ^ ™ "S f""" . ^ke a hundred lives f^ * sentence, did I sav> r? ^ ''*'■ «-ence and I ha^e ^0^/^"--"^ ^or aj ^hrhai^"'?^^ „,^ CHAPTER vui. call her somethTnl ^^°"^dn't it be better Lu "^^^ J"st greaOyalteredCvSth"'^"'^' <=»llK' trL' f ' ''^'^J""' -Cynthia ^th h ";""^ ""derMrs. Ru^oMf '^""^'^ ^nd clean, a nelhm ?' '''°«. hands and ff ' '"*"''«^'»ent 9! little \^pk herVale " she knew. deliberately ^/^ to the ^ ^'ttie heap ^nd rigid as »ceofpain. ^n old pro- pieted his n he tore V'ane. ^ syncope ''ig down ^m I res- Jt H'ould irm that y not her." i just i and nient 3USly iland ia-^ reat frs yt LIFE SENTENCE, ft Rumbold, rather sharply. "Besides, she has another name — she told me so herself — 'Cynthia Janet' — that's what slie was christened, she tells me. She can be called 'Jane Wood' at Winstead." The Rector looked up in mild surprise. "Why not ' Jane Westwood,' my dear? 'Westwood* is her name." " She had much better not be known as Westwood's daughter," said Mrs. Rumbold, with decision, quite heed- less of Cynthia's presence. " It will be against her all her life. I have told Sister Louisa about her, and she asked me to let her be called ' Wood.' ' Jane Wood ' is a nice sensible name." " Well, as yoi' please. You will not mind being called 'Jane,' will you, my dear?" said the Rector, mindful of the red flush that was creeping into the little pale cheeks. He wns a kindly old gentleman, in spite of his slow, absent-minded ways ; and there was a very benevolent light in liis eyes as he sat in his elbow-chair, newspaper on knee, spectacles on nose, and surveyed the child who had been brought to his study for inspection. Mrs. Rumbold fairly lost her patience at the question. " How can you ask her such a thing, Alfred ? As if it was her business to mind one way or another ! She ought to be thankful that she is so well taken care of without troubling about her name. * Jane Wood ' is a very good name indeed, much better than that silly-sounding * Cynthia ' ! " — and Mrs. Rumbold swept the child before her out of the room in a state of high indignation at the stupidity of all men. So Cynthia Westwood — or Jenny Westwood, as the Beechfield people called her — was transformed into Jane Wood. She did not seem to object to the change. She was in a dazed, stunned state of mind, in which she under- stood only half of what was said lo her, and when the scenes and faces around her made a very slight impression upon her memory. , One or two things stood out clearly from the rest. One was Enid Vane's sweet childish face, as she thrust her shilling with the hole in it into the little outcast's hand. Cynthia had carefully hidden the coin away ; she was resolved never to spend it. She took it out and looked at it sometimes, feeling, though she could not have put her feelings into words, that it was an actual 53 A LIFE SENTENCE, visible sign of some one's kindness of heart, of some one's love and pity for her. And the other thing was the dark melancholy face of the man who had brought her*to the Rectory, and told her to be good for her father's sake. She liked to think of his face best of all. It was one that she was sure she would never forget. She brooded over it with silent adoration, with a simple faith and con- fidence in the goodness of its owner, which would have cut « him to the heart if he had ever dreamed of it He had been kind to her ; that was all she knew. She rewarded him by the devotion of her whole being. It was surely a great reward for such a little act ! She did not know that it was he who was to pay for her going to school, that it was he who had rescued her from the degradation of her outcast life. Mrs. Rumbold kept her word to Hubert. She talked vaguely in Cynthia's presence of " kind '" iends " who were doing '* so much " for her ; but Cynthia associated the idea of " kind friends " with that of Mrs. Rumbold herself, and was not grateful.' The child was not old enough, and had been too much stunned by the various experiences of her little life, to be very curious. She did not know Mr, Lepel by name, or why he should be at Beechfield at ail. He did not often visit the Vanes, although he saw a good deal of his aunt Leonora in London. He was quite a stranger to half the people in the village. Also, Cynthia's father, now in prison for the murder of Sydney Vane, had not lived long in Beechfield, and did not know the history and relationships of the Squire's family, as natives of Beechfield were supposed to do. He had been two years in the village, and had rented a tumble- down ruinous cottage by the side of a marshy pond, which no one else would occupy. Here he had lived a lonely life, gathering rushes from the pond and weaving baskets out of them, doing a day's work in the fields now and then, setting snares for rabbits, trapping foxes, and killing game — a man suspected by the authorities, shunned by the village respectabilities, avoided by even'those wilder spirits who met at the " Blue Lion" to talk of bullocks and to drink small-beer. For he was not of a genial disposition. He was grutf and surly in speech, given neither to drink nor to conversation — ^just the sort of man, his neighbors sj^id, to commit a terribly crime, to revenge himself upon IIJIIMUBIIU^II A LIFE SENTENCE. 53 a magistrate who had once sei>t him to gaol for poaching, and had threatened to turn him out of his wretched cottage by the pond. And his little girl too — the villagers were indignant at the way in which Cynthia was brought up. She was seldom seen in the village school, never at church or in Mrs. Rum- bold's Sunday-classes. She was rough, wild, ignorant. Careful village mothers would not let their children play with her, and district-visitors went out of their way to avoid her — for she had been known to fling stones at boys who had come too near, and she laughed in the faces of people who tried to lecture her. Jenny Westwood was thus very little in the way of hearing Beechfield gossip, or she would have known all about Mr. Lepel and his sister, who acted as Miss Enid's governess, and concerning whose moonlit walks with Miss Enid's " papa " there had already been a good deal of conversation. She knew nothing of all this. There was a big house a mi) j from the village, and in this big house lived a wicked -ruel man who had sent her father to prison — so much she knew. And her father was now in prison for killing that wicked man. Why should one not kill the person who injures one? It did not seem so very terrible to Cynthia. Before her father had brought her to Beechfield, she remembered, they had travelled a good deal from place to place ; and while they were " on the tramp," as her father expressed it, she had Seen much of the rougher side of life. She had seen blows given and returned — fighting, violence, blood- shed. She had a vague idea that, if her father had killed Mr. Vane, it was perhaps not the first time that he had taken the life of a fellow-man. Mrs. Rumbold certainly showed much kindliness and charity in taking this forlorn little girl into her spotless well-regulated household, even for a week, until matters were settled with the authorities of the workhouse which she had quitted and the orphanage to which she was going. The Rectory servants were indignant at having the society of " a murderer's child " forced upon them. If she had stayed much longer, they would have given notice in a body. But fortunately Mrs. Rumbold was able to arrange matters with the Winstead Sisters very speedily, and the day following the funeral of Mrs. Sydney Vane — laid to X^sX besi^^ her hus]?and only three months after his un- 54 A LIFE SEi TENCE, timely death — saw Cynthia's little box packed, and herself, arrayed in neat but very unbecoming garments, conveyed by Mrs. Rumbold to the charitable precincts of St. Eli- zabeth's Orphanage at Winstead, where she was introduced to the black-robed, white-capped Sisters and a crowd of blue-cloaked children like herself as Jane Wood, orphan, from the village of Beechfield, in Hants. However, Mrs. Rumbold told the whole of Cynthia's story to the Sister in charge of the Orphanage, a sweet- faced motherly woman, who looked as if children were dear to her. The one reservation made by the Rector's wife referred to the person or persons who were to pay the child's expenses. Their names, she said emphatically, were never to be mentioned. The good Sister smiled, and thought to herself that the very reservation told its own story. Of course it was the Vanes who were thus providing for Cynthia West wood's continued absence from their village. It was natural perhaps. She noticed that the child showed no sign of sorrow at parting from Mrs. Rumbold. She looked white, tired, almost stupefied. Sister Louisa took hold of the little hands, and found them cold and trembling. When the Rector's wife was gone, the good woman — - " the mother of the children," as she was sometimes called — drew the little girl to her knee and kissed her tenderly. It needed very little real affection to call forth a response in Cynthia's yearning heart. She burst into tears and. buried her face in the mother's ample bosom, won from that moment to all the claims of love and duty, and a religion of which she as yet had scarcely heard the name. As time went on, Mrs. Rumbold received letters from Sister Louisa relative to Jane Wood's progress. Jane Wood was, on the whole, a very satisfactory pupil. She was a girl of strong will and strong passions, often in dis- grace, and yet a universal favorite. She possessed more than usual ability, and soon caught up with the girls of her own age who had at first been far in advance of her in class ; then she surpassed them, and began to attract attention ; and at the end of two years Mrs. Rumbold received a letter which perplexed her so sorely, that she sent it at once to Mr. Hubert Lepel, who was still living a bachelor-life in London. The letter, from Sister Louisa, was to the effect that r ESS! A tlFk ^ENTEircS, ^S Jane Wood, the girl from Beechfield, had developed a great talent for music, and seemed very superior to the station of domestic service for which she had been designed. The Sister received twenty or thirty boarders — daughters of gentlemen for the most part, for whom ordinary terms were paid — in addition to the orphans ; these girls of a superior class were educated by the Sisters, and often remained at St. Elizabeth's until they were eighteen or nineteen. If the amount paid for Jane Wood could be increased to forty pounds a year, the Sisters proposed to educate her as a governess ; with her talent for music and other accom- plishments, they were quite sure that the girl would turn out a credit to her kind patrons and patronesses, as well as to St. Elizabeth's. Mr. Lepel sent back an answer by return of post. Jane Wood — he knew her by no other Christian name — was to have every advantage the good sisters could give her. If she had talents, they were to be cultivated. When she was old enough to be placed out in the world to earn her own living, his allowance would of course cease ; till then,' and while she wanted help, her friends would provide for her. " So Westwood's child is to be made a lady of ! " said Mrs. Rumbold, laying down the letter with a sense of virtuous indignation. " Well, I hope that Mr. Lepel won't repent it. I wonder what Miss Vane thinks of it ? " But Miss Vane had never even heard the name of Jane Wood. Hubert Lepel was gradually achieving literary success. But the road to success is often stony and beset with thorns and briars. His name was becoming known as that of a writer of popular fiction ; he had a play in hand of which people prognosticated great things. For all these reasons he was much too busy to give any special attention to the affairs of the child at St. Elizabeth's School. He agreed to Sister Louisa's proposition, and sent mor.ey for the girl's education — that was all that he could do. And so another year went by, and then another, and he heard nothing more about Jane Wood. But at the close of a London season, when town was emptying fast and the air was becoming exhausted, and everybody who had a chance of going into the country was sighing to be off, it occurred to Hubert Lepel to wonder '^\ ■ t '.Z^^iSCJBSiVltMmOf' I^ITWMW'^Ni*'''*** s« A UFE SENTElfCE, how the child that he had befriended was progressing. It took little time for him to make up his mind that he would go down to Winstead and see the school, which was quite a show-place and had been a great deal talked about. A card and a line from a clerical friend would introduce him, and his literary work gave him an excuse for wishing to inspect the institution. It would be supposed that he meant to write an article upon it. He did not intend to say why he had come. The building occupied by the Sisters of St. Elizabeth was certainly beautiful and picturesque. Hubert remem- bered with a* half smile the enthusiastic praise that Mrs. Rumbold had bestowed upon it. The chapel, an exquisite little gem of Gothic architecture, stood in the centre, flanked by t'wo long gray wings appropriated to the^chool- girls and their teachers, the Orphar.age and the Sisterhood. St. Elizabeth's was becoming quite a noted school for girls, especially among persons of High Anglican proclivities ; and in surveying the lovely buildings, the exquisitely-kept grounds, the smooth lawns and shrubberies which met his eyes. Hubert could not but acknowledge that the outer appearance of the place was all that could be desired. The school-buildings were swathed in purple clematis and roses ; there was a pleasant hum of voices, even of laughter, from some of the deep mullioned windows ; and he saw a host of children sporting on the lawn in the distance. The scene was bright, peaceful, and joyous. Hubert Lepel felt a momentary thrill of relief ; he had done well for Westwood's child—he need not reproach himself on that score. A portress with a rosy smiling face admitted him into a visitors' room, a small but cosy place, with vases of flowers on the table, sacred pictures and a black-and-white crucifix on the yellow-washed walls. Here a Sister clad in con- ventual garb came to inquire his business. The stillness of the house, the unfamiliar aspect of the women's dresses, reminded Hubert of some French and Flemish Romanist convents which he had visited abroad. He was charmed with the likeness. It was something, he said to himself, to find such serenity, such sweet placidity of hfe, possible in the very midst of nineteenth-century England, with all her turmoil and bustle and distraction. He did not dis- cuss with himself the question as to whether the life led 4 LIFE SENTENCE, 57 by the inmates of these retreats was wholesome or agree- able ; it was simply on the aesthetic side that its aspect pleased him. He could fancy himself for a moment in the depths of a foreign land or far back in remote mediaeval times. Could he see the buildings, the church, the school, the orphanage ? Oh, certainly ! Sister Agnes, who had come to him, would be pleased to show him everything. She was very pleasant in manner, and he had no diffi- culty in obtaining from her any amount of information about the institution. It seemed that he had by chance come on a festival day, and every one was making holiday. The children were all out in the fields or the garden ; he could see their schoolrooms and dormitories and refectory. They were all rather bare, exquisitely clean and airy, full of the most recent improvements as regarded educational appliances. " This is the Orphanage building," Sister Agnes explained. " We do not generally show the class-rooms belonging to the other school ; but, as all the ladies are out, you may see them if you like." So Hubert peeped into the rooms occupied by the girl- boarders, who were on a very different footing from the or- phans, and whose surroundings, though simple, were almost elegant in their simplicity. The furniture was of good artistic design, the windows were emblazoned in jewel-like colors, the proportions of the rooms were stately as those of an Oxford college hall. Hubert smiled a little at the picture of West wood's ragged daughter amidst all this magnificence. Last of all he was shown the chapel, the most beautiful building of the place, and on this day in particular largely decorated with the choicest flowers. As they were coming out, a bell began to ring, and pre- sently they met a procession of schoolgirls, all dressed alike in white frocks and broad hats, on their way to some afternoon service of. prayer and praise. Hubert scanned their faces heedfully as they passed by, but he could not find one amongst them that reminded him of the thin little countenance, the gipsy eyes of the convict Westwood's child. He could not resist the temptation to ask a question. " Have you not here," he said, " a girl called Jane Wpod ? " ^4 ■A 1.1 ' i I I?, >■ ■ li 58 A LIFE SENTENCE, Sister Agnes gazed at him in astonishment, and the tears suddenly rushed into her eyes. " Do you know anything of Jane Wood ? " she cried excitedly. " Oh, you ask for her at a very critical time 1 She has been with us four years, and we loved her as our own child ; but she ran away from us two days ago, and we have not seen her since ! " CHAPTER IX. " What do you mean? " said Hubert, starting in his turn. "The girl gone?" Sister Agnes was in tears already. " Let me fetch Sister Louisa or the Reverend Mother to you ? " she cried. " They know ail about it — as far as anybody c^n know anything. You — you are one of her friends, perhaps ? Oh, the dear child — and we loved her so dearly!" Hubert was looking pale and stern. He had stopped short on the gravelled pathway, half-way between the chapel and the entrance to the school. The beauty, the interest of the place was lost upon him at once. He cared only to hear what had become of the child whom he had fondly imagined himself to be benefiting. If she had been unhappy, if she had run away into the wide world on account of ill-treatment by her teachers and fellow-pupils, was he not to blame ? He ought to have come to the place before and made inquiries, not left her fate to the light words of Mrs. Rumbold or some unknown Sister Louisa. He had made himself responsible for her education ; was he not in some sort responsible for her happiness as well ? These questionings made his. face look very dark and grave as he stood once more in the visitors' room, await- ing the arrival of the lady whom Sister Agnes had called Sister Louisa, and whose letters to Mrs. Rumbold he re- membered that he had read. He felt himself prejudiced against her before she arrived ; bat, when he saw her, he was compelled to own that she had a very attractive countenance. The face itself, framed jn its setting of white and black, was long and pale^ bu^ S55? A UFK S^NTEl^CK, 54 beautiful by reason of its sweetness of expression ; the gray eyes were full of tenderness, yet full of grief. There vi'ere mark^ of tears upon her fare — the only one that the visitor hrd seen that was at all dolorous ; and yet, noting her serene brow and gentle lips, Hubert, man of the world as he was, and more ready to cavil and despise than to admire, said to himself that, if any woman could make a young girl love her, surely this woman would not fail ! " You wish," she said, " to ask some questions about our pupil Jane Wood? " " I do indeed. I am very much surprised to hear that she has left you." " May I ask whether you have any authority from our friend Mrs. Rumbold to inquire ? " " Mrs. Rumbold takes her authority from me," said Hu- bert quietly. Then, as the Sister looked at him with a little uncertainty in her mild gray eyes, he felt in his pocket and drew out a pocket-book. " I think I have a letter here from Mrs. Rumbold which will establish my claim to make inquiries. It is a mere chance that I have not destroyed it, but it is here, and will serve as my credentials perhaps." Sister Louisa took the letter from his hand and looked, at it. It was the one which Mrs. Rumbold had written to Mr. Lepel when she had heard of Jane Wood's talent for music and other accomplishments from " the mother of the children " herself. The good Sister smiled sadly as she gave it back. " I see now who you are, Mr. Lepel. You are really this poor child's great friend and helper." " I am acting for my family, of course," said Hubert, a little stiffly. " The girl has naturally no right to expect anything from us ; but we were sorry for her desolate portion." " Yes, poor child — she has a hard lot to bear." If Hubert was stung by this asseveration, he did not show it. " I always heard that she was very happy here," he said. " And so she was — or so she seemed to be," said Sister Louisa, with energy. " She was a great favorite, always at the top of the classes, always full of life and spirit, al- ways bright and engaging. Poor Janie ! To think that she should have left us in this way I " >** •\\ If ' .< \ 6o A LIFE SENTENCE. " Why did she leave you, and how ? " " Mr. Lepel," said the Sister, " if I tell you that our Janie had a fault, you won't think hardly of her or of us ? A girl of fifteen is not often perfect, and we are sometimes obliged to reprove, even to punish, those under our charge ; and yet I assure you there was not a person in the house, woman or child, who did not love poor Janie." " I am to understand, then, that she was under punish- ment?*' Sister Louisa shook her head slightly and sighed. She felt that it was difficult to make this young man of the world understand that girls of fifteen were sometimes exceedingly trying to their elders and superiors ; but she would do her best. " Janie was very affectionate," she said, " but passionate in temper, and obstinate when thwarted. She had a curious amount of pride — much more than one usually finds in so young a girl or one of her extraction. Her high spirits too were a sn^re to her. She was reproved three days ago for laughing aloud in a chapel ; and, as she showed an un- submissive spirit, she was sent into a room alone in order to meditate. Into this room one of our lay Sisters went by accident, not knowing that Jane Wood was there for seclusion, and began to talk to her. This young woman, Martha by name, came from the neighborhood of Beech- field, and happened to mention Mrs. Rumbold." " Ah, I see ! " Hubert exclaimed involuntarily. "Jane questioned her about the place — questioned her particularly, I believe, about a gentleman that she remem- bered. I think, Mr. Lepel, that she must have been think- ing of yourself, according to the description that Martha tells us she gave of him ; but Martha could not tell her your name, which it seems the child did not know. It was natural perhaps that Martha should pass on to the subject of that tragedy at Beechfield — the murder of Mr. Sydney Vane and the fate of the murderer." Sister Louisa paused for a moment — it seemed to her that the young man's dark handsome face had turned exceedingly pale. He was leaning against the wall, close to, the window ; he moved aside a little, as he did not wish her to see his face, and begged her to proceed with her story. She went on. " Martha's tale at this point becomes confuse^ ; either A LIFE SENTENCE, 6i she is not sure of what she said or is reluctant to repeat it. Some slur, some imputation was no doubt thrown upon the name cf Janie's father; and I believe that she thought that Martha knew her story and was insulting her. At any rate, the whole establishment was roused by the sound of screams proceeding from the room. We rushed thither, and found Martha crouching in a corner, shrieking hysteric- ally, and declaring that Miss Wood was going to murder her ; while Janie — poor Janie " " I can imagine it," said Hubert, in a low tone ; while Sister Louisa paused for breath — and perhaps to recover the calmness that she had lost. " Our poor Janie," proceeded the kind-hearted woman, " was like one who had gone mad. She was white as death, her eyes were flaming, her hands clenched ; but i. . that she seemed able to say were the words, ' My father was innocent — innocent — innocent ! ' I should think that she repeated the words a hundred times. Greatly to our sor- row, Mr. Lepel, the whole story then came out. We could not silence either Martha or poor Janie — who, I really think, did not know what she was saying. In spite of our efforts to keep the matter quiet, in a very short time the whole house — Sisters, boarders, servants — all knew Jane Wood's sad history." She noted the rigid lines about Mr. Lepel's mouth as he stepped forward from the window and spoke in a low stem tone. " Was it impossible to prevent ? It seems incredible to me. I hope " — almost savagely — " that yoju have punished for her extraordinary folly the woman who did the mis- chief?" "She has been sent away," said Sister Louisa sadly; ** but her punishment has not mended matters, Mr. Lepel. The excitement in the school was immense — unprece- dented. We felt that it would be incumbent upon us to send Janie away for a time — until the story was to some extent forgotten." " And you told her so ? Women have hearts of stone I " cried Hubert. He forgot that his conduct had not hitherto proved that his own was very soft. " I hope that we were not unkind to her," said Sister Louisa, with gentle dignity. "It was to be for a time only. We wanted her to go down to Leicestershire with t ' ii It A LIFE SEhtTENCR. two of our Sisters for a few weeks ; we thought it advisable that she should have a change. The Reverend Mother herself mentioned the plan to her. I noticed that she changed color very much when it was proposed. She made one of her sharp speeches — quite in her old way, * I see — I am not good enough to associate with the other girls/ she said. We told her that it was no such thing — that we loved her as much as ever — that it was only for her own good that she was to leave St. Elizabeth's for a time ; but I am afraid that it was all of no avail. She listened to what we said with a face of stone. And in the morning — in the morning, Mr. Lepel, we found that she was gone." " Gone ! Without tho knowledge of any of you ? " " Entirely. She must have stolen out in the middle of the night when every one was asleep. It is a wonder that no one heard her ; but she is very light-footed and very nimble. She must have climbed the garden fence. She had left a folded piece of paper on her bed — it was a note for me." * " May I see It ? " said Hubert eagerly. Sister Louisa drew it from among the folds of her long black robes. He turned away from her while he read the few blurred hastily-written lines in which Janie said good bye to the woman whom she had loved. He did not want Sister Louisa to see his face. He was more touched by her story than he liked to show. "Dearest Mother Louisa," Janie had written, in her unformed girHsh hand — " Don't be more angry and grieved than you can help ! If they had all been like you, I would have stayed. But every one will despise me now. I shall go to some place where nobody knows me, and earn my own living. Please forgive me ! I do love you and St. Elizabeth's very much ; but I must go a.vay — I must ! I can't bear to stay now that everybody knows all about me. I shall change my name, so you need not look for me." The letter was simply signed " Janie " — nothing more. Hubert handed it back to its owner with a grave word of thanks. " How is it," he said, " that I did not hear of her leaving you before I came to Winstead ? Mrs. Rumbold is sup- posed to give me information of anything of importance respecting the girl. I have not had a word from her." " Nor have we, although we wrote and telegraphed at A LIFE SENTENCE. once. I am afraid that she is away from home. We did not know your address, or that you were interested in her." " Of course not. I kept that matter to myself," said Hubert gloomily. " It seems that it was foolish of me to do so. May I ask what steps you have taken to discover the poor child ? " The Sisters, he found, had not been remiss in their endeavors. They had placed themselves in communica- tion with a London detective ; they had consulted the local police ; they had made inquiries at railway stations and roadside inns. But as yet they had heard nothing of the fugitive. The girl was strong and active, a good walker and runner ; it seemed pretty evident that she had not gone by train or by ordinary roads. She must have plunged into the fields and iaken a cross-country route in some direction. Probably she had gone to London ; and in London she was tolerably safe from pursuit. " Had she money ? " Hubert asked of Sister Louisa. "Not a penny." " She will be driven back to you by hunger." " I am afraid not. She was too proud to return to us of her own free will." " Is she good-looking? " "• No, I think not," said the Sister, a little doubtfully. " She was tall for her age, thin and unformed ; she had a brown skin and hair cut short like a boy's. Her eyes were beautiful — large and dark ; but she was too pale and awkward-looking to be pretty. When she had a color — oh, then it was a different matter ! " Hubert took away with him a full description of Jane Wood's clothes and probable appearance, and on reaching London went straight to the office of a private detective. To this man he told as much of Jane's story as was necessary, and declared himself ready to spend any reason- able amount of money so long as there was a possibility of finding the lost girl. The detective was not very hopeful of success ; the runaway ha1 already had two days' start — enough for a complete change of identity. Probably she had put on boy's clothes and was lurking about the streets of London. " But she had no money ! " Hubert urged. " She'll get some soniehow," the detective answere4 quietly. '1 ; : 6 1 ( 1 n 64 A LIFE SENTENCE, For some days and weeks Hubert lived in a fever of suspense. He had set his heart on finding the girl and sending her back to St. Elizabeth's — or elsewhere. Some kind of home must be secured to her. For the sake of his own peace of mind, he must know that she was safe. He could not forgive Mrs. Rumbold for having been absent in Switzerland when Sister Louisa wrote to her of Jane Wood's flight, and thus being unable to inform him of it imme- diately. He had an unreasonable conviction that, if he had known at once of Janie's disappearance, he would have succeeded in tracking her. But for this opinion he really had no ground at all. So days and weeks and months went on, and brought with them the conviction that the girl was lost for ever. Nothing was heard of her either at Winstead or at Beech- field, and Hubert Lepel was obliged at last to acknowledge that all his efforts had been in vain. The girl refused to be benefited any longer ; the wild blood in her veins had asserted itself; she was probably leading the outcast life from whicii he thought that he had rescued her ; she had gone down on the tide of poverty and vice and crime which floods the London streets. He shuddered sometimes when he thought of it. He haunted the doors of theatres, the courts and alleys of East London, looking sombrely for a face which he would not have known if he had seen it. He fancied that Andrew Westwood's daughter would bear her history in her eyes — the great dark eyes that he remembered as her sole beauty when she was a child. It was a mad fancy, born of his desire to atone for a wrong that he had done to an innocent man. The wrong seemed greater than ever when it darkened the life of a weak young girl and tortured the heart of the innocent man's own child. CHAPTEI^ X. Eight years fead passed away since the tragedy that brought the little village of Beechfield into luckless notor- iety. During those eight years what changes had taken place ! Even at quiet rustic BeechfieLi many things had come to pass. Qld Mr, Rumbold ha(3 been gathered tp A LIFE SENTENCE, «s his fathers, and Mrs. Rumbold had gone to live with friends in London. The new Rector was young, energetic, good- looking, and unmarried. At the Hall there were changes too. Enid Vane had grown from a delicate child into a lovely girl of seventeen. The house was no longer chill and desolate — brightness seemed to have come back to it with her growth — a brightness which even the General, saddened as he had been by his brother's death, could not resist. He had taken his own way of contributing to the cheerfulness of the Hall. Six months after Mrs. Sydney Vane's death he had married P'lorence Lepel, as Miss Vane had predicted that he would, and a little boy of five years old was now running about the Hall gardens and calling the General "father.'-' The old man positively adored this liUle lad, and believed him to be perfection. He was fond of Enid and of his wife, but he doated on the child. He seemed indeed to love him more than did the mother of the boy. Florence Lepel was not perhaps of a very loving disposition, but it was remarkable that she apparently almost disliked little Dick. She never petted or fondled the child — sometimes she rebuked him very angrily. And yet he was docile, sweet-tempered, and quick-witted, though not particularly handsome ; but Flor- ence had never liked children, and she made her own son no exception to the rule. Eight years had changed Florence very little in outwaid appearance. She was still pale, slender, graceful — languid in manner, slow iii speech, and given to the reading of French novels. But there were dark shades beneath her velvety brown eyes, as if she suffered from ill-health. She had taken to lying on a sofa a great deal ; she did not visit much, and she seldom allowed any festivity at the Ha''. She remained in her boudoir for the greater part of the day, with the rose-colored blinds down, and the doors carefully closed and curtained to exclude any sound of the outer world ; and while she was up-stairs the General and his niece Enid and the boy had the house to themselves,- and enjoyed their liberty extremely. In the afternoon Mrs. Vane would be found in her drawing-room, ready for visitors ; but she generally returned to her boudoir for a rest before dinner, and steadily set her face against late hours in the evening. Nobody knew what was the matter with her ^ some people spoke vaguely of her " nerves," 3 i !.- !i I t ; 66 A LIFE SENTENCE, of the extreme delicacy and sensitiveness o!* her organi- sation — some said that Beechiield did not suit he^, and others whispered that she had never been "quite right" since her baby was born. At any rate, she was a semi* invalid ; and she did not seem to know what was the mat- ter V *th her any more than did other people. She sat in her luxurious lounging-chair, or lay on the softest of sofas, day after day without complaint, always pale, silent, grace- ful — an habitual smile, sweet and weary, upon her pinched lips, but no smile in her eyes, where a fire sometimes glowed which seemed to be burning her very life away. One balmy September afternoon she had established herself rather earlier than usual in the drawing-room. A bright little fire burned in the polished steel grate — for Florence was always chilly — but the windows were open .■ a faint breeze from the terrace swept into the room and moved the lace curtains gently to and fro. The blinds were half drawn down, so that the room was not very light ; the shadowed perfumed atmosphere was grateful after the brightness of the autumn afternoon. Florence Vane sat in a low arm-chair near the fire. She had a small table beside her, on which stood her dainLy work-basket, half full of colored silks, her embroidery patterns, a novel, a gold vinaigrette, and a French fan. She had cushions at her back, a footstool for her feet, a soft white shawl on her shoulders. It was very plain that she liked to make herself comfortable. She wore a gown of pale blue silk embroidered in silver — a most artistic garment, which suited her to perfection, and which was as soft and luxurious as the rest of her surroundings. The white cat which lay curled up on the rug at her feet could not have looked more at her ease. In a chair oppo«>ite to her sat a man of rather more than thirty, who lookm :tl) )'<>• i L J r 1 4 ■ '> yo A L/FJS SE^TEhrCE. encouragement. He should have remembered that her I guilt wa,s surely not greater than his own. Softened by these thoughts, he bent down to place his hand on her shoulder and to kiss her forehead. " My poor Flossy," he said, using the old pet name as he had used it for many weary years, " you must not grieve now! Forget the past — we can but leave it to Heaven. There is nothing — absolutely nothing now — that we can do." " No," she said, letting he' hands fall upon her lap and wearily submitting to his kiss — " nothing for you — nothing at all for you — now." There was a deep meani^ag in her words to which he had not the slightest clue. CHAPTER XI. Hubert Lepel had accepted his sister's invitation to Beechfield Hall for two nights only ; but, as he had given her to understand, he was quite ready to come again, sup- posing of course that she made his visit agreeable to him. So far-— an hour and a half after his first arrival — it had not been very agreeable. He hai been obliged to allude to a matter which was highly unpleasant to him, and he had had to stand by while his sister burst into quite un- necessary and incomprehensible tears. He was not so soft- hearted a man as he had been eight years ago, and he told himself impatiently that he could rot stand mixh more of this kind of thing. For the last three years he had been, as Florence had said, almost always out of England. When his search for Jane Wood proved a failure, he had taken a strong c^slike for a time to London life and London ways. He had been making money by his literary work, and was well able to afford himself a little recreation. He went to Egypt therefore, and to India, took a look at China and Japan, and came home by way of South America. He did not care to go too much in beaten tracks ; and during his absence he wrote a book or two which were fairly success- ful, and a play which made a great sensation. He had come back to London now, and was at work upon another A LIFE SENTENCE, n play, on which great hopes had been founded. If it were as successful as the first, there was every likelihood of his becoming a rich man. He had got his head fairly above water, and meant to keep it there ; he conceived that he had brooded too long over the past. He had seen little Dick Vane when he first arrived, and he had spent nearly two hours with Florence ; but he had not yet encountered the General or the General's niece and adopted daughter, Enid Vane. The two had gone out riding, and did not return until after five o'clock. " Just in time for tea ! " said the General, in a tone of profound satisfaction. " 1 thought that we were later. And how do you ^nd yourself, Hubert, my dear boy? Why, I declare I shouldn't have known you ! Should vou. Enid ? He is as brown as a Hindoo." "Would you have known me?" said Hubert^ with a smile at the girl who had followed her uncle into the room, and now gave him her hand by way of greeting. The smile was forced in order to conceal a momentary twitch of his features, which he could not quite control at the first sight of Sydney Vane's daughter ; but it looked natural enough. The girl raised her eyes to his face with a shy sweet smile. " I am afraid that I don': remember very well," she said ; and Hubert thought that he had never seen any- thing much prettier than her smile. She was seventeen, and looked so fair, so delicate, in her almost childish loveliness of outline and expression,, that Florence's white skin became haggard and hard in compari- son. Her slight figure was displayed to full advantage by a well-made riding-habit, and under her correct little high hat her golden hair shone like sunshine. There was a soft color in her cheeks, a freshness on her smiling lips, that made the observer long to kiss them, as if they be- longed to some simple child. Her manner too was almost that of a child — frank, naive, direct, and unem- barrassed ; but in her eyes there lurked a shadow which contradicted the innocent simplicity of her expressive countenance. It was not a shadow of evil, but of sad- ness, of a subdued melancholy— the sadness of a girl whose life had been darkened in early life by some un- deserved calamity. It was a look that redeemed Jier fq,c^ W !? ; ; JiT! I.',' !:: ■ .. . i I ■^ A I ■ f. it n n I! 7« A LIFE SENTENCE, from the charge of inanimateness that might otherwise have been brought against it, and gave it that faintly sombre touch which was especially fascinating to a man like Hubert Lepel. He continued to talk to the General, who had questions to ask him concerning his travels and his friends ; but his eyes followed the movements of the girl as she stepped quietly about the room, pouring out tea for one, carrying cake and biscuits to another. Twice he sprang up to assist her, but was met with a smile and a shake of the head from her, and the assurance from her uncle that Enid liked waiting on people — he need not try to take her vocation from her. He had to sit down again, and thought, half against his will, of that other Enid — Tenny- son's Eftid, in her faded gown — and of Prince Geraint's desire to kiss the dainty thumb " that crossed the trencher as she set it down." He at least was no Geraint, he said to himself, to win this gentle maiden's heart. But he watched her nevertheless, with a growing admiration which was not a little dangerous. With a faint cynical smile Florence noted the direction of his eyes. As soon as her husband and his niece entered the room, she had lapsed into the graceful indolent silence which seemed habitual to her. Enid brought her a cup of tea, and ministered to her wants with assiduity and gentle- ness of manner, though, as Hubert thought, with no great show of affection ; and Florence accepted the girl's atten- tions with perfect equanimity and a caressing v/ord or two of thanks. And yet Hubert fancied — he knew not why — that there was no look of love in Flossy's drooping eyes. " Please may I come in ? " said Master Dick's small treble at the door. He was a fair, blue-eyed little fellow, but not much like either his father or his mother, thought Hubert, as the child stood in the doorway and looked rather doubtfully into the room. Florence's brow contracted for a moment. " Why are you not having your nursery-tea ? " she said. "We do not want you here unless we send for you." " I want to see uncle Hubert," persisted the boy stolidly. . Hubert held out his hand lo him with a smile that chil- dren still found winning. "Come in, little man," he said. " I want to see you IPO," A LIFE SENTENCE, 1% Dick marched in at once, still, however, keeping an eye fixed upon his mother. There was something almost like fear in the look ; and it was noticeable that neither the General nor Enid spoke to invite him into the room. " You may come in," Florence said at last, very coldly — almost as one might speak to a grown person whom one had strong reason to dislike — "but you cannot stay more than five minutes. You are not wanted here." " Oh, come, I think we all want him ! " said Hubert good-humoredly. " I wish to make my nephew's acquaint- ance, at any rate. I have something for him in my port- manteau up-stairs." Florence made a sudden and, as it seemed, involuntary gesture, and knocked down a vase of flowers on the table at her right hand. There was some confusion in conse- quence, as the flowers had to be gathered up and the ^'ragments of the broken vase collected, so that Hubert had little opportunity of talking to his nephew. And, as soon as " the fuss," as he mentally called it, was over, Mrs. Vane said, in her coldest, slowest voice — " Now, Dick, you may go to the nurserv. Say good- night." "Good-night?" questioned Hubert. 'Why, he does not go to bed at this hour in the afternoon, does he ? " " He goes at half-past six or seven," replied Florence. " Pray do not interfere with nursery regulations, my dear Hubert." " I shall see more of him to-morrow, I suppose," said Hubert, smiling at the child's wistful face as he went from one to another to say good-night. Little Dick's eyes lit up at once, but the light in them died out when, on tip-toe, as if afraid of disturbing her, he approached his mother. Hubert thought that there was a touch of something odd in the manner of everyone pre- sent, and was glad to see that Enid's kisses and whisperec^ words of endearment brought a flush of pleasure to tl»6 child's delicate cheeks before he turned away. The General then took possession of the visitor and marched him off to look at the stables. The old man had recovered all his old cheeriness and heartiness of manner ; there was a little more feebleness in his gait than there used to be, and he walked with a stick, but Hubert was pleased to see that his eyes were bright, and to find him '■■Ir ."A ' ; t 'I i: H - i f. H A LIPE SENTEKCB, loquaciously inclined. The shock of Sydney's death had not seriously affected him, and Hubert was conscious of a thrill of relief at the sight of his evident health and happiness. Considering that Mr. Lepel believed himself to have closed his heart against the past, he was singu- larly open to attacks of painful memory. He was annoyed by his own readiness to be hurt, and almost wished that he had not come to Beechfield. 7ie saw neither of the ladies again till dinner time, when he thought that Enid looked even lovelier in her simple vhite frock than in her riding-habit. He observed her a good deal at dinner, and made up his mind that she was the . ^ry model of an ideal heroine — sweet, gentle, pure- minded, intelligent — all that a fresh young English girl should be. The type did not attract him greatly ; but it was just as well to study so perfect a specimen when he had one at hand ; he wanted to introduce a girl of this sort into his next novel, and he preferred portraiture to mere invention. He would keep the novel in mind when he talked to her ; it would perhaps prevent any dwelling on unpleasant suj)jects — for, oh, how like the girl's eyes were to those of her dear father ! So he sat by the piano after dinner while Enid played dreamy melodies, that soothed the General into slumber, and then he persuaded her to walk with him in the moon- light on the terrace, and talked to her of his strange adventures in foreign lands until the child thought that she had never heard anything half so wonderful before. And, as they passed and repassed the windows, they were watched by Florence Vane with eyes that gleamed beneath her heavy eyelids, with the narrow intentness of the emerald orbs belonging to her favorite white cat. She had never looked more as if she were silently following some malevolent design, than when she watched the couple on the terrace on that moonlit night. Enid very quickly made friends with Mr. Lepel — so quickly indeed that she was led to confide some of her most private opinions to him before he had been much more than twenty-four hours at Beechfield Hall. It was anent little Dick and his mother that the first confidence took place. The whole party had been having tea under the great beech'tree on the lawn, and after a time Enid and Hubert A LIFE SENTENCE, n were left alone by the others. They chatted gaily to- gether, he answering her eager questions about London and Paris and Berlin, she catechising him with an eager- ness which amused and interested him. Presently they saw Dick running towards them across the lawn. A white figure at one of the windows on the terrace, a call to the boy, and Dick's wild career was arrested. He stood still for a moment, then turned slowly towards the house, breaking into a childish wail of grief as he did so. Hubert stopped short in the sentence that he was addressing to his young cousin, and looked after the boy. " What is the matter with the poor little chap ? " he asked." Enid's eyes were fixed anxiously up ii the window where the white figure had appeared " Florence called him," she said n . very small voice. " And why should the fact of his ). other's calling him make him cry ? " "Florence thinks it best to be : .ct," said Enid, still with unnatural firmness of manner. " He is running away from his nurse now, I know ; and I suppose he will be sent to bed directly after tea for doing so — as he was yesterday." " Was he ? Poor little beggar 1 Was that the reason why he looked so miserable* and you were all so solemn ? What had he done ? " " He came into the drawing-room without permission. He was let off very easily because you were there, but I have known his mother punish him severely for doing so." " But, good heavens," said Hubert, rising from his seat, and leaning against the trunk of the beech-tree, while he looked down at Enid with an expression of utter per- plexity, "why on earth should the child have so little freedom ; and why should FloRcnce be so hard on him ? She must be altered ! She was never fond of children, but she was too indolent to be severe. Was not that your experience of her when you were a child ? " " Yes," said Enid, but too hesitatingly to give Hubert all the assurance that he wished for — " yes ; she did not take much trouble about what I did. It is different with her own child." " Surely she loves her own child better than she loved other children — better even than you | " saio sorry Hubert I have " said med to nember He withdrew his nand and walked away somewhat abruptly, without once looking round. Enid remained where he had left her, pale with cmofion, overpowered by a feeling that wa.^ neither joy nor fear, but which partook of both. . CHAPTER XII, Hubert felt that he had been betrayed Into displaying an excess of emotion very foreign to the character of the cynic and the worldling which he was desirous to assume. Circumstances, he told himself, had been too strong for him. Even at the price of not making a study for a novel of poor little Enid's personality — and how could he ever seriously have thought of such a thing ? — he must not risk close intercourse «^ith her. Her innocent allusions to the past, her guileless confidence in himself, wrung his heart with shame and dismay. When he left her, he wandered away to the other side of the sheet of water in front of the house, until he came to a small fir plantation on the side of the hill which rose from the water's edge. He had not been there for years, and yet he had not for- gotten a single turning in the narrow pathway that ran deviously between the fir-tree shrubs ; the memory of the little open glade in the centre of the tiny wood had never lost its terrible distinctness. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could see every detail of the scene, every branch of the fir-trees against the darkening sky, every rise or depression in the mossy ground. The very scent of the woods gave him a sickening sensation ; the crunch of a broken twig made him turn pale with the horror of a quick remembrance. For it was in the fir-wood that Syd- ney Vane had been found murdered — it was in the fir-wood that Hubert Lepel had first felt that his hand was red with his cousin's blood. He had not at first felt all the horror of his deed. He told himself again and again that he had been justified in what he did. He had punished a man for a base and craven act ; he had challenged him and met him in fair fight. By all the laws of honor he considered himself jus- tified. It was better that Marion Vane's heart should bQ \.m, H l=i-l 1 . ;■ . 1 / V ' i' X 1 i ' -iMf. '. ■* % 'A ■ ; ■ ... * ■ "iii ; ' II -a; "Ij ,) ' : ' ' w ■ ' i ' ■<■ ;HH '• > \ w\ \ frlfl Im :■'%>■ mm ^';;M «ni K\,-: ' 1 ■ ' ' , t * ' M II <^H1 r"i ^ !;.K i B '. ' ■' n 1 . ' «► '/' ' - ' ■ ; J ■ , ■\ ' ': I' '■ < '#■ I ! ; « 1 . ; ! : ^ '■ : : « 1 ■ I 1 .1 ' . ." OH ■■ •; • .1 • ( .'.' 1 ': 1 ; i H '. i^'n fa. ? i Il I ! 1 3- fe ; • D 1 :^A 7S A LIFE SENTENCE, broken by her husband's death than by the news th^t he had deserted her. It was better that Knid should think of her father as a saint and maftyr, than as a profligate whose hand no honest man or woman would care to hold. Hubert Lepel sternly told himself that he had done good and not evil in ridding the earth of a thoroughly bad man like Sydney Vane. If he might have avowed the deed and its motive, he felt that he could almost have gloried in it ; but how to confess what he had dune ? At the first moment of all he had refrained, in terrible fear of implicating Florence, not knowing how far she would be mistress of herself; then, when he saw that she was well able to defend her own reputation and that he might confess the truth without bringing in her name at all — why, then he hesitated, and found that his courage had deserted him. Florence entreated him to conceal his act. He remem- bered that Sydney Vane had almost forced him to use weapons — a course which Hubert himself would never have suggested ;,and it was fatally easy to let things take their course. He hoped, in his youthful ignorance of the laws of circumstantial evidence, that the jury would bring in a verdict of suicide. When this hope was destroyed, he still thought that the matter would be left a mystery — so many mysteries were never cleared up at all ! He did not think that any one else could possibly be suspected. He was horrified when suspicion fell upon Andrew West- wood, a poacher who had been vowing vengeance on Syd- ney Vane for the past three months. To the very end of the trial he hoped that Westwood would be acquitted. When he had been condemned, Hubert vowed to himself that at any rate no man should suffer death in his place. If no reprieve could be obtained, no commutation of the sentence, he would speak out and set Andrew Westwood free. The message of mercy came only just in time. He was on the very point of delivering himself up to justice when news arrived that Westwood's death sentence had been commuted to one of imprisonment for life. Did that make things any better? Hubert thought that it did. And his heart failed him — he could not bear the thought of public disgrace, condemnation, punishment. He knew himself to be a coward and a villain, and yet he could not bring himself to tell the truth. When Miss Vane accused him of heartlessness because he A UfF. SENfENCB. » explained his pallor by saying that he had spent the previ- ous evening with friends, he was in reality suffering from the depression consequent on several nights of sleepless agony of mind. He was not silent for his own sake alone. He was afraid of implicating Flossy, the woman to whom Sydney Vane had proposed love, and aboi»twhomhe had quarrelled with her brother. It was Flossy's share in t|ie matter that sealed his lips ; and from the moment of his conversation with Florence at the library window his mind was made up. He had gone too far to draw back — Andrew Westwood must bear his fate. Lifelong inrprison-' ment scarcely seemed more terrible to Hubert Lepel just then than the nfe sentence of remorse which he had brought on his own head. Since those days his heart had grown harder. He had resolved to forget — to fight down the secret consciousness of guilt which pursued him night and day — to live his own life, in spite of the haunting sense that he had sacrificed all that was good and noble in himself, all that really made life worth having. He was striving hard, as he said to Florence, to cast the past behind him, to live as if he were what he had been before he bore about with him the shadow of a crime. But, in the very first endeavor which Hubert Lepel made to act as if the past were done away with, he was brought face to face with it again, and made to feel as he had seldom felt before, that he had wronged not only those who were dead, but those who were living — for he had let Florence become the wife of a man, the mother of a child, whom she did not love, and he had left the girl whom his own hand had made fatherless to Florence's care. As to West- wood's child, she was in a worse case than Enid Vane, for she, was not only orphaned but homeless pernaps, and lost to all that was good and pure. He thought of this as he stood in the fir-wood, sur- /eying the scene where the suddenly-improvised duel had taken place ; and, as the memory of it greAv uuon him, he cast himself down on the mossy ground aiid sobbed aloud. He had not shed a tear for years, and such as came now were few and painful and bitter as gall ; but they w(/uid not be repressed. It was strange, even to himself, that he should be so beaten down by a little thing — a child's simple words about her mother, a moment's loneliness in the wood .1 I : J ' ■\ i I 1 ■ f i I r U ' n i i i- - „: i Hi I i 1 :■ ! ::i So A LIFE SENTENCE. where her father had met his death. The world would not have recognised him, the cold, subtle, polished, keen- witted ildneur, the witty man of letters, critic, traveller, playwright, novelist, all in one, in that crushed f gurc beneath the firs, with head bowed down, hands clutched in agony, muscular frame shaken by ♦he violence of con- vulsive sobs. The convicted sinner, the penitent, had nothing in common with Hubert Lepel, as known to the world at large. Presently he came to himself a little and sat up, with his hands clasped round his knees. Some strange thoughts visited him in those quiet moments. What if he gave up the attempt to brave life out ? What if he acknowledged the truth and cleared poor Westwood's name ? England would ring from end to end with horror at his baseness. What of that if, by confessing, he could lay to rest the terrors that at time took a hold of his guilty soul — terrors, not of death, nor of what comes after death — terrors of life and of the doom of baseness reserved for the soul that will be base, the gradual declension of heart and mind for the man who said, " Evil be thou my good? " He was not one who could bear as yet to think of moral death witho^U a shiver. He had fallen, he had sinned; but, for his misery and his pimishment, his soul was not yet dead. What then if he should give himself up to justice after all ? It seemed to him, in that moment of solitude, that only by so doing could he regain the freedom of mind, the peace of conscience which he had now forfeited, perhaps for ever- more. He sat thinking of the possibilities of life opening owt before him, and decided that he could give them up with- out a pang. But there were persons to be thought of beside himself. To his relatives, to the relatives of the murdered man, the discovery of the truth would be a ter- rible shock. There wa.3 no person — except that massing girl, of whom he dared scarcely think — who could benefit by the clearing of Andrew Westwood's name. The only gain that would accrue from his confession would be, he considered, a subjective gain to himself. Abstract justice would be done, no doubt, and Westwood's character would be cleared ; but that was all. He ought to have spoken earlier if he meant to do good by speaking. Confession, he said to himself would be self-indulgence now. A LIFE SENTENCE. %\ Hubert Lepcl was wonderfully well versed in subtle turns of argument — in casuistry of the abslruser kind. It was long since he had looked truth full in the face or drawn a sharp boundary-line between right and wrong. Not easy to him was it to get back from the varying lights and shadows of self-deception to the radiant sunshine of truth. With bitter remorse in his heart and a strangely passionate wish to do — now at least — the right, he yet decided to bear the burden of silence until his dying day — to say no word, to do no act, that should ever revive in others' minds the memory of the Beechfield tragedy. He was not naturally callous, and he knew that concealment of the truth would be, as it had always been, an oppression, a weary weight upon him ; but he had made up his mind that it must be so. " Moralists tell us never to do evil that good may come," he murmured to himself, with head bov.'-ed upon his knees ; " but surely in this case, when it is not — not altogether my own good that I seek, a little evil may be pardoned, a little wrong condoned ! Heaven forgive me ! If I have sinned, I think that I have suffered too ! " He lifted up his head at last, and saw the red light of sunset burning between the upright stems of the fir-trees, stealing with strange crimson tints amongst the yellowing bracken and umber drift of pine-needles, scarcely touch- ing, however, the black shades of the foliage overhead. With a sudden shiver Hubert rose to his feet. It seemed to him that the red light looked like blood. He turned hastily to go ; he had lingered too long, had excited his own emotions too keenly. He resolved that he would never visit the lonely fir-wood again. He wondered why it had stood so long. If he had been the General, he would have had the trees hewn down after the trial, and done away with every memento of the place. When he escaped from the shadow of the wood, and saw the red sun setting behind the hills, sending long level beams over the tranquil meadows, and bathing field and grove and highway-road alike in ruddy golden light, he drew a long breath of relief. And yet he felt that he was not quite the same man that had entered the wood an hour before. The foundations of his soul had been shaken ; he had made a resolve ; he looked at life from a new stand- point. The half-defiant determination to make the best of the future which he had announced to his sister was ih Is A LIPE JSE^TTENCE. purged of its defiance. He would make the best of his future — yes. But for this purpose he would injure no man or woman henceforward ; he would work with less selfishness of aim — for the good or the world at large as well as for himself. Something seemed broken in him by that lonely hour in the wood — some hardness, some cold- ness of temper was swept away. To him perhaps Tenny- son's words respecting Lancelot were applicable still — - ** So groaned Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, Not knowing he should die a holy man.". Far enough from anything like holiness was Hubert Lepel, but a nobler life was possible to him yet. Florence commented that evening on his pale and wearied countenance, but he smiled at her questions, and would not allow that anything ailed him. He sat by her side for the greater part of the evening. It was as well, he thought, to be chary of Enid's companionship. She was so sweet, so frank, that she beguiled him into im- prudent frankness in return. He would not sit beside her at the piano therefore, or walk with her upon the terrace, although she looked prettier than ever, with a new wistful light in her blue eyes, a rose-flush upon her delicate cheeks. He knew that she was disappointed when he did not come ; no mattei — the child must not look on him as anything but a casual acquaintance who had spoken a few rash words of compliment which it were idle to take too seri- ously ; and he would stay with Florence. " Enid looks well to-night," said his sister, in her soft careless tones. " She is a pretty little thing when in good health." "Is she delicate?" Hubert asked, in some surprise. " She has nervous attacks ; she has had them at inter- vals ever since she was nine years old." Nine years old — the date of her father's death ! — as Hubert knew. *' At first we thought they were of an epileptic kind ; but the doctors say that they are purely nervous, and will cease when she is older and stronger." Hubert inquired no further. The subject was disagree- able to him, inasmuch as it connected Enid's health with her parent's fate and his sister's disastrous influence upon the family. It was always a matter of keen regret to him that he had not been able to hinder Florence's marriage, ■)?»• A LIFE SENTENCE, 83 which she had prudently made a matter of secrecy until it was too late for the General's friends to interfere. Her calm appropriation of the position which she had secured, and, above all, the pseudo-maternal way in which she spoke of Enid, irritated Hubert almost beyond endurance. He went back to London on the following day, promis- ing to return to Beechfield Hall before long. For some reason or other he felt eager to get away — the air of the place seemed to excite his sensibilities unduly, he told him- self. It struck him afterwards that Enid looked very pale and downcast when she bade him good-bye. He took his leave of her hurriedly, feeling as if he did not like to look her full in the face. He was afraid, that if he looked, he would be only too sure of what he guessed — that her eyes were full of tears. He was almost glad that a, speedy return to London was incumbent upon him. He had next day to superintend the rehearsal of his new play, which was shortly to be produced at one of the smaller theatres ; and as soon as he reached his apartments he was immersed in business of every kind. The next morning's rehearsal was followed by luncheon with friends, and attendance at a matinee given for the benefit of the widow and children of an actor — a perform- ance at which Hubert thought it well to be present, although he invariably bemoaned the loss of time. The piece was not over until six o'clock, and he amused him- self afterwards by going behind the scenes, and chatting with some of his acquaintances among actors, actresses, managers, and critics. Thus it was nearly seven before he issued from the theatre, in a street off the Strand, and the day was already drawing to a close. The lamps were lighted and a fog was gathering, through which their beams assumed a yellow and unnatural intensity. Hubert stood on the edge of the pavement, leisurelv drawing on his gloves and looking out for a hansom, contrasting mean- while the glories of the Strand with those of the autumn woods in Hampshire, when his attention was arrested by the sound of a woman's voice. " If you please, Mr. Lepel, may I speak to you?" He turned round hastily, and, after a mon^ent's hesita- tion, recognised the girl who had addressed him as a young actress whom he had lately come to know. She iiad been playing a very small part in the comedy which \ 1 11 'fil , 1 , . PI 84 A LIFE SENTENCE, m fm ft II' m he had just seen. He vaguely remembered having heard her name — she was known on the bills as Miss Cynthia West. CHAPTER Xni. Hubert raised his hat courteously. *' Good evening, Miss West. Of course you may speak to me ! " he said. " Can I do anything for you ? " *' Yes," answ'^'red the £^irl with a quickness which sounded abrupt, but which, as could easily be seen, was born of shyness and not of incivility. " You can get me an engagement if you like, Mr. Lepel ; and I wish you would." Hubert laughed, not thinking that she was in earnest, and surveyed her critically. " You will not have much difficulty in getting one for yourself, I should think," he said. Miss West colored and drew back rather haughtily. It was evident that she did not like remarks of a personal bearing, although Mr. Lepei had spoken only as he would have thought himself licensed to speak to girls of her pro- fession, who ^.; !?:eiierally open to such compliments — and indeed she rsis n, t very likely to escape compliments. As he looked ai icer in the light of the gas-lamps before the theatre, Hubert Lepel became gradually aware that there stood before him one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She was tall — nearly as tall as himself — but so finely pro- * portioned that she gave the impression of less height than she really possessed. Every movement of her hthe limbs was full of grace ; she was slender without being thin, and lissom as an untrained beautiful creature of the woods. In afterdays, when Hubert knew her better, he used to compare her to a young panther for grace and freedom of motion. It was a pleasure to watch her walk, although het step was longer and freer than to Enid Vane's teachers would have seemed desirable. Her features were perfectly cut j the broad forehead, the straight nose, the curved lips A LIFE SENTENCE. 8^ and slightly-puckered chin were of the type recognised as purely Greek, and the complexion and eyes accompanying these features were rich in the coloring that glows upon the canvases of Murillo and Velasquez. The skin was of a creamy brown, heightened by a carmine tint in the oval cheeks ; the eyes were large, dark, and lustrous, with long black lashes and well-defined black brows. It seemqd somehow to Hubert as if those eyes were familiar to him, but he could not recollect how or why. For the rest. Miss Cynthia West was a very well-dressed, stylish-looking young woman, neither fast nor shabby in her mode of attire ; and the things that she wore served — intentionally or not — to set off her good looks to the best advantage. Hubert had seen her several times off and on the stage dur- ing the past few weeks since his return to England; she took none but minor parts, but was so remarkably handsome that she had begun to attract remark. He was a little surprised by her speech to him, and hardly thought she could be in earnest. In fact, he suspected her of a mere desire to attract his attention. " I thought you were at the Frivolity ? " he said. " I have left the Frivolity," she answered abruptly. "This afternoon's engagement is the only one I have- had for a fortnight ; and I have nothing in prospect." He gave her a keener look, and in spite of her brave bearing and her dainty clothes, he thought he perc:ived a slight pinching of the delicate features, a dark :•:' ide be- neath the eyes which — if he remembered rightly — hti.i not been there two months before. W it possible thut the girl was really in want ? Could h put his hand into his pocket and offer her money? He might make the attempt at any rate. " Can I be of any use to you — m this way ? " he began, inserting two fingers into his w'stcoat-pocket in a suffici- ently significant manner. He was aware of his mistake the next moment. An in- dignant flush spread over the girl's whole face ; her eyes expressed such hurt surprise that Mr. Lepel felt rather ashamed of his suggestion. " I did not ask you for money," said Miss West ; " J. asked \^ you could get me some ' ing to do." Then she turned away with a gesture which Hubert took for one of mere petulance, though the feeling that actuated it border- ..; ■'•i.^'ii ;| ! y> 8& A LIFE SENTENCE, ed more nearly on despair. "Oh," she said with a quick nervous irritation audible in her tone, " I thought that you would understand ! " — and her beautiful dark eyes swam in tears. They were still standing on the pavement, and at that moment two or three passers-by shouldered Hubert some- what roughly, and stared at the girl to whom he was speak- ing. Hubert placed himself at her side. " Come," he said — " Walk on a few paces with me, and make me understand what you want when we get to a quieter spot." She bowed her head ; it was evident that if she had spoken the tears would have fallen from her eyes. Hubert turned up the comparatively dark and quiet street in which stood the theatre that he had just visited ; but for a few minutes he did not speak. At last he said in the soothing voice which was sometimes thought to be his greatest charm — " Now will you make me understand ? I beg your par- don for having offended you by my offer of help ; I meant it in all kindness. You have not an engagement just now, you say ? " " It is not easy to get one," said the girl, with a quiver in her proud young voice. " It is not a good time, you know. I had two of three offers of engagements with provincial companies this autumn, but I refused them all because I had this one at the Frivolity. They were to give me two pounds a week ; and it was considered a very good engagement. Besides, it was a London engagement, which I thought it better to take while I had the chance. But I have lost il now, and I don't know what to do." " You know the first question one naturally feels inclin- ed to put to you. Miss West, is, why did you leave the ..frivolity ? " '* I can't tell you the real reason," said the girl sharply. The color in her face seemed now to be concentrated in two fiaming spots in her cheeks ; her mouth was set, and her brow contracted over the brilliant eyes. " I quarrelled with rhe manager — that was all." " Let me see — the manager is Ferguson, is he not ? I know him." " But ne is not a friend of yours ? " said Zlynthia, turn- ing towards him with a look of sudden dismay, "I c cause ] recall a shorl there i wonde "Al voice thoug was a paren partic do, ai the tl A LIFE SENTENCE. ti " Certainly not ! He is the most confirmed liar I ever met," Hubert answered without a smile. But he was a little curious in his own mind. From what he knew of Ferguson, he supposed it likely that the man had been making love to the young actress, that she had refused to listen to him, and that he had therefore dis- missed her from the troupe. Such things had happened be- fore,he knew, during Mr. Ferguson's reign; and the Frivolity did not bear the very best character in the world. With a girl of Cynthia West's remarkable beauty, it was pretty easy to guess the story, although the girl in her innocence thought that she was concealing it completely. " He said that I was careless," Cynthia went on rapidly. *' He changed the hour for rehearsal twice, and let every- body know but me ; then I was fined, of course ; and I complained, and then he said I had better go." " What made you come to me ? " said Hubert. " I am not a manager, you know." " You have a great deal of influence," she said, rather more shyly than she had spoken hitherto. " Very little indeed. Other people have much more. Why did you not try Gurney or Thomson or Macalister ? " — mentioning names well known in the theatrical world. " Oh, Mr. Lepel," said the girl, almost in a whisper, " you will think me so foolish if I tell you ! " " No, I sha'n't. Do tell me why ! " " Well " — still in a whisper — " it was because I read a story that you had written — a tale about a girl called Amy Maitland — do you remember ? " " I ought to remember," said Hubert thoughtfully, " be- cause I know I wrote it ; but an author does not always recall his old stories very accurately. Miss West. It was a short tale for a Christmas number, I know. What was there in it that could cause you to honor me in this way, I wonder ? " "Ah, don't laugh at me, please, Mr. Lepel ! " Cynthia's voice was so sweet in its entreating tones that Hubert thought he had never heard anything more musical. " It was all about a girl who was poor like me, and whose parents were dead, and about her adventures, you know — particularly about her not being able to get any work to do, and nearly throwing herself into the river. I have had the thought more than once lately that it would end with i ^1 >' r; 88 A LIFE SENTENCE. me in that way — the river looks so deep and silent and mysterious — doesn't it ? But that's all nonsense, I sup- pose I However, when I lead about Amy in the old Christmas number, that my landlady lent me the other night, it came to my mind that I had seen you behind the scenes, and that, if you could write in that way, you might be more ready — ready to help " She stopped short, a little breathless after her long and tremulous speech. " My poor child," said Hubert, with the tender accent that showed that he was moved, " I am afraid it does not always follow. However, let us take the most cheerful view possible of all things, even of novelists, and try to be- lieve that they practise what they preach. It would be hard if I did not prove worthy of your confidence. Miss West. I am sure I don't know whether I will be able to do anything for you or not, but I will see." " Thank you, Mr. Lepel." She said the words very low, and drew a quick breath of relief as she said them. By the light of a gas-lamp under which they were passing at the moment Hubert saw that she had turned very pale. He halted suddenly. *' I am very thoughtless," he said, " not to recollect that you must be tired, and that I am perhaps taking you out of your way." " No," said Cynthia simply ; " I always go this way. I lodge at a boarding-house in the Euston Road." " Then let us to business at once 1 " exclaimed Mr. Lepel, in a cheerful tone. " What sort of engagement do you want. Miss West ? " She was silent for a minute or two. Then she said, with some unusual timidity of manner — " I should very much Hke to have an engagement at a place where I could sing." " Sing ! " repeated Hubert, arching his brows a little. " Can you sing ? Have you a voice ? " " Yes," said Cynthia. The audacity of the assertion took away Hubert's breath. He looked at her pityingly. " My dear Miss West, are you aware that singing is a profession in itself, and requires a professional training, like other things? " " Yes. But I can sing," said the girl decidedly. " Where did you leai n ? " A LIFE SENTENCE, 89 "At school, and then of an old music-master in the boarding-house where I am living." If he had not been afraid of wounding her feelings, Hubert would have shrugged his shoulders. They were again standing on the pavement, face to face, and he refrained from the scornful ges<^ure. " Well," he said, after a short pause, " if you think so, there is nothing to do but to try you. I must hear you sing. Miss West, before I can say anything about a musical engagement. Shall I come and see you to-morrow ? " " Oh, no ! " said Cynthia, with such transparent horror at the suggestion that Mr. Lepel was very much amused. "We have no piano, and I am sure that Mrs. Wadsley would not like it." " Then will you come to my rooms at twelve o'clock to- morrow morning ? " " Thank you. Oh, Mr. Lepel, I am so very, very much obliged to you ! " *• I have done nothing yet to merit thanks, Miss West. I shall be only glad if I can be the means of assisting a fellow-artist out of a difficulty." He saw that the words brought a bright glow of gratified feeling to the girl's face. ** Here is my card ; my rooms are not very far off, you see — in Russell square." 'Cynthia took the card and thanked him again so warmly that Hubert assured her that he was already overpaid. They had reached the broad torrent of life that rolls down New Oxford street, and further conversation became almost impossible. Hubert bent his head to say — " Shall I put you into a cab now, or may I see you home ? " " Neither, thank you," she said, shaking her head. *' I am quite well used to going about alone ; and it is a very little way. Good night ; and I am so much obliged to you ! " " Let me see you over this crossing, at any rate," said Hubert. She was too quick for him ; she had already plunged into the tide, and he saw her the next moment hailing on the central resting-place of the broad thoroughfare. He attempted to follow, but was too late, and had to wait a moment or two for a couple of heavy carts. When the road was clear again, he saw that she had safely reached •■■ » li > 1 11" 1 90 A LIFE SENTENCE. It the other side ; and, as soon as he had creased, he dimly perceived her graceful figure some distance ahead on the sombre pavements of Bedford square. His impulse was to overtake her, but after a few rapid strides he abandoned the intention. The girl was safe enough at that early hour ; no doubt she was accustomed, as she said, to take care of herself. No need to launch into a romantic episode — to walk behind her, keeping watch and ward, as if she were likely to encounter terrible danger on the way. And yet, for some reason or another, he continued to walk — slowly now — in the direction which Cynthia West had taken. It was quite out of his own way to go all along Gower street and eastward down the Euston Road, yet that was what he did. He saw the tall slight figure stop at an iron gate, push it open, and walk up the flagged pavement to the door of a dingy but highly respectable-looking house. The Euston Road is a neighborhood not greatly affected by people of fastidious taste ; and Hubert won- dered, with a shrug of the shoulders, why Miss West had found a lodging in the very midst of its ceaseless madden- ing roar. He passed the house with a slow step, and as he did so he read an inscription on the brass plate which adorned the gate by which Cynthia had entered— ** Mrs. Wadsley. " Select Boarding-House for Ladies and Gentlemen. " Moderate Terms." "Yery moderate and very select, no doubt," thought Hubert cynically. " Now is that girl making a fool of me, or is she not? All those pretty airs might so easily be put on by a clever actress. I shall find her out to-morrow. She can act a little — I know that ; but, if she can't sing, after what she has said, she may go to Jericho for me ! And, if she does not come at all, why, then I shall know that she is an arrant little impostor, and that I am a con- founded fool ! " . He stopped to light a cigar under a lamp-post, and a slight smile played over his features as he struck the match. "She's a beautiful girl," he said to himself; " if she does turn out an impostor, I shall be rather sorry. But, by Jove, I don't believe she will ! " eyes mig with the plush cu and sho library. them, a Mr. Lei fessiona had be( more ai brocade porcela oddly-s] plane tt( shawl J back. foreign had be some 1 over tl enorm< the ro( . ^Atji^i A LIFE SENTENCE, CHAPTER XIV. " Shall I take off my hat before I sing? " said Miss West calmly. She was in Hubert's sitting-room. Mr. Lepel had the drawing-room floor of a large and fine old house in Russell square — a floor which contained two drawing-rooms open- ing out of each other, a bed and bath-room, and a small den, generally called a smoking-room, although its master's pipes and cigars were to be found in all corners of the apartments. Hubert had partially furnished the rooms for himself, and thus done away with the bare and ungarnished appearance usually characteristic of a London lodging. Miss West glanced around the room on her first entry with some astonishment largely commingled with admira- tion. The mixture of luxury and disorder which met her eyes might have surprised even persons more conversant with the world than Cynthia West. The golden-brown plush curtains between the rooms were half pushed back, and showed that the back-room had been turned into a library. Shelves crowded with books, tables heaped with them, a great writing-table and a secritaire showed that Mr. Lepel used the room for what might be called " pro- fessional " purposes. But in the front drawing-room there had been attempts — and not unsuccessful attempts — at more artistic decoration. The curtains were of exquisite brocade, some charming etchings adorned the walls, great porcelain bowls of flowers had been placed on the oddly-shaped little tables that stood about the room. A pianette had been pulled out from the wall, and an Algerian shawl glistening with gold was loosely thrown over its back. Other articles of decoration were suggestive of foreign travel. A collection of murderous-looking weapons had been fastened on the wall between the two windows, some Eastern embroideries were thrown here and there over the furniture, and an inlaid mother-o'-pearl stool, an enormous narghileh, and some Japanese kakemonos gave the room quite an outlandish air. In spite of its oddness, '. I IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) I 1.0 I.I LilM |25 ■tt Itt 12.2 ^ ua 12.0 u M 1.25 II u ij^ ^ 6" ► 0% <^ 7. W ^J" '^ /A V Photogr^hic Sciences Corporation 23 WiST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14SS0 (716) S72-4S03 ^ A UfP. SEJ\rr£/^C£, there was a. brightness and pleasantness about the place, due to the gay tints of the Oriental stuffs, and the hue and fragrance of the flowers with which pots and bowiS and vases were plentifully filled. " Yes, take off your hat and cloak, please," said Hubert, " if you do not mind the trouble." " It is no trouble at all ; I can sing much better with- out my outdoor things," replied the girl promptly. She took ofT her little black-and-white hat and her neat little jacket, and displayed herself in a closely-fitting black gown which suited her admirably, in spite of its plainness. There was no touch of color or sign of orn'^ment ; a rim of white collar around the neck and white cuffs at her wrists ^ave the only relief to the gown's sombre hue. And yet, with the vivid beauty of her face above the plain dark garment, it seemed as if she could not have found a garb that was more absolutely becoming. She stood beside the little piano for a moment with a roll of music in her hand, and looked at Hubert questioningly. "Shall I play my own accompaniment?" she asked. "I never thought of that; I. could have judged better of your voice if we had had an accompanist," said her host. " I could play for you myself if you liked." *' No ; I will do it," said Cynthia decidedly. " Go to the other end of the room, will you, please, Mr. Lcpel ? You will hear me better there." There was a pretty air of command about her which amused Mr. Lepel. This young woman, ht reflected, as he took up the position which she had recommended, was not one who would be contented with a secondary position anywhere. She evidently considered herself born to rule. Well, he would do her bidding ; he had no objection to the rule of a pretty woman ! He was not disposed to take Miss Cynthia West and her singing very seriously — as yet. Cynthia seated herself at the piano, while Hubert flung himself into an easy-chair at the farther end of the room, and crossed his arms behind his head in an attitude of attention and endurance, which showed that he was not expecting much and was prepared to bear the worst. For the singing of an average girl of eighteen or nineteen, with an ambition to appear on a public stage, is apt to be trying to the sensibilities of the true music-lover ; and Hubert Lepel was no mean critic of the art. A LIFE SENTEiVCt:. 9J lace, and and Cynthia played a few opening bars, and then began to sing a popular ballad of the day. When she had finished it, she did not look round, but went on fingering the notes, gliding gradually into another key. Then suddenly she broke out into a fine old Italian aria, which she sang with much fire and expression, availing herself of every oppor- tunity of fioriture and cadenza afforded by the song. And thence, with only a few bars of symphony between, she launched herself upon one of Schubert's most passion- ate love-songs, and sang it in a style which brought the listener to his feet at its close in a musical rapture that almost defied expression. "Why, good heavens," cried Hubert, with something not unlike a gasp, " who on earth taught you to sing like that? And your voice — do you know. Miss West, that your voice is simply magnificent ? " Cynthia kept her head down, and continued to finger the notes — mutely this time. " I have been told that I might be able to sing at private concerts," she said demurely. " Private concerts ! You might sing at Her Majesty's or Covent Garden — with ^ little more training perhaps," said Hubert, trying to be cautious, but failing to hide the satisfaction which shone out of his eyes as he approached the piano. " Why have you never sung to any manager? At least you may have done so, but I never heard a word of it ; and a voice like yours would be talked about, you know." " I suppose it was old Lalli's fault," said Cynthia care- lessly. " He always impressed upon me that I could not sing a bit, and that I must wait for years and years before I dare open my mouth in public." "And who is old Lalli?" asked Hubert, gathering up her music and beginning to turn it over. Cynthia crossed her white hands and looked down, a shadow flitting across her mobile face. " He is dead," she said softly. " He was a very kind old friend. He lodged in the house where I am lodging now. As long as he lived I always had somebody to ad- vise me — somebody to depend on." , Her voice faltered a little. Some moisture was visible on the long dark eyelashes as they hung over the fresh young cheeks. Hubert thought again that he had never ^M A UPe sentence. seen a woman half so beautiful. The touch of emotion softened her loveliness — made it more human, more appeal- ing. His tone was less light, but more simply friendly, when he addressed her again. " Was he a musician ? " " He was a violinist in the Frivol'ty orchestra. He had been a singer once, I believe ; at any rate, he knew a great deal about singing, and he used to give me lessons. He used to tear his hair, and frown and stamp a great deal," said Cynthia, smiling tenderly ; " but he was kind, and I loved him very much." " You met with him at the boarding-house where you live, I suppose ? " said Hubert carelessly. Cynthia gave him a sudden glance. The color came into her facd. " No," she said slowly ; " he took me there." She raised her right hand and struck a few soft notes with it before she resumed her speech. " You would like to know how it was perhaps?" She made long pauses between her sentences, as if she were considering what to say and what to leave unsaid. '*! came to London about four years ^go» ill great trouble. I had lost all my friends — not because I had done anything wrong, because of — other things. I wanted to get something to do in a shop or as a servant-girl — I did not care what. I tried all day, but hobody would give me work. I slept in the Park at night. Next day I began to search all over again, and again it was of ijo use. I had no money ; I was very hungry and tired. I sat down on a step and cried, and at last some one said to me, ' What is the matter, my poor child ? ' And I looked up, frightened, and saw an old man with a long gray beard and very dark eyes and a kind face stooping over me. That was Signor Guido Lalli, of the Frivolity." " I remember him in the band quite' well," said Hubert. " He had a good face." *'' Had he not ? " exclaimed the girl, with sudden passion. " He was the kindest, wisest, best man I ever knew ! I could not help trusting him, he looked so good. He made me tell him all about myself, and then he took me with him to the boarding-house in Euston Road where he lived, and said that he would be responsible to the landlady for me until I^got something to do. And Mrs. Wadsley was so fond of him that she took me on trust for his sake. I Cynthia A LIFE SENTENCE, 95 don't believe she ever suspected how little he really knew about me. And next day he took me to some friends of his, and between them they got me a little engagement at a theatre ; and then I had a small speaking part, and so on — you know as well as I do how young actresses go from step to step — so that I was able to support myself after a time, and be no longer a burden upon him." " And would he not let you sing ? " " No ; he gave me lessons every day, and made me prac- tise a long time ; but I had to promise him that I would not sing to anybody but himself unless — unless I were obliged. I used to be angry about it ; but he was so good to me that I always gave in to him in the end. I fancy now that he had a purpose in it all. When I was sufficiently trained, he wanted to take me to Mapleson or some other great impresario^ and get him to bring me out in opera," " Very likely. But you say he died ? " " Yes," said the girl, with a sigh, " he died — ^suddenly too, so that he did not even say good-bye. He was found dead one morning in his bed. Since then I have been all alone in the world ; and I think Mr. Ferguson knew it, and wanted to take advantage of my position." " No doubt of it." "So then, as I had no engagement at the theatre, I thought I would see whether my voice would do anything for me. And, as I told you last night, I made up my mind to speak to you." Hubert had stood with his arms on the piano, looking gravely down on the girl's bent face as she told her story. As she paused, she raised her head, and her great dark eyes looked straight into his with an expression of mute appeal which stirred his feelings strangely. It moved him so much that he was forced to take down his arms and turn aside from the piano for a moment or two; he scarcely wanted her to see how deeply he was touched. He soon came back to her side, however, and said — " If I had refused to listen to you, what would you have done?" " I don't know," she answered meditatively. " You would have gone to some manager — some cele- brated impresario / " " And been snubbed and repulsed by one and all I " said Cynthia, with sudden passion. ¥ 9« A LIFE SENTENCE, She rose from the music-stool and stood facing him ; he saw her bosom rise and fall, he marked the varying color in her cheeks, the light and shadow in her troubled eyes, as she poured out the impetuous words with which her heart was charged. " I could not have borne it ! I do not know how to put up with insult and contempt. I feel that I hate all the world when it treats me in that way. I never could be meek and good like other girls. I don't mean that I want to be wicked — I hope I am not wicked — but, if you had failed me, I think that I should have gone straight away to I ondon Bridge and thrown myself into the river — for I should have had no hope left" " My dear girl," said Hubert, rather gravely, " with that voice of yours you would have been very wrong to feel so easily discouraged." " Oh, what would the voice matter if I could get nobody to listen to it ? " cried Cynthia, with fiery scorn. *• I may have a fortune in my voice, but how will the fortune benefit me if I can't have it for the next five or ten years, and am starving in the meantime? I could not have stayed more than a few days at Mrs. Wadsley's, as I had no money, and was not likely to earn any. If I was turned out, where was I to go ? It is winter now, not summer, as it was when I slept in the Park four years ago, and dear old Lalli found me crying on the steps. A night out of doors in this weather would not leave me much voice to sing with, I fancy ! No ; I had made up my mind, Mr. Lepel — if you would not listen to me, I would go to Lon- don Bridge. If you think me wicked, I can't help it; it was my last resource." With her cheeks flaming, her eyes gleaming beneath her black brows, it was plain that she was dominated by passion of no common strength, by will and pride which made it well-nigh impossible for her to lead an ordinary woman's life. Hubert looked at her, stupefied, fascinated by her beauty ; he was penetrated by an admiration that he had never felt for a woman in all his life before. And she was a mere girl yet ! He knew that she would be ten times more beautiful in a few years' time. " You were right to come to me," he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said as he gazed into the depths of the lustrous dark eyes. " You need have no fear — you will succeed," A LIFE SENTENCE, 97 Cynthia drew a long breath. Her attitude changed a little ; limbs and features seemed to relax, the color died slowly out of her flushed cheeks. " You mean," she said, in a lower voice, " that you do not think, after all, that I was very wrong — bold, un- womanly, I mean — to speak to you, when I did not know you, in the street last night? " "Certainly not." " I had no claim on you, I know," proceeded the girl, the light of ejfcitement fading out of her face, and the per- fect mouth beginning to quiver as she spoke. '' It was only a fancy of mine that, as you had seemed to under- stand so well how dreadful it was to be alone — alone in this great terrible London — you would hold out a helping hand to a girl who only wanted work — ^just enough to gain her daily bread." She sobbed a little, and put her hand over her eyes. " Miss West," said Hubert seriously, with a desperate effort to retain a composure which was very hard to keep, ** I can only assure you that I shall consider it an honor to be allowed to help in bringing you to the notice of men, who will do far more for you than I caii hope to do." She withdrew her hand from her eyes and looked at him with a brilliant smile, though the tears were still wet on her eyelashes. " You think I am worth helping ? " she said. " And you will help me — you yourself? " * ^'^'^ " I will not rest," answered Hubert. " I will work night and day, and give body and soul, and I'll see you a prima donna yet 1 " They both laughed, and then, obeying an impulse which stirred their hearts alike, held out their hands to each other and exchanged a friendly grasp. :-#? CHAPTER XV. The little village of Beechfield, like all other villages, had its dark corners where vice and misery reigned supreme. In old times Mr. and Mrs. Rumbold — ^good people as they were in their own fashion — had been content to leave these darker places to themselves ; the decent religious poor of ^4 A LIFE SENTENCE, the parish gave them enough to do. But under the new Rector's rule a newr system had begun. The Reverend Maurice Evandale thought that his duty lay amongst the lost sheep as well as amongst those already in the fold. If he had been at Beechiield in the days before Sydney Vane's death, he would never have let poor Andrew West- wood and his child remain outcasts from the interests of religious life. He would have visited them, talked to them, persuaded the child to go to school, perhaps even induced the poacher to give ip his vagrant ways ; at any rate, he would not have let them alone, but would have grappled fearlessly with the difficulties of their position, and with that hostility which seemed to exist between Westwood and the rest of the village. Whether he would have been successful or not it were indeed hard to say, but that he would have made a great effort to be so there can be no manner of doubt. Mr. Evandale's new system produced a great sensation in the parish-r— not altogether a favorable sensation either ; for the villagers, who had gone on so long in quiet, com- fortable, self-complacent ways, did not regard with a favor- able eye the changes which the Rector introduced. All the old abuses which had slumbered peacefully in darkness for so many years were exposed relentlessly by this too energetic young man. He swept away the village band of stringed instruments from the church gallery ; he erected an organ in the chancel, and set the schoolmistress to play it ; he introduced new tunes into the choir, new doctrines into the pulpit; he played havoc amongst all that was fusty and musty and venerable in the villagers' eyes. He talked about drainage, and had an inspector down to investigate the state of the village water-supply ; he waged war upon the publicans, set up an institute and a library for the village youths, taught the boys, played with them — thrashed them too occasionally — and made himself a terror to evil-doers and the idol of the young ladies of the place. Naturally much was said against him, especially behind his back. To his face, people did not venture to say much. The young Rector had such a fearless way of looking straight into people's eyes, ol saying what he meant and expecting other people to do the same, that he inspired something like fear in the shiftier and less trust- worthy part of the community. On the other hand, the A UFE SEI^TENCE, weak, the sick, the very young, instinctively loved and trusted him. " He is beautiful in a sick-room." averred the elder women. Perhaps his words seemed beautiful to them because they felt that by some mysterious law of sympathy he understood their sorrows without having been a partaker in them, that he had an infinite pity for the erring and the suffering, and that he never felt himself less of a brother to his flock because so many of that flock were sinful and ignorant and degraded. So, parson though he was, he became the friend and. confidant of half the village ; and strange tales were poured into his ear sometimes — tales which the tellers would formerly have laughed at the idea of relating to the Rector of the parish so long as Mr. Rumbold reigned supreme. But to Maurice Evandale nothing seemed to come amiss ; he had interest and sympathy for all. Stern to impenitent sinners he certainly was — brutal men and idle lads cowered under the lash of his rebuke ; but there was not a soul in the village who did not also know that a word of repent- ance, an act that showed a yearning after better thines, was sufficient to melt the Rector's wrath and turn him from a judge and censor into a friend. Judging from the progress that Maurice Evandale had already made in the hearts of his people, there was a fair likelihood that if he stayed much longer he would be master of their affections and their intellects, In a v/ay which was unprecedented in- deed at Beechfield. He was not often at Beechfield Hall. The General liked his society extremely, but Mrs. Vane declared that it fatigued her. " The man is so oppressively blunt and downright," she said, " that one never knows what to expect from him next. He is a perfect bear." " But, my dear Flossy, he comes of a very good family, and I liave heard him praised 0:1 all sides for his distin- guished manners," expostulated the General. " I never knew a young man so courteous, so polished ! " ** I am spoiled for young men, General," said Flossy, extending her hand very graciously to her white-haired hus- band. It was not often that she showed herself so actively amiable towards him. She was usually somewhat passive, receiving his attentions with a languid indifference which too A LIFE SENTENCE. would have disconcerted some men, but which did not disconcert the unsuspicious old General. He was delight- ed with her little compliment, kissed her hand gallantly, and avowed that nobody should come near the house whom she disliked. So Maurice Evandale was not invited a second time to dinner. Naturally Enid was not consulted in the matter. She never expressed any opinion at all concerning the new Rector. She had always been a regular church-goer, and, wet or fine, never failed to be present at the class over which she presided every Sunday aCternoon. She was not a whit more regular in her attendance at church and school than she had been before, whereas giddy girls like the doctor's daughter and the lawyer's bevy of fair damsels, and even the members of a neighboring Squire's large family of girls, had all taken to attending Mr. Evandale's services and schools with unexampled regularity. Flossy, who seldom went to church herself, but always inquired diligently after the worshippers, and exacted an account of their names and number from her young kinswoman, used to utter sarcastic little jibs anent these young women's clearly-manifested preference for Mr. Evandale, and was heard to say rather sharply that, if Enid followed their example, it would be worth while to have the horses out on a Sunday and drive over to the cathedral of Whitmin- ster, six miles away. But Enid never gave any sign of liking the new Rector any better than she had liked Mr. Rumbold; and, as to take the General away from the church in which he had knelt almost every Sunday since he came home from active service in India, after his old father's death, would have been to uproot one of the most deeply-rooted instincts in his life. Florence was wise enough to let the matter pass, and to content herself with wishing that the patron of the living had given it to an older man — or at least to a married man. There was always danger when a bachelor of eight-and-twenty, good-looking — indeed very handsome — and with a comfortable income, came into close contact with young and romantic girls. And Florence did not intend Enid to marry Mr. Evan- dale — she had other views for her. It was strange to see how this white, silent, languid woman, whose only occupations in life seemed to be eat- ing, sleeping, driving, and dressing, was able to mould the A LIFF SENTENCE, tot natures and ambitions of others to her liking. Behind the mask of Flossy's pensive beauty lay a brain as subtle, a will as inflexible, a heart as cold as ever daring criminal possessed. Nothing daunted or repelled her, and in other circumstances and other times her genius might have made her a mark for the execration of all succeeding ages. But her sphere >yas not large ; she had but indifferent material to work upon in the seclusion of a country home and the company of an old country gentleman and his niece ; and she could but do her best to gain her ends, even though the path of them lay across bleeding hearts and lives laid waste by her cruelty. Mr. Evandale had felt the same distaste for her society that she had expressed for his visits, and troubled himself not a little about the want of charity that he discovered in himself. To his clear and penetrating eyes there was a vein of falseness apparent in Mrs. Vane's most honeyed speeches ; her narrowed eyes were tc i subtle for his taste ; there were lines about her mouth which he had seen on faces of women whom he did not love. For the life of him he could not repress a certain honest gravity and even sternness of manner in addressing her ; something in her revolted him — he did not know how or why. He almost pitied the General — the hearty, good old man who seemed so fond of his fair wife. And he was sorry for Enid too, not only on account of her sad story, but bec::use she lived with this woman whom he distrusted, because she was ruled by her fancies and educated according to her desires. And he was even sorry — still without knowing why-r-for little Dick, whose quaint childish face always expanded into a broad smile at the sight of him, and whom he often met in the village, clinging fondly to Enid's hand. When he dined at the Hall, he had scarcely seen Enid, for, (Ti some plea of illness or fatigue, Mrs. Vane had kept her away from dinner, and her presence in the drawing- room for the last half hour of Evandale's stay had been a very silent one. But he often saw her in church. The Vanes' pew was just in front of the pulpit, and the Rector /could not preach without noticing the steady attention given to him by the girl in the Squire's pew, could not fail to be struck by the sweetness of the fair uplifted face, the beauty of the pathetic eyes, in which there always lurked the shadow of some past or future pain. The Rector fell ~t "\ \\ r lai A LIFE SENTENCE. into the habit of preaching to that fair young face. But, strangely enough, he did not prear.h as men usually preach to the young and innocent — his words were often of con- solation for bitter grief, tender counsel for the afflicted, even of future hope and amendment for the guilty. Nothing less peculiarly appropriate to a young girl of seventeen than some of his sermons could be imagined — and yet they were all addressed to Fnid Vane. It was as if he were trying to strengthen her for some dread con- flict , some warfare of life and death, which his foreseeing eye discerned for her in days to come. Enid was allowed to do a little district-visiting in the parish, and Mr. Evandale had often heard reports of her gentleness and goodness ; but he had never personally encountered her on any of her errands of mercy. An exception to this rule, hov/cvcr, took i)lacc on a certain afternoon in November, a few weeks after Hubert Lepjel's visit to Beecliwood. Mr. Evandale had on that day received information that one of his parishioners — a Mrs. Meldrclh — was seriously ill and would like to see him. The informant added that she brought the Rector word of this, because Mrs. Mel- dreth's daughter Sabina was now at home, and seemed anxious to keep the clergyman away. The Rector's fight- ing instincts were at once aroused by this communication. He knew Sabina Meldreth by name only, and had not derived a very pleasant impression of her from all that he had heard. She had once been an under-housemaid at the Hall, but had been dismissed for misconduct — of what sort nobody could exactly say, although much was hinted at which the gossips did not put into words — and had left the village soon afterwards. Since that time she had been seen at Beechfield only at intervals ; she came occasion- ally to see her mother, and stated that she was " engaged in a millinery business at Whitminster, and doing well." Certainly her airs and graces, her plumes and jewelry, seemed to betoken that her finances were in a flourishing condition. But she never came to church, and was reported to talk in an irreverent manner, which made the Rector long to get hold of her for five minutes. With his strong convictions, Maurice Evandale could not bear to hear without protest of the insolent and almost profane sallies of wit by which, to his mind, Sabina Meldreth dis- A LIFE SENTENCE, 103 honored her Creu.^». He had long resolved to speak to her on the subject when next she visited Beechfield. Perhaps her mother's illness would have softened her and would make the Rector's task less difficult — for it was not Ills nature to love the administration of rebuke, although he held it to be one of his essential duties, when occasion reipiired. Mrs. Meldreth was a respectable elderly woman, who kept a small shop for cheap groceries and haberdashery in th-' village. She did not do much business, but she lived in apparent comfort — probably, the neighbors said, because slie was helj)cd by her daughter's earnings. And then Mrs. Vane "was unusually kind to her. Flossy did not interest herself much in the welfare of her poorer neigh- bors, but to Mrs. Meldreth she certainly showed peculiar favor. Many a gift of food and wine went from the Hall across Mrs. Meldrcth's threshold ; and it was noticed that Mrs. Meldreth was occasionally admitted to Mrs. Vane's own room for a private conference with the lady of Beech- fuUl Hall herself. But those who commented wondcringly on that fact were reminded that Mrs. Meldreth added to lur occupations that of sick-nurse, and that she had been in attendance on Mrs. Vane at the time of the young S'luire's birth. It was natural that Mrs. Vane should be on more intimate terms with her than with any other of the village women. Mrs. Meldreth was not an interesting person in the eyes of the world at large. She was a sad, silent, dull-faced individual, with blank looking eyes and a dreary mouth. There were anxious lines on her forehead and hollows in her pale cheeks, such as her easy circumstances did not account for. That she "enjoyed very poor health," according to the dictum of her neighbors, was considered by them to be a sufficient reason for Mrs. Meldreth's evident lack of peace of mind. Mr. Evandale set oflf for his visit to the sick woman early in the afternoon. He was hindered on his way to her house by meeting with various of his friends of the humbler sort, whom he did not like to pass without a word, and it was after three o'clock before he reached Mrs. Meldreth's cottage. He entered the shop, which looked duller and more uninviting than ever, and found that it was tenanted only by a girl of thirteen — a girl whom he knew to be th^ stupidest in th? whole of the village school, '5: % ft I; ■;< r 1' :lli: I04 A LIFE SENTENCE. n ^ ^ Jl ■; *.. ■\ '1 ■ I . ■ i" -i > .' " Well, Polly Moss," he said good-naturedly, " are you taking care of the shop ? " Polly Moss, a girl whose mouth looked as if it would never close, beamed at him with radiant satisfaction, and replied — " Yes, sir — I'm minding the shop, sir. Did you want any groceries to-day, please, sir ? " " No, thank you," said the Rector, smiling. " I have come to see Mrs. Meldreth, who, I hear, is ill." " Yes, sir," said Polly, in a tone of resigned affliction. ** I thought p'r'aps you was going to buy something, sir. I hain't sold anythink the 'ole afternoon." * " Polly," said Mr. Evandale, " how often am I to tell you to say the * whole ' afternoon, not the * 'ole ' ? " The unlucky man had even made war on the natives' practice of leaving out their " h's " ! " • Whole,' with an * h,' re- member ! Well, I will buy something — what shall it be ? — a pound of tea perhaps. Ah, yes ! Two shillings a pound, isn't it? Pack it up and send it to the Rectory to- night, Polly ; and here are the two shillings to put into the till. Now will you ask if I can see Mrs. Meldreth ? " Polly's shining face suddenly fell. " I daren't leave the shop, sir," she said. " I left it this morning just for a minute or two, and Miss Meldreth said she'd skin me alive if ever I did so again. Would you mind, sir " — insinuatingly — " just a-going up the stairs and knocking at the door atop o' them? They'll be glad to see you, I'm sure, sir ; and I daren't leave the shop for a single minute." ' " All right," said the Rector. He was used to entering sick-rooms, and did not find Polly Moss' request very much out of the way. " Til go up. " He passed through the shop and ascended the stairs, with every step of whith he was familiar, as he had already visited Mrs. Meldreth during one or two previous attacks of illness, and was heard to knock at the sick woman's bed-room door. " Oh, my," exclaimed Polly, as soon as he was out of reach, " and if I didn't go for to forget to tell him as "ow Miss Enid was up there ! Oh, my ! But I don't suppose he'll mind I He's only the parson, after all." A LtFE SUmENCE, <0i CHAPTER XVI. When Mr. Evandale knocked at Mrs. Meldreth's door, he was aware of a slight bustle within, followed by the sound of voices in low-toned conference ; then came a rather sharply-toned " Come in ! " As, however, the Rector still hesitated, the door was flung open by a young woman, whose very gestures seemed to show that she acted under protest, and would not have admitted him at all if she had had her own way. She was a fair-complexioned woman of perhaps thirty years ofage, tall, well made, robust, and generally considered handsome ; she had prominent light- blue eyes, and features which, without being badly cut, were indefinably common and even coarse-looking. In her cheeks a patch of exceptionally vivid red had so artificial an appearance, that the Rector could not believe it to be genuine; but later he gained an impression that it pro- ceeded from excitement, and not from any adventitious source. The eyes of this woman were sparkling with anger ; there was defiance in her every movement, even in the way in which htr fingers were clenched at her sides or clutched the iron rail of the bed on which her mother lay. The Rector wondered at her evident disturbance; it must have proceeded from something that had occurred before his entrance, he concluded, and he looked towards the bed as if to discover whether the cause of Sabina Meldreth's anger could be found there. But no — surely not there ! The Rector thought that he had seldom seen a fairer picture than the one A^hich met his eyes. Goodness, gentleness, youth supporting age, beauty unabashed by feebleness and ugliness — these were the characteristics of the scene on which he looked. Poor Mrs. Meldreth lay back upon her pillows, her face wan and Worn, her eyes wandering, her gray hair escaping from her close cap and straying over her forehead. But beside her knelt Enid Vane. The girl's arm was beneath the old Woman's bowed shoulders ; it was evident that in this position the invalid could breathe better and was more at to6 A LIFE SENTENCE, ease. The sweet fair face, with its slight indefinabk shadow deepened at this moment into a loo^^ of perfect pity, was bent over the wrinkled, withered countenance of the sick woman. Never, the Rector thought, had he seen a lovelier picture of youth ministering to the wants of age. But a sense of incongruity ahso struck him, and he turned rather quickly to Miss Meldreth, whose defiant eyes had been fixed upon him from the first moment of his .entrance into the room. "You are Mrs. Meldreth's daughter?" he said, in a quick but not unkindly undertone. " Why do you let the young lady there wait upon your mother ? Can you not nurse her yourself, my good girl ? " Sabina Meldreth curtseyed, but in evident mockery, for the color in her cheeks grew higher, and her tone was anything but respectful when she spoke. " Of course I can nurse my mother, sir, and of course a young lady like Miss Vane didn't ought to put her finger to anything menial," she said, with a sharpness which took the Rector a little by surprise. " I'm quite well aware of the differ^jnce between us. And " — anger now evidently gaining the upper hand — " if you'd tell Miss Vane to go, sir, I'd be obliged to you, for she is only exciting mother, and doing her no good." " Your mother shows no symptoms of excitement," said the Rector quietly ; *' and I must say. Miss Meldioth, that your words do not evince the gtatitude that I should have expected you to feel- for the young lady's kindness." " Kindness ! Oh, kindness is all very well ! " said Miss Meldreth, with an angry toss of her fair hei.d. " But I don't know what kindness there is in disturbing my poor mother — reading hymns and psalms, and all that sort of thing ! " Mr. Evandale had hitherto wondered whether or no Miss Vane heard a word of Sabina Meldreth's acid utterances, but he had henceforward no room for doubt. The girl raised her head a little and spoke in a low bui penetrating tone. " Miss Meldreth," she said, " excuse me, but you your- self are disturbing your mother far more than I have done. See — she is b ; jnning to be restless again ; she cannot bear loud talking or altercation." The Rector was astonished by the firmness of her tone. :m^" A LIFE SENTENCE. 107 She was so graceful, so slight, so fragile-looking, that he had not credited her with any great strength of character, in spite rf his admiration for her beauty. But what she said was perfectly true, and he hastened to lend her his support. " Quite so," he said approvingly. " Mrs. Meldreth should be kept quiet, I can see " — for the old woman had begun to moan and to move her head restlessly from side to side when she heard her daughter's rasping voice. " Perhaps you would step into another room with me. Miss Meldreth, and tell me how this attack came on — if, at least, Miss Vane does not mind being left with Mrs. Meldreth for a few minutes, or if she is not tired." Enid answered with a faint sweet smile. " I am not tired," she said. " And poor nurse wants to speak to me when she is able. She sent to tell me so. I can stay with her quite well." But the proposition seemed to excite Sabina Meldreth almost to fury. " If you think," she said, "that I am going to leave my mother alone with anybody — gentleman or lady- -you are mistaken. If you want her to be quiet, leave her alone yourselves — she'll stay quiet enough if she's left to me." " Sabina," said Enid, with a gentle dijnity of tone which commanded the Rector's admiration and lespect, "you know that your mother wanted me to come." *' I know that she's off her head ! " said Sabina angrily. " She doesn't know what she says or what she wants. It's nonsense, all of it ! And meaning no disrespect to you, Miss Vane " — in a lower but sulkier tone — " if you would but go away and leave her to me, she'd be all the better for it in the end." " Hush ! " said Enid, raising her hand— the serenity of her face was quite undisturbed by Sabina's expostulation. "SLe is coming to herself again — she is going to speak." There was a moment's silence in the room. The sick woman was lying still; her eyes wandered and her lips moved, but as yet no articulate sound issued from them. In apparently uncontrollable passion, Sabina stamped violently and shook the rail of the iron bedstead with her hands. " She ain't going to speak ; she is off her head, I tell you ! She ain't got anything to say." m ,ti; :A\''i' loi A LIFE SENTENCE. The Rector looked at her steadily. For the first time it occurred to him that the youngt.r woman had some unworthy motive in her desire to silence her mother and to get the listeners out of the room. Dislike of inter- ference, jealousy, and bad tpmper would not entirely account, he thought, for her intense and angiy agitation. Had Mrs. Meldreth and her daughter some secret which the mother would gladly confess and the girl was fain to hide ? A feeble voice sounded from the bed. " Is it Miss Enid ? " said Mrs. Meldreth. " Has she come ? " " No," said Sabina boldly and loudly. " You go to sleep, mother, and don't you bother about Miss Enid." " Miss Meldreth, how dare you try to deceive a dying woman ? " said the Rector, so sternly that even Sabina quailed a little before the deep low tones of his voice. " Yes, Mrs. Meldreth, Miss Enid Vane is here, and you can say all that you wish to say to her." " I am here, nurse," said Enid gently — she had always been in the habit of addressing Mrs. Meldreth by that title. " Do you want me ? " "Oh, my dearie," said the old woman dreamily, "and have you come to me after all? Sabina there, she tried to keep you away ; but I had my will at last. Polly told you that I wanted you, didn't she, Miss Enid dear ? " " Yes, nurse, she told me." " I'll pay Polly Moss out for that 1 " Sabina was heard to mutter between her closed teeth. But Enid took no notice of the words. " I'd something to say to you, my dearie," said Mrs. Meldreth, whose voice, though feeble, was now perfectly distinct ; " and * dearie ' I must call you, although I haven't the right to do it now. I held you in my arms, my dear, five minutes after you came into this here wicked world, and I'-ve alius looked on you as one o' my own babies, so to speak." The delicate color had flushed Enid's cheeks a little, but she answered simply, " Yes, dear nurse ; " and, leaning down, she kissed the old woman's forehead. The caress moved the Rector strangely. His heart gave an odd bound, the blood began to course more rapidly through his veios, He was a clergyman, and he was in the A LIFE SENTENCE. 109 presence of a dying woman ; but he was a man for all that, and at the moment when Enid's pure lips were pressed, to her old nurse's brow, his whole being was stirred by a new emotion, which as yet he did not suspect was known amongst men by the name of love. Sabina Meldreth had withdrawn from her station at the foot of the bed ; she had moved softly to the side, and now stood by her mother's pillow, opposite to Enid, with her eyes fixed watchfully, balcfuUy, upon her mother's face. But Mrs. Meldreth seemed unconscious of her daughter's gaze. " I've something to say to you, my pretty," she said, with long pauses between the sentences — longer and longer as the laboring breath became more difficult and the task of speech more painful. " Sabina would nigh kill me if she knew. But I can't die with this thing on my mind. If I've wronged you and yours, and my own flesh and blood as well, I want to make amends." " Is she — does she know what she is saying ? " said Enid, raising her eyes to the Rector's face, widi a touch of doubt and alarm in their pensive depths. Before Mr. Evandale could answer Sabina broke in wildly. " No, she don't — she don't know what she's saying ; I told you so before ! She's got her head full of mad fancies ; she's not responsible, and you've no business to listen to her ravings. It ain't fair — it ain't fair — it ain't fair ! " She concluded with a sob of passion that broke, in spite of her efforts to control hersell. from her whitening lips, but which brought no tears with it to her eyes. " Control yourself," said the Rector gravely. " We shall make all allowance for your mother's state of mind. But, if there is anything that she ought to confess, any act of dishonesty or unfaithfulness while she served Miss Vane's parents or uncle, then let her speak and humble herself in the sight of God, in whose very presence she, like all of us, will shortly stand." The Rector's solemn tones awed Sabina into momentary quiescence, and reached even the dying woman's dulled ears. " It is the parson," she said feebly. " Yes, I'm glad he's here, and Miss Enid too. I can't go into the Almighty's presence with a lie on my lips — can I, parson ? It would weigh me down — down— down to hell I must confess 1 '* v- \^: )' »■ V-' ii I if' no A LIFE SENTENCE, " You've nothing to confess," said Sabina, almost fiercely ; " lie still and hold your tongue, mother 1 You'll only bring shame on us boih ; and it's not true — not true 1 " "You know then that your mother has something on her mind ? In God's name be silent and let her speak ! " said Mr. Evandale. Enid looked up at her with wondering pity. Indeed Sabina Meldreth presented at that moment a strange and even tragic appearance. The hot unnatural color had left her cheeks, her ashy lips were strained back from her clenched teeth, her eyes were wide with an unspoken fear. Whatever she might say or leave unsaid, neither of those two persons who looked at her could doubt for another moment that Sabina Meldreth had a secret — a guilty secret — weigh- ing heavily upon her mind. Mrs. Meldreth's weak voice once more broke the silence. " I never thought of its harming you, my dear," she said. ** I thought you was rich and would not want houses and lands. And, when Mrs. Vane that now is came to me and said " She did not achieve her sentence. Sabina Meldreth had flown like a tigress at her mother's throat. But, fortunately for Mrs. Meldreth, a strong and resolute man was in the room. He had already drawn nearer to Sabina, with a feeling that she was not altogether to be trusted, and, as soon as she made her first savage move- ment — so like that of a wild beast leaping on its prey — his hands were upon her, his strong arms holding her back. For a minute there was a frightful struggle. The Rector pinioned her arms ; but she, with the ferocity of an undisciplined nature, flung her head sideways and fastened her teeth in his arm. Her strength and her agility were so great that the Rector could not easily disengage himself; and, although the cloth of his coat-sleeve prevented her attempt to bite from doing any great injury, the assault was sufficiently painful and sufficiently unexpected to protract the struggle longer than might have been anticipated. For, as she was a woman, Maurice Evandale did not like to resort to active violence, and it was with some difficulty that he at last mastered her and placed her in a chair, where for a few minutes he had to hold her until her struggles ceased and were succeeded by a burst of convulsive sobs. Then he felt that he might relax his hold, she ceased to be dangerous when she began to cry. A Life sentence. tii Enid had involuntarily withdrawn her arm from Mrs. Meldreth's shoulders, and sprung to her feet with a low cry when she saw the struggle that was taking place ; but in a second or two she conquered her impulse to fly to the Rector's aid, and with rare self-control bent once more over the dying woman, who needed her help more than Mr. Evandale could. Poor Mrs. Meldreth was almost unconscious of ^he disturbance. Her eyes were glazing, her sight was growing feeble, the words that fell from her lips were broken and disconnected. But still she spoke — stil she went on pouring her story into Enid's listening ears. When the Rector at last looked round, he saw an expres- sion on Enid's face which chilled him to the bone. It was a look of unutterable woe, of grief, shame, agony, and profound astonishment. But there was no incredulity. Whatever Mrs. Meldreth had told her Enid had believed. The Rector made one step towards the bed. " If you have anything to confess, Mrs. Meldreth," he began ; but Enid interrupted him. " She has confessed," said the girl, turning her face to him with a strange look of raingk d humiliation and com- passion — "she has confessed — and I — I have forgiven. Nurse, do you hear ? God will forgive you, and I forgive you too." " God will forgive," murmured the woman. A smile flickered over her pale face. Then a change cr .ne ; the light in her eyes went out, her jaw fell. A slight convulsion passed through her whole frame, and she lay still — very still. The confession, great or small, that she had made had been heard only by Enid and her God. CHAPTER XVII. " It is all over," said Maurice Evandale, looking gravely at the dead woman's face. " It is all over, and may GocJ have mercy upon her soul ! " He left Sabina, who was sobbing hysterically as she sat huddled up in the chair on which he had placed her, and came to Enid's side. She turned to him with sorrowful appeal. *-i > J ■■ :•■ ^Hi It f 'Af " ' ' :,H fl^ A LIFE SENTENCE, " Is she dead? Can nothing be done ? " " Nothing. Come away, Miss Vane ; this is no place for you. One moment ! Have you anything to say to this woman ? Have you any charge to bring ? " He pointed to Sabina as he spoke, and she, roused for an instant, raised a mute terrified face from her hands, and seemed to shrink still lower in her chair, as if she would willingly have hidden herself and her secret, whatever it mi^ht be, out of sight of all the world. She waited — waited — evidently with dread — for the accusation that she expected from Enid's lips. The Rector waited also, but the accusation did not come. There was a moment's utter silence in the chamber of death. " Have you anything to say ? " asked Maurice Evandale at last. Then Enid spoke'. " No," she answered, with quivering lips ; " I can say nothing. I — I forgave her — before she died ; " and then she turned away and went swiftly out of the room, leaving the others to follow or linger as they pleased. Sabina rose from her chair and stood as if dazed, stupe- fied by her position. All her fierceness and defiance had left her ; her face was white, her eyes were downcast, her hands hung listlessly at her sides. The Rector paused and spoke. " You hear what Miss Vane said ? " She made no answer. " I do not know what you or your mother may have dojie. Some secret guilt evidently weighed upon her soul. Whatever it may be, she confessed her guilt and received forgiveness. Sabina Meldreth, in the presence of your dead mother and of your living God, I call upon you to do the same. If you would find mercy in the hour of your own death, confess your sin, whatever it may be, and you shall be forgiven." Still she stood silent and almost motionless, but her teeth gnawed at her white lips as if to bite them through. ^ "You will have no better time than the present," said the Rector. " If there is anything that you feel should be confessed, confess it now. It is God's voice calling to you, not mine. Your mother cleared her conscience before she died, do you the same. , I bid you in God's name." Maurice Evandale did not often speak after this fashion ; A LIFE SENTENCE, t'J he was no fanailc, no bigot, but he believed intensely in the great eternal truths which he preached, and in the presence of death — in the presence also, as he believed, of mortal sin — he could not do less than appeal to what was highest and best in the nature of the woman before him. What she had to accuse herself of he could not possibl) imagine ; but he knew that there was something. By the dead woman's incoherent words, by Sabina Meldreth's violence, by Enid's stricken look of perplexity and pain, he knew that something lay hidden which ought to. be brought to light. The winter's day was drawing to a close. Through the uncurtained window the light stole dimly, and the reddened coals in the tiny grate threw but a feeble gleam into the room. In every corner shadows seemed to cluster, and the dead woman's face looked horribly pale and ghastly in the surrounding gloom. The Rector waited with a feeling that the moment was unutterably solemnj that it was fraught with the destiny of a suffering, sinning human being — ^for aught he knew, with the destinies of more than one. Suddenly the woman before him threw up her hands as if to shut out the sight of her dead mother's face. " I have nothing to tell you — nothing ! " she cried. " What business have you here ? You teased my mother out of her last few minutes of life, and now you want to get the mastery over me 1 It's my house now, my room — not my mother's — and you may go out of it." "Is that all you have to say," asked the Rector gravely — " even in her presence, Sabina Meldreth ? " " Yes, that's all," she answered, the old fierceness creep- ing back into her tones. " What else shouid I have to say ? I suppose you can have me taken up for assault ; Miss Vane will bear witness in your favor fast enough, no doubt. I don't care 1 " " Do you not care even when you think what I kept you back from? " said Mr. Evandale. " Your mother was old, weak, dying, and you threw yourself upon her with violence. You will remember that some day, and will bless me perhaps because I withheld your hand. Your attack upon me matters nothing. I am willing to believe that you did not know what you were doing. I will leave you know — it is not seemly that we should discuss this matter any further. But, if ever vou want help or counsel — and the day may IM A LIFE SEt^TENCk, come, my poor woman, when you may want both — then come to me." He opened the door, went out, and closed it behind him, leaving Sabina Meldreth alone with the dead. He found two or three women down-stairs already ; Enid Vane must have told Polly, as she passed through the shop, that Mrs. Meldreth's end had come. As soon as he had gone, two of them went upstairs to perform the neces- sary offices in the chamber of death. They found Sabina stretched on the floor in a swoon, from which it was long before she recovered. " You wouldn't ha' thought she had so much feeling in her," said one of the women to^the other, as they ministered V: her wants. Meanwhile the Rector strode down the village street, straining his eyes in the twilight, and glancing eagerly from side to side, in his endeavor to discover what had become of Miss Vane. He knew that she had probably never been out so late unattended in her life before ; lonely as her existence seemed to be, she was well cared for, anxiously guarded, and surrounded by every possible protection. He had been surprised to find her in Mrs. Meldreth's cottage so late in the afternoon. Only the exigencies of the situa- tion had prevented him from following her at once when she left the house — only the stern conviction that he must not, for the sake of MisS Vane's bodily safety and comfort, neglect Sabina Meldreth's soul. But, when he felt that his duty in the cottage was over, he sallied forth in search of Enid Vane. She had been wearing a long fur-lined cloak, he remembered, and on her head a little fur toque to match. The colors of both were dark ; at a distance she could not be easily distinguished by her dress. And she had at least three-quarters of a mile to walk — through the village, down-hill by the lane, past the fir plantation where her father had been found murdered, and a little way along the high-road — before she would reach her own park gate. The Rector, like all strong men, was very tender and piti- ful to the weak. ' The thought of her feeling nervous and frightened in the darkness of the lane was terrible to him ; he felt as if she ought to be guarded and guided throughout life by the fearless and the strong. He walked down the street — it was a long straggling street such as often forms the main thoroughfare of a A LIFE SENTENCE, II 5 country village — but he saw nothing of Enid. At the end of the street were some better-built houses, with gardens ; then came the Rectory and the church. He paused inst: ic- tively at the churchyard gate. Surely he saw something moving amongst the tombs over there by the railed-in plot of ground that marked the vault, in which lay the mortal remains of Sydney and Marion Vane? Had she gone there ? Was it Enid's slender form that crouched beside the railings in the attitude of helpless sorrow and despair? The Rector did not lose a moment in finding out. He threw open the gate, dashed down the pathway, aim was scarcely astonished to discover that his fancy was correct. It was Enid Vane who had found her way to her parents* grave, and had slipped down upon the frosted grass, half kneeling, half lying against the iron rails. One glance, and Evandale's heart gave a leap of terror. Had she fainted, or was she dead? It was no warm, conscious, breathing woman whom he had found — it was a rigid image of death, as stiff, as siehtlcss, as manimate as the corpse that he had left behind. He bent down over her, felt her pulse, and examined the pupils of her eyes. He had had some medical training before he came to Beechfield, and his knowledge of physiological details told him that this was no common faint — that the girl was suffering from some strange cataleptic or nervous seizure, for which ordinary remedies would be of no avail. The Rectory garden opened into the churchyard. Mau- rice Evandale had not a moment's hesitation in deciding what to do. He lifted the strangely rigid, strangely heavy figure in 'his arms, and made his way along the shadowy churchyard pathway to the garden gate. * The great black yews looked grim and ghostly as he left them behind and strode into his own domain, where the flowers were all dead, and the leafless branches of the fruit-trees waved their spectral arms above him as he passed. There was something indefinably unhomelike and weird in the aspect of the most familiar places in the winter twilight. But Maurice Evandale, by an effort of his strong will, banished the fancies that came into his mind, and fixed his thoughts entirely upon the girl he was carrying. How best to restore her, what to do for her comfort and her welfare when she awoke — these were the thoughts that engrossed his attention now. I , ti6 A LIFE SENTENCE, He did not go to the front-door. He went to a long window which opened upon the garden, and walked straight into his own study. A bright fire burned in the grate ; a lamp was placed on the table, where books and papers were heaped in true bachelor confusion. A low broad sofa occupied one side of the room ; tht Rector deposited his burden upon it, and then devoted himself seiiously to the consideration of the case before him. Enid lay white, motionless, rigid, where he had placed her ; her eyelids were not quite closed, and the eyes were visible between the lids ; her lips were open, but the teeth were tightly closed ; a slight froth showed itself about her mouth. " It is no faint," the Rector said to himself. ** It is a fit, a nervous seizure of some sort. If she does not revive in a minute or two, I shall send for Ingledew " — Ingledew was the village doctor — ** and in the meantime I'll act on my own responsibility." Certain reViving measures were tried by him, and appar- ently with success. The bluish whiteness of the girl's face changed to a mt e natural color, her teeth relaxed, her eyelids drooped. Evandale drew a quick breath of relief when he saw the change. He was able to pour a few drops of brandy down her throat, to chafe the unresisting hands, to bathe the cold forehead with some hope of affording relief. He did all as carefully and tenderly as if he had been a woman, and he did not seem to wish for any other aid. Indeed he had locked the door when he first came in, as if to guard against the chance of interruption. Presently he heard her sigh ; then tears appeared on her lashes and stole down her cheeks. Her limbs fell into their natural position, and she put up her hand at last with a feeble, uncertain movement, as if to wipe away her tears. Evandale drew back a little — almost out of her sight. He did not want to startle her. " Where am I ? " she said, in a tremulous voice. "You are at the Rectory, Miss Vane," said Maurice Evandale quietly. " You need not be at all alarmed ; you may have heard that I am something of a doctor, and, as I found that you did not seem well, I took the liberty of bringing you here. " " I don't remember," she said softly, opening her blue eyes and looking at him — without shyness, a^ he noticed, ./ LIFE SENTENCE, 117 but with a kind of wistful trust which appealed to all the tenderness of his nature. " Did I faint? " There was a slight emphasis on the last word. " You were unconscious for a time," said the Rector. " But I hope that you feel better now." She gave him a curious look — whether of shame or of reproach he could not tell — then buried her face in the pillows and began to cry quietly, with her fingers before her eyes. " My dear Miss Vane, can I not do anything for you ? \ will call the housekeeper," said the Rector, driven almost to desperation by the sight of her tears. It was always very painful to him to see a woman cry. " No, no ! " she said, raising her head for a moment. " No — don't call any one, please ; I shall be better directly. I know what was the matter now." She dried her eyes and tried to calm herself, while the Rector stood by the table in the middle of the room, ner- vously turning over books and pamphlets, and pretending not to see that she was crying still. " Mr. Evandale," she said at length, " I don't know how to thank you for being so kind. I must tell you " " Don't tell me anything that is painful to you, Miss Vane." " It will not be painful to tell you after your great kind- ness to me. I — I ?.m subject to these attacks. The doctors say that they do not exactly understand the case, but they think that I shall outgrow them in course of time. I have not had one for six months till to-night." She burst into tears again. " But, my dear child," — he could not help saying it — the words slipped from his lips against his will — " there is nothing to be so troubled about ; a little faintness now and then — many people suffer from it." " Ah, you do not understand ! " she said quickly. " It is not faintness at all. I am often quite conscious all the lime. I remember now how you found me and brought me here. I was not insensible all the time, but I cannot move or speak when I am like that. It has been so ever since — ever since my father died." She lowered her voice, as if she were telling something that was terrible to her. " I see," said Mr. Evandale kindly — '* it is an affection of the nerves, which you will get over when you are ii8 A LIFE SENTENCE. Stronger. I hope that you do not make a trouble of that ? " His eyes looked steadily into hers, a^'jd he noted with pain the strange shadow that crossed them as he gazed. " My uncle and his wife," she murmured, " will not let anybody know. They are — they are ashamed of it, and of me. If I do not get better, they say that I shall some day go out of my mind. Oh, it is terrible — terrible to feel a doom of this sort hanging over one, and to know that nothing can avert it ! I had hoped that it was all over — that I should not have another attack ; but you see — you see that I hoped in vain ! It is like a black shadow always hanging over me, and nothing — nothing will ever take it a\vay ! " ' large my ( you to ta unha look. I 0U{ one' (( guarc CHAPTER XVIII. For a moment even the stout-hearted Rector was appalled. But Enid, although she was watching him intently, could not read anything but unfaltering sympathy and ready cheer in the glance that he gave her and the words that rose almost immediately to his tongue. "Courage! Doctors are very often wrong," he said. " Besides, I do not see why such an ending should be feared, even if there were any constitutional tendency of the kind in your family, which there is not." " No," said Enid, bss timidly than before ; " I believe there is not. I have asked." " Your attacks are only nervous, my dear Miss Vane. The very fact of your having — foolishly, I think — been told the doctor's theories has made it less possible for you to strive against the malady ; and yet you say that it has not made progress lately. You have not been ill in this way for six months ? " ** No, not for six months." " Don't you see that the excitement and fatigue of to- day's expedition, and the sad scene which we have just witnessed, would be likely to increase any ailment of the nervous system? You must not argue anything from what has happened to-day. Forgive me," the Rector broke off to say, with a smile — '' I am talking like a doctor to you, and my medical skill is small indeed. It is only A UFk SENTENCE, 11^ large enough to enable me to assure you, Miss Vane, of my conviction that your fears are ungrounded, and that you are tormenting yourself to no purpose. Will you try to take my advice and turn your thoughts away from this unhappy subject? " " I will try," answered Enid, with rather a bewildered look. " But," she added a moment later, " I thought that I ought to be always on my guard ; and one cannot be on one's guard without thinking about the matter." " Who told you that you ought to be always on your guard?" " Flossy — I mean Mrs. Vane. She is very kind, and watches me constantly. Oh, I forgot," said the girl, start- ing to her feet, and clasping her hands before her with a look of wretched nervous terror which went to the Rec- tor's heart — " I forgot — I forgot- <( What did you forget ? " said Evandale, wondering for a moment whether her mind was not unhinged by all that she had passed through that afternoon. Then, touched by her evident distress, he went on more lightly, " I have been forgetting that you will be missed from the Hall by this time, and that the whole country-side will be out after you if we do not go back at once. I will send for a carriage and drive down with you, if you will allow me." Enid sank back on the sofa and assented listlessly. Mr. Evandale left the room, and sent in his absence a com- fortable-looking old housekeeper with wine and biscuits, offers of tea and coffee, and all sorts of medicaments suitable to a young lady who had been faint and unwell — as was only to be expected after witnessing the death of Mrs. Meldreth, that troublesome old person having expired quite suddenly that afternoon when Miss Vane and Mr. Evandale were both at her bedside. Enid was not inclined to accept any of Mrs. Heale's attentions, but, out of sheer dislike to hurting her feelings, she at last accepted a cup of tea, and was glad of the reviving warmth which it brought to her cold and tired limbs. And then Mr. Evan- dale returned. " There is no carriage at the inn," he said ; " and I am sorry to say, Miss Vane, that I do not possess one that would suit you — I have only a high dog-cart and a kicking mare ; so I have taken the liberty of sending down to the Hall and telling Mrs. Vane that you are here ; and she i^ A UFE SENTENCE, will no doubt send a carriage for you. I wrote a little note to her — it was the best thing, I thought, that I could do." " Yes," said Enid, almost inaudibly. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes, looking as if she felt sick and faint. Mrs. Heale glided away, in obedience to a nod from her master, and the Rector was once more alone with Enid Vane. " I hope/' he said, with a slight hesitation, which was rather graceful in a man of his commanding stature and singular loftines<§ of bearing — " I hope. Miss Vane, you will not think that I have been intrusive when I tell you that I entreated Sabina Meldreth to confess anything that might weigh upon her conscience, as her mother had con- fessed to you." A great wave of crimson suddenly passed over Enid's pallid Sleeks and brow. She raised a pair of startled eyes to the Rector's face, and then said quickly — " Did she tell you ? " ' [ " No, Miss Vane, she did not." " Then will you promise me," said Enid, with sudden earnestness, " never to ask her again ? " " How can I do that ? It may be my duty to ask her for her soul's sake ; you would be the last to counsel me to be silent then." " Oh, but you do not understand ! I know now — I know what is weighing on Sabina Meldreth's mind ; and I have forgiven her." " It was a wrong done to you ? " "Yes— to me." " And to no one else ? " Enid's head drooped. " I don't know — I can't tell. I must think it over." * Yes — think and pray," said the Rector gravely but tenderly ; " and remember that truth should always pre- vail." " I know — I believe it ; but it would do more harm than jgood." " Miss Vane, if I am indiscreet, I trust you will pardon me. If by any chance this confession has reference to the death of your father, Mr. Sydney Vane, it is yonr duty to make it known, at any cost to your own feelings." The girl looked up with an expression of relief. A LIFE SENTENCE, lai " It does not bear on that subject at all, Mr. Evandale.** " I am glad. You will forgive me for alluding to it ? A wild fancy crossed my mind that it had sonpething to do with that." " I shall never forget your kindness," said Enid grate- fully. " And if you are in perplexity — in any trouble — will you trust me to do all for you that is in my power ? If you ever want help, you will remember that I am ready — ready for all — all that you might require " He never finished his speech, which was perhaps fortu- nate for him. V/ith Enid's soft eyes, slightly distressed and appealing in expression, looking straight into his own, with the sight before him of her pale, wistful face, the lovely lips which had fallen into so pathetic a curve of weariness and sorrow, how could the Rector be expected to preserve his self-possession ? His thoughts and his words became confused ; he did not quite know what he was saying, nor whether she heard and understood him aright. He was glad to remember afterwards that the expression of her countenance did not change ; he brought neither alarm nor astonishment into her eyes ; there were only gentle gratitude and a kind of hopelessness, the meaning of which he could not fathom, in the girl's still raised listening face. But at that very moment a knock came to the door ; and half to the Rector's relief, half to his embarrassment, the General himself walked in. " Ah, thank Heaven, she is here ! " were the old man's first words. " We thought she was lost, Mr. Evandale — we did indeed. I met your messenger on the way to the Hall, and sent him on for the carriage. A pretty time you've given us, young lad)ji! " he said, smiling at Enid and pinching her chin, and then grasping the Rector's hand with a look of relief and gratitude which told its own story. " Miss Vane^has been a good deal distressed and up- set," said Mr. Evandale. " She was at Mrs. Meldreth's \ =^dside when the old woman died this afternoon, and the scene was naturally very painful. I brought her here that she might rest and recover herself a little before going home." He wanted to explain and simplify matters for Enid's benefit ) he had grasped the fact that her uncle's entranq^ '■\'\ I' ;. :■ ?. .■ S ;•' M'- if' 1^^ ', % I 'nl 't , ' !• r ^ % i \' 1 1 ii '4 1 •: -i " I if Ml- 133 A LIFE SENTENCE, was making her exceedingly nervous. He put it down to fear of the General's anger, but it afterwards occurred to him that Mrs^ Meldreth's confession might, for some reason or other, be the cause of her agitation. Certainly her dis- tress and confusion were at that moment very marked. She had risen from her seat at his entrance, her color changing to crimson and then to dead white more than once during the Rector's speech. It settled at last into a painful pallor, which so impressed the General that he did not even administer the gentle rebuke which he had intended Enid to receive for her infringment of the rules on which her life was based. He could not scold her when she stood before him, pale to the very lips, her eye- lids cast down, her hands joined together and nervously trembling, a very embodiment of conscious guilt and shame. " Bless my soul, she does look upset, and no mistake ! " he exclaimed, in his hearty and impulsive way. " Come, my dear — don't be so miserable about it ! I daresay you did not know how late it was, and the poor woman could not be left. Yes, I quite understand ; and I will explain it all to your aunt. Sit down and rest until the carriage comes, as the Rector does not mind our invasion of his study." Mr. Evandale made some polite but slightly incoherent rejoinder, to which nobody listened, for the General's attention was at that moment completely monopolised by Enid, who on feeling his arm around her, suddenly hid her white face on his shoulder and burst into tears. " Oh, uncle," she sobbed, " you are so kind — so good ! Forgive me ! " " Forgive you, my dear ? J'here is nothing to forgive ! " said the astonished General, in a slightly reproving tone. "Of course I do not like your staying out so late on a winter afternoon, but you need not make such a fuss about it, my child. You must control yourself, control yourself, you know. There, there — don't cry ! What will Mr. Evandale think of you ? Why, bless me, Evandale has gone ! Well, well, you need not cry — I am not angry at all — only stop crying — there's a g ^od girl ! " " Say you forgive me, uncle ! " moaned Enid, heedless of his rather disconnected remarks, which certainly had no bearing at all on t' dilemma forced upon her by th^ pature of Mrs. Meldreth's confession? A Ufe sentence. ti:j " Forgive you, my dear? Why, of course I do ! You're a little upset, are you not ? But you must not give way like this — it'll never do — ^iiever do," said the General, pat- ting her on the back benevolenily. " There now — dry your eyes, like a good girl ; and I think I hear the carriage in the lane, so we must be going. You've no idea how anxious about you poor dear Flossy has been all the after- noon." He was pleased to see that her tears were checked. She raised herself from his shoulder and brushed away the salt drops with which her cheeks were wet ; but she sobbed no longer, and she stood perfectly still and calm. He was not a roan of keen observation ; and, if the cold white look which suddenly overspread her countenance had any meaning, it was not one that he was likely to read aright. A servant brought the intelligence that the carriage was at the door, and shortly afterwards the Rector appeared. He had slipped away when Enid burst into tears, hoping that she might confide to the General what she had refused to confide to him ; but a glance at the faces of the two told him that his hopes had not been realised. The kindly complacency which characterised the General's counten- ance was undisturbed, while Enid's face bore the impress of mingled perplexity and despair. It seemed to Maurice Evandale that each expression would have been changed if Enid had bared her heart to her uncle. He did not know — he could not even guess — what her secret was ; but he instinctively detected the presence of trouble, per- haps of danger. " The two men parted very cordially ; for the General was deterred from seeing much of the Rector only by Mrs. Vane's dislike of him, and his kindly feeling was all the more effusive because he had so few opportunities of expressing it. Enid took leave of the Rector with a look, a wan little smile which touched him inexpressibly. " You have part of my secret," it seemed to say. " Help me to bear the burden ; I am weak and need your aid." He vowed to himself that he would do all that a man could do — all that she might ever ask. But Enid was quite unconscious of having made that mute appeal. She lay back in a corner of the carriage, saying she was too tired to talk. The General left her in peace, but took one of her little hands and held it tenderly between his % w 1 i'^ fi ■' I ! Ik m A LIFE SENTENCE. own. He could not imagine why it trembled and flut- tered so much, why once it seemed to try to drag itself away. The poor girl must be quite overdone, he thought to him- self ; she was far too kind, too tender-hearted to go about amongst the village people and witness all their woes ; she wa*s not strong enough to do such work — he must speak to Flossy about it. And, while he was thus ;hink- ing, the carriage turned in at the park gates and presently halted at the great front-door. The servants came forward to assist the General, who was a little stiff in his joints now and then ; and he, in his turn gave an arm to Enid as she alighted. The old butler looked at her curiously as she entered and stood for a moment, dazed and bewil- dered, in the hall. Miss Enid was always pale, but he had never seen her look so white and scared. She must be ill, he decided, and especially when she shrank so oddly as he deferentially mentioned his mistress' name. '* My mistress hoped that you would come to her sitting room as soon as you arrived, ma'am," he said. She made a strange answer. ** No, no — I cannot — I cannot see her to-night ! " The General was instantly at her side. " Enid, my dear, what do you mean ? Your aunt wants to see you. She won't be vexed with you — I'll make it all right with her," he added, in a lower tone. " She has been terribly anxious about you. Come — I will take you to her room." " Not just now, uncle — not to-night," said the girl, in a tone of mingled pain and dread. " I — I can't bear it — I am ill — I must be alone now ! " " My dear child, you must go to bed and rest. I'll ex- plain it all to Flossy. She will come to see you." " No, no — I can't see any one ! Forgive me, uncle ; I hardly know what I am saying or doing. I shall be better to-morrow. Till then — till then at least I must be left in peace ! " She broke from his detaining hand with something so like violence, that the General looked after her in wonder as she ran up-stairs. " She must be ill indeed ! " he murmured thoughtfully to himself, as he wended his way to his wife's boudoir, to make his report to Flossy. Meanwhile Enid's progress up-stairs was barred for a A LIFE SENTENCE, Mi moment by her little p -aymate and scholar, Dickj who ran out of his nursery to greet her with a cry of joy. To his surprise and mortification, cousin Enid did not stop to kiss him— did not even give him a pleasant word or smile. AVith a stifled cry she disengaged her frock from his hand, breaking from him as she had broken from the General just before, and sped away to her own room. He heard her turn the key in her door, and, for the first time realis- ing the enormity of the woe that had come upon him — the unprecedented fact that cousin Enid had been unkind — he lifted up his voice and bursted into a storm of sobs, which would at any ordinary time have brought her instantly to his side to comfort and caress. But this time Enid either did not henr or did not heed. She was crouching down by the side of her bed, with her face hidden in the coverlet, and her hands pressed over her ears, as if "to exclude all sound of the world without ; and between the difficult passionate sobs by which her whole frame was shaken, one phrase escaped from her lips from time to time — a phrase which would have been unintelli- gible enough to an ordinary hearer, but would have recalled a long and shameful story to the minds of Florence Vane and one other woman in the world. " Sabina Meldreth's child ! " she muttered to herself not knowing what she said. " How^an I bear it? Oh, my poor uncle ! Sabina Meldreth's child ! " CHAPTER XIX. Hubert Lepel had promised to spend Christmas Day at Beechfield, but for Lome unexplained reason he stayed away, sending at the last moment a telegram which his sister felt to be unsatisfactory. Flossy did not often exert herself to obtain a guest ; but on this occasion she wrote a rather reproachful letter to her brother, and begged him not to fail to visit them on New Year's eve. " The General was disappointed," she wrote, *' and so was someone else." Hubert thought that she meant herself, felt a thrill of wondering compassion, and duly presented himself at the. Hall on the thirty-first of December. He saw Rossy alone in her luxurious boudoir before ■'k: Ia6 A l/PJs s£://r£Arc£, inyone else knew of his arrival. He thought her looking ill and haggard, and asked after her health. To his sur prise, the question made her angry. "Of course I am not well — I am never well," she answered ; " but I am no worse than usual. There is some- one else in the house whose appearance you had better enquire after." " You are fond of talking in riddles. Do you mean the General ? " said Hubert drily. " No, not the General," Florence answered, setting her lips. Hubert shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. He had not an idea of what ':he meant ; but when, shortly before dinner, he first saw Enid, a light flashed across his mind — Flossy meant that the girl was ill. He had cer- tainly been rather dense and rather unkind, he thought to himself, not to ask after her. And how delicate she was looking ! What was the matter with her ? It was not merely that she was thinner and paler, but that an indefin- able change had come over her countenance. The shadow that had always lurked in her sweet eyes seemed to have fallen at last over her whole face, darkening its innocent candor, obscuring its tranquil beauty ; the loqk of truth- fulness and of ignorance of evil had gone. No child-face was it now — rather that of a woman who had been forced to look evil in the face, and was repelled and sickened at the sight. There was no joy in the eyes with which Enid now looked upon the world. Hubert watched her steadily through the long and elab- orate meal which the General thought appropriate to New Year's eve, noting her weariness, her languor, her want of interest in anything that went on, and could not under- stand the change. Was this girl — sick apparently in body and mind — the guileless maiden who had listened with such flattering attention to the stories of his wanderings in foreign lands, when he last came down to Beechfield Hall? He tried her with similar tales — they had no inter- est for her now. She was silent, distraite, preoccupied. Still gentle and sweet to every one, she was no longer bright ; smiles seemed to be banished for ever from her lips. She and Florence scarcely spoke to each other. The General did not seem to notice this fact ; but Hubert had !i A LIFE SENTENCE. 1*7 not been half an hour in their company before he recog- nised its force. They must have quarrelled, he said to himself rather angrily — Flossy had probably tried to tyran- nise, and the girl had resented her interference. Flossy was a fool ; he would speak to her about it as soon as he had the opportunity, and get the truth from her — forgetting for the moment that, if ever a man set himself an impossible task, it was this one of getting the truth from Flossy. Before dinner was ended, the sound of footsteps, the tuning of instruments, the clearing of voices could be dis- tinguished in the hall. Hubert glanced at his host for explanation, which was speedily given. " It is the village choir," he said confidentially. "They come on Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve, and sing in the hall. When they have finished, they all have a glass of wine and drink our healths before they go down to supper in the kitchen. It's an old custom." " And a very disagreeable one," said Mrs. Vane calmly. '* Your ears will be tortured, Hubert, by the atrocious noise they make. With your permission, Enid and I will go to the drawing-room ; " and, glancing at Enid, she rose from her chair. " My dear Flossy, I entreat of you to stay ! " said the General. " You have never gone away before — it would hurt their feelings immensely. I have sent word for Dick to be brought down ; I mean them to drink his health too, bless the little man ! It will be quite a slight to us all if you go away." Flossy smiled ironically, but she looked at Enid in what Hubert thought a rather peculiar way. He knew his sister's face very well, and he could not but fancy that there was some apprehension in the " glance. Enid sat still, looking at the tablecloth before her. Her face had grown perceptibly paler, but she did not move. A little spot of red suddenly showed itself on each of Mrs. Vane's delicate cheeks. "Well, Enid, what do you say?" she asked, with less languor of utterance than usual. " Do you wish to suffer a purgatory of discord? Come — let us go to the drawing- room ; nobody will notice whether we are Jiere or not." " My dear, I said I wished you to stay," began the General anxiously ; but Florence only laughed a little wildly, and beat her fan once or twice upon the table. :j A r^ H t I t r !, (:■■■ if I 1 11 ■ ^ If I"' h J} H| rU- laS A LIFE SENTENCE, " Come, Enid. We have had music enough, surely ! Vou are coming ? " " No, I am going to stay here," said the girl, without raising her eyes. Her tone was exceedingly cold. Flossv bit her lip, laughed again, and sank back into her chair with an air of would-be indifference. " If you stay, I suppose I must," she said lightly ; but there was a strange glitter in her narrowed eyes, and she bit her lip with her little white teeth so strongly and so sharply as to draw the blood. " Here comes Dick," said the General, whose placidity was quite restored by his wife's consent to stay — " here he comes 1 There, my boy — seen Uncle Hubert yet ? Go and kiss him, and then come back to mo^and V\\ give you some dessert." The fair-haired little fellow looked smaller and shyer than Hubert remembered him. He had very little color in his face, but his eyjs lighted up joyfully when he saw the visitor, and he put his arms around Hubert's neck with such evident satisfaction that his uncle felt quite flattered. But, when Dick was perched upon his father's knee, and the singers had struck up their first florid chant, he wa" surprised to find that Enid had raised her blue eyes and was steadily regarding him with a searching yet sorrowful look, which seemed as if it would explore the inmost recesses of his soul. For various reasons Hubert felt that he could not long endure that gaze. The best way of stoppir^ it was to return it, and therefore, although with an effort which was almost agonising, he suddenly looked back into her eyes with a composure and resolute boldness which caused her own very speedily to sink. The color rose to her face, she gave a slight quickly-suppressed sigh, and she did not look up again. Puzzled, troubled, vaguely suspicious, Hubert wondered whether his calm reception of her gaze had silenced the doubt of him, which he was nearly sure that he read in those sad blue eyes. He knew that Flossy was watching him and watching her, and he envied the General his guileless enjoyment of all that was going on, and little Dick's innocent pleasure in what was to him a great and unwonted treat. When two songs had been sung, with much growling of the bass and a general misconception of the functions of a tenor, with great scraping of violin strings and much want A LIFE SENTENCE, 129 of harmony amongst the 'cellos, the General called the butler and told him to open the door. The dining-room had two wide folding-doors opening into the hall, and, when they were flung open, a motley crowd of village faces could be seen. A row of shrill- voiced chorister boys, much muflled up in red comforters, stood foremost ; behind them came the sinking men and the performers on instru- ments — a diverse little crowd of men and youths. In the background, some six or eight singing women and girls presented a half-bold, half-shy appearance, as knowing that they were there on sufferance only, and that the Rector had been doing his best to prevent their going out at nights to sing with the village choir. But the General had " backed them up ; " he did not like the discontinuance of old customs, and was inclined to think the Rector unduly strict. Accordingly they stood in their accustomed places, but, as most of them felt, probably for the last time on New Year's Eve. The faces of men and women and children, with one exception, were wreathed in smiles ; but that one exception was notable indeed. Hubert, with his trained powers of keen observation, observed a lowering face directly It was that of tall young woman neatly dressed in black — a young woman with fair hair curled over her forehead and rather prominent blue eyes — a coarse-looking girl, he thought, in spite of her pale coloring and sombre gar- ments. Her brows were drawn together over her eyes in an angry frown ; she was biting her lip, much as Flossy had been doing, and there was not a gleam of good humor or pleasure in her eyes. Hubert wondered idly why she had come, when she seemed to enjoy her occupation so very little. The opening of the doors was the signal for a volley of clapping, stamping, and shouting. When this was over, the butler and his helpers appeared with trays of well-filled glasses, which were taken by the members of the choir, down to the smallest child present, with great alacrity. The fair woman in the background was once more an exception — she took no wine. The General filled his own glass and signed for Hubert to do the same for the ladies. He then stood up and pre- pared to make his usual New Year's Eve speech. But this time he did what he had never done before — he lifted his ' % \i ' I i ■i .i rilt HJ fmf I 130 j4 life sentence. little son on to the chair on which he had been sitting, and made his oration with one arm round little Dick's slender shoulders. To Hubert it seemed a pretty sight. Why did it give no pleasure to Florence and to Enid? Florence's eyes glittered, and a spot of blood was painfully conspi- cuous on her white lips ; but Enid, sitting silent with down- cast eyes, was now unusually flushed. A student of char- acter might have said that, while Flossy seemed merely excited, Enid — the timid, delicate, pure-minded £iiid — looked ashamed. " My dear friends," the General began, " I'm very much obliged to you for coming, you know — very much obliged. So are my wife and my niece, and my little boy here — so far as he understands anything about it — very much obliged to you all. You know I ain't much of a speech-maker — ' actions speak louder than words ' was always my maxi.71 " — great cheering — " and I take leave to say that I think it is a very good maxim too " — tremendous applause. " My friends, it's the end of one year, and it will soon be the beginning of another. Let's hope that the new year will be better than the last. I don't suppose I shall have many more to spend amongst you, and that is why I wish to introduce — so to speak — my little boy to you. As my son and heir, my friends, he will one day stand in the place which I now occupy, and speak to you perhaps as I am speaking now. I can only ask you *o behave as well to him as you have always behaved to mt I trust that he will prove himself worthy of his name rund of his race, and that generations yet unborn will bless the day when Beechfield Hall came into the hands of a younger Richard Vane. My friends, if you drink my health to-night, I shall ask you also to drink the health of my boy — to wish him happiness, and that he may prove a better landlord, a better magis- trate, and a better ?nan than ever I have been." There was a tumult of applause, mingled with cries of " No, no ! " — *• Can't be better than you have been, sir ! " and " Hurrah for the General ! " Hubert, smiling with pleasure at his host's genial tone, was amazed at the gloom which sat upon the brows of three persons in the room — Florence, Enid, and the woman in black. There was no other likeness between them, but that air of reserve and gravity made them look as if some jngonimunicable bond, some similarity of feeling or experi- A LtFt SENTENCE, »at ence, held them back from the general hilarity which sur- rounded them. " A happy New Year to you all, my friends !" said the General, in his hearty voice. " Here's to your good healths ! There, Dick, my man — drink too, and say, ' A happy New Year to all of you ! ' " Little Dick took a sip from his father's glass, and gravely uplifted his childish treble. " A happy New Year to all of you ! " he said ; and men and women alike broke out into delighted response. " Same to you, sir, and many of them 1 " " Bless his little heart," one of the women was heard to murmur, " he's just the image of his mamma ! " But, if she thought to give pleasure by this remark, she was far from success- ful. Mrs. Vane threw so angry a glance in her direction that the woman shrank back aghast ; and the girl in black, who stood in the background, laughed between her teeth. The function was over at last. The choir trooped away to the servants* premises, where a substantial supper awaited them ; the General kissed Htde Dick, and strode away with him to his nurse ; and Mrs. Vane rose from the table with an air of studied weariness and disgust. " Thank Heaven, that is over I " she said. " I am tired to death of this senseless old practice 1 If we have it another year, I shall say I am ill and go to bed. Come, Enid — let us go to the drawing-room and have some music." The girl rose and followed obediently ; but she vouch- safed no answer to Mrs. Vane's remarks. As the General had disappeared, Hubert thought that he too might as well accompany the ladies to the drawing-room, especially if Enid were about to play. But it did not seem that she was inclined to do so. She sat down in the darkest corner of the room, and leaned her head upon her hand. Flossy established herself in a luxurious lounging-chair, and took up a novel. Hubert hesitated for a moment or two, then went over to Enid's side. " Are we not to have any music tonight?" " Have you not had plenty ? " she asked wearily. " Music ! You call that music ? " She did not answer ; something in her voice, her attitude, seemed to show that she was shedding tears. He was intensely sorry for her trouble, whatever it might be ; but he scarcel" knew how to comfort her. %\ ■«■ -.v 134 A LIFE SENTENCE. " It would be good for us dS\. if you would play," he said softly. '* We want consoling — strengthening — uplifting." " Ah, but music does not always do that ! " she ansv.-ered, with a new note of passion in her voice. " When we are happy, music helps us — out not when we are sad." " Why not ? " said Hubert, more from the desire to make, her talk than from any wish to hear her views on that particular subject. But she spoke eagerly in reply, yet softly, so that her words should not reach the ears of the silent, graceful, languid woman by the fire. " I can't tell why," she said ; '' but everything is different. Once music delighted me, even when I was a little sad ; but now it seems to harrow my very soul. It brings thoughts into my mind of all the misery of the world. If I hear music, I shed tears — I don't know why. Everything is changed." " My dear child," said Hubert, " you are unhappy ! " " Yes," sh^ said slowly, with a pathetic tremor of the voice- -" yes, I am very — very unhappy." "Can I do nothing at all to make you happier?" he said. The question was left .unanswered. CHAPTER XX. " My dear Hubert," said Mrs. Vane, " if you cannot see what is the matter with Enid, you must be blind indeed ! " " Why should I see what is the matter with her more than anybody else ? " asked Hubert, who was moving restlessly from place to place, now halting before the window of his sister's sitting-room, now plucking a leaf from one of the flowering plants in a gilded itagere, now teasing the white cockatoo in its fine cage, or stirring up the spaniel with the tip of his boot. All the teasing was good-naturedly done, and provoked no rancour in the mind of bird or beast ; but it showed an unwonted excite- ment of feeling on his part, and was observed by his sister with a slightly ironical smile. " If you will sit still for a little while, I will tell you perhaps," she said ; " but, so long as you stray round the A tlFK SEMT^MCE, n% room in that aimless manner, I shall keep my communica- tions to myself." " I beg your pardon ; I did not know that I was disturb- ing you. Well," said Hubert, seating liimself resolutely in a chair near her own, and devoting his attention apparently to the dissection of a spray of scented geranium-leaf, " tell me what is the matter, and I will listen discreetly. I am really concerned about Enid ; she is neither well nor happy." " Did she tell you so ? " " It is easy to be seen that sne is not well," said Hubert, a very slight smile curving his lips under the heavy dark moustache as he looked down at the leaf which he was twisting in his hand ; *' and I think her unhappiness is quite as obvious. What is it, Flossy? You ought to know. You are the girl's chaperon, adviser, friend, or whatever you like to call it ; you stand in the place " He stopped abruptly^ He forgot sometimes that ghastly story of his sister's earlier life ; sometimes it came back to him with hideous distinctness. At that moment he did not like to say to Flossy, '* You stand in her mother's place." And yet it was the truth. Had it been for Enid's good or harm, he suddenly wondered, that Florence had become the General's wife ? " I understand what you mean," said Flossy quite sweetly, though there was no very amiable look in her velvety-brown eyes. " I assure you thai I should be very glad to make more of a friend of Enid if she would allow me ; but she does not like me." "Instinct!" thought Hubert involuntarily, but he did not say it aloud. With the extraordinary, quickness, how- ever, which Florence occasionally showed, she divined the purport of his reflection almost at once. "You think, no doubt, that it is natural," she said; " but I do not agree with you. Enid has no great penetra- tion ; she has never been able to read my character — which, after all, is not so bad as you imag'ne." ) " I do not imagine anything about it ; I do not think it bad," Hubert interposed r?*^ .er hurriedly. "You have changed very much. But have we not agreed to let old histories alone ? " " I did not intend to revive them. I meant only to assure you that Enid has met with the tenderest care and ^ > 1' !♦ ! I! I (^ I I i 1 ' >34 A itf£ sentence. guidance from me— as far, at least, as it lay in me to give it to her, and whenever she would accept it." "You make two very important reservations." " I know I do, but I cannot help it. I was never devotedly fond of children, and I was once Enid's gover- ness. I do not think that she ever forgets that fact." " Well, come to the point," said Hubert, rather impa- tiently. " What is the matter with her now ? " Florence laughed softly, and eyed him over her fan. She always use$^ a fan, even in the depth of winter — and indeed her boudoir was so luxuriously warm and fragrant that it did hot there seem out of place. She was wearing a loose tea- gown of peacock-blue plush over a satin petticoat of the palest rose-color — a daring combination which she had managed to harmonise extremely well — and the fan which she now held to her mouth was of pale rose-colored feathers. As Hubert looked at her and waited for his answer, he was struck by two things — first by the %hoiceness and beauty of her surroundings, and secondly by the fatigued expression of her eyes, which were set in hollows of purple shadows, and almost veiled by lids which had the faintly reddened tint which comes of wakefulness at night. " I shall next ask what is the matter with you," he said. " You really do not look well, Florence ! " " Do I not ? " She laid down her fan, took up a hand- glass set in silver from a table at her side, and studied her face in the mirror for a few seconds with some intentness. " You are right," she said, when .she put it down ; *' I am growing hatefully old and haggard and ugly. What can one do? Would a winter in the South give me back my good looks, do you think ? Perhaps I had better consult a doctor when I go up to town. I am not so old yet that I need lose all my * beauty,' as people used to call it, ami?" " Why do you care so much ? " Hubert asked. He fancied that there was something deeper in her anxiety than the mere vanity of a pretty woman whose youth was fast fleeting away. " Why does every woman care ? For my husband's sake, of course," .she answered, with a slight laugh, but a look of carking care and pain in her haggard eyes. " If I leave off looking pretty and bright, how am I to know that he will care for me any longer ? And, if not " A LIFE SENTENCE, I3S " If not ! You are a mystery to me, Florence ; you never professed before to trouble yourself about your husband's love." " If I am a mystery, you are a perfect baby, my dear boy — I might almost say a perfect fool — in some respects. If he ceases to love me, he — don't you know that he may still leave me penniless ? I had no settlements." Her voice sank almost to a whisper as she said the words. " Is that it ? " said Hubert coldly. " I did not give you credit for so much worldly wisdom, Flossy. If that is your view of the case, I wonder that you do not pay a little more attention to the General's wishes sometimes. I have seen you treat him with very little consideration." '' He is so wearisome ! One cannot always be on one's good behavior," Flossy murmured ; " and, as long as one looks nice and gives him a word or two now and then, just to keep him in good-humor (< So long, you think, fie will be kind to you ? Florence, you do not understand the General's really noble nature. He is incapable of unkindness to any living soul — least of all capable of it to you, whom he loves so dearly. Do try to appreciate him a little more ! He is devoted to you, both as 1 's wife and as the mother of his child." He could not tell Wiiy she turned her head aside with a sharp gesture of annoyance. " The child — always the child ! " she exclaimed. " I wish I had never had a child at all ! " " We are straying from the point," said her brother coldly ; '* and we can do no good by discussing your relations with your husband. I want to know — as you say you can tell me — why Enid looks so ill." Flossy took up her fan and began to examine the tips of the feathers. " There is only one reason," she said slowly, " why a girl ever looks like that. Only one thing turns a girl of seventeen into a drooping, die-away, lackadaisical creature, such as Enid is just now." " Speak kindly of her, at any rate," said Hubert. " She is a woman like yourself, and there is only one interpreta- tion to be put upon your words." " Naturally. You, as a novelist, dramatist, and poet, must know it well enough" said his sister calmly. " Well^ 4' i li ) iff y- id* I!' i-\ t \ » ;' *'■ i ]) * i 11 ::. i a" I ^% 1. ]:? \ J f 13^ A LIFE SENTENCE. remember that you have insisted on my telling you. Enid is in love. That is all. Nothing to make such a fuss about it, is it? " Hubert was silent for a minute or two. His brow was contracted, as if with vexation or deep thought. Then he said abruptly — " I suppose it's that good-looking parson in the village. There's no other man whom she seems to know so well. I cannot say that you have taken very great care of her, Florence." **Are you really blind, or are you pretending?" said Mrs. Vane, looking at him with calm curiosity. " You are not quite such a fool as you make yourself out to be, are you ? My dear Hubert, are you not aware that you are a singularly handsome and attractive man, and that you have laid siege to the poor child's heart ever since your first arrival here last autumn ? " Hubert started from his seat a£ if he had been stung. " Impossible i " he cried. " Not at all impossible. She has seen few men in her short life — she has been very carefully guarded, in spite of your sneer at my want of caution — and the attentions of a man like yourself were quite new to her. What could you expect?" " Attentions ! " groaned Hubert. " I never paid her any attentions, save as a cousin and a friend." " Exactly ; but she did not understand." There was a short silence. He stood with his arm ou the mantelpiece, looking through the window at the snow- covered landscape outside. His face had turned pale, and his lips were firmly set. Presently he said, in a low tone — '* You must be mistaken. Surely she can never have let you know what her feelings are on such a point? You say that she does not confide in you. How can you know ? " " There are other ways of reading a girl's heart as well as a man's coarse way of having everything in black and white," said Flossy composedly. " I am sure of it. She is in love with you, and that is why she looks so ill." ** It must not be ! You must let her know — gently, but decidedly — that I am not the man for her — that there is an unsurmoun table barrier between us." ♦' Wh^t is it ? Are you married already ? " :f ?' A LIFE SENfliNCP.. m % ^' Florence " — there was a sound of anguish in his voice ** how could I marry a girl whose father I " " Hush, hush ! For mercy's sake, be quiet ! You should never say such things — never think them even. Walls have ears sometimes, and spoken words cannot be recalled Never say that, even to me. At the same time, 1 do not see the obstacle." ' Florence ! Well, I might expect it from you. You have married Sydney Vane's brother ! " She did not wince. She sat steadily regarding him over the tips of her rose-colorv \ feather fan. "And you," she said, "will marry Sydney Vane's daughter." " God keep me from committing such a sin ! " " Hubert, this is mere sentimental folly," said his sister, with some earnestness. " We have both made up our minds that the past is dead — why do you at every moment rake up its ashes ? " " It is in some ways unfortunate that Enid should have chosen to love you ; but, as the matter stands, I cannot see that you have any other choice than to marry her." " What on earth makes you say so ? " " I thought that you would go through a good deal of unpleasantness for the sake of saving her from trouble. You have said as much." " I have no right to save her from anything. She must forget me." "That is sheer nonsense — cowardly nonsense too!" said Mrs. Vane. " If Enid were on the brink of a preci- pice, would you hesitate to draw her back? I tell you that she is breaking her heart for you, and that, if you are free to marry, and not inordinately selfish, your only way out of the difficulty is to marry her." "She would get over it." " No ; she would die as her mother died — of a broken heart." " You can speak so calmly, remembering who killed her mother — for what you and I are responsible I " "Look, Hubert — if you cannot speak calmly yourself, you had better not speak at all. You seem to think that I am cold and callous. I suppose I am ; and yet I am more anxious in this matter to keep Enid from grief and pain than you seem to be. I do not like to see her looking i ',! ; ' 'n J- 11 .1 I ' 1 1 S 4 1 ii^ «38 A LIFE SENTENCE, pale and sad. I would do anything within my power tc. help her, and I thought — I thought that you would do the same. It seems that you shrink from the task." " It is so horrible — so unnatural ! How can I ar.k her to be mine — I, with my hands stained " "Hush! I will not have you say those words! We both know — if we are to speak of the past — that it was an honorable contest enough — -a fair fight — a meeting such as no man of honor could refuse. You would have fallen if he had not. It is purely morbid, this brooding over the consequences of your actions. Everybody who knew the circumstances would have said that you were in the right. I say it myself, although at my own cost. To marry Enid now because she loves you will be the only way you can take to repair the harm that was done in the past and to shield her for the future." It was not often that Florence spoke so long or so energe- tically ; and Hubert, in spite of his revolt of feeling at the prospect held out to him, was impressed by her words. After a few moments' silence, he sat down again and began to argue the matter with her from every possible point of view. He told her it was probable that Enid did not know her own mind ; that she would be miserable if she married a man who could not love her ; that the whole world would cry shame on him if it ever learned the circum- stances of her father's death ; that Enid herself would be the first to reproach him, and would indeed bitterly hate him if she ever knew. " If she ever knew — if the world ever knew ! " said Florence scornfully. Hitherto she had been very quiet and let her brother say his say. " As if she or the world were ever going to know ! There is no way in which the truth can be known unless one of us tells it ; and I ask you, is that a thing that either of us is very likely to do ? It would mean social ruin for us — utter and irretrievable ruin ! If we only hold our tongues, Enid and the world will never know." " That is true," he answered moodily ; and then he sat so long in one position, with his arms crossed on his breast, and his eyes fixed on vacancy, that Florence asked him with some curiosity of what he was thinking. " I was wondering," he said, " whether that poor wretch Westwood found his undeserved punishment more galling than I sometimes find the bonds of secrecy and falsehood A LIFE SENTENCE, »39 and dishonor that bind me now. He at any rate has gained his freedom ; but I am in bondage still. I have my sentence — a life sentence — to work out." '* He is free now, certainly," Florence answered, with an odd intonation of her voice; **so I do not think that you need trouble yourself about him. Think of Enid rather, and of her needs." '* Free ? Yes — he is dead," said Hubert quickly, reply- ing to something in her tone rather than to her words. " He died as I told you — some time ago." " You read it in the newspaper ? " " Yes." '* And you never saw that next day the report of his death was contradicted ? " " Florence, what do you mean ? " " You went away from England just then with a mind at ease, did you not? But I was here, with nothing to do but to think and brood and read ; and I read more than that. There were two men named Westwood at Portland, and the one who died — as was stated in next day's paper- was not the one we knew." " And he is in prison all this time? Don't you see that that makes my guilt the worse — brings back all the intolerable burden, renders it simply impossible that I should ever make an innocent girl happy ? " His voice was hoarse, and the veins upon his forehead stood out like knotted cords. " Sit down," said Flossy calmly, " and listen to me. I have an odd story to tell you. The man of whom we speak managed to do what scarcely another convict has done in recent times — he escaped. He nearly killed the warder in his flight, bu4 n^t quite — so that counts for noth- ing. It is rumored that he reached America, where he is living contentedly in the backwoods. I can show you the newspaper account of his escape. . I thought," she added a little cynically, " that it might relieve your mind to hear of it; but it does not seem to do so. I fancied that you would be glad. Would you rather that he were dead ? " " No, no ; Heaven knows that I rejoice in his escape ! " cried her brother, sitting down again with his forehead bowed upon his clasped hands and his elbows on his knees. " I have blood-guiltiness enough already upon my soul. Glad ? I am so glad, Florence, that I can almost dare to thank God that Westwood is alive and has escaped. I > I shall never escape I " 1, 'If : X * ' 1 ij r p \Vh ■ t I 1 ■■r 1 1 ' 1 'f r ■P 140 A LIFE SENTENCE, CHAPTER XXI. Enid had the look of a veritable snow-queen thought Hu- bert, as he came upon her a day or two later in a little salon opening out of the drawing-room, and found her gazing out upon a landscape of which all the lines were blurred in falling snow. She was dressed in a white wool- len gown, which was confined at her waist by a simple white ribbon, and had white fur at the throat and wrists. The dead-white suited her delicate complexion and golden hair ; she had the soft and stainless look of a newly fallen snowflake, which to touch were to destroy. Hubert almost felt as if he ought not to speak to one so far removed from him — one set so high above him by her innocence and purity. And yet he was bound to speak. " You like the snow ? " he began. " Yes — as much as I like anything." " At your age," said Hubert slowly, " you should like everything." " You think I am so very young ! " " Well — seventeen." " Oh, but I don't feel young at all ! " the girl said half wearily, half bitterly. " I seem to have lived centuries ! You know, cousin Hubert, there are very few girls of my age who have had all the trouble that I have had." " You have had a great deal — you have been the victim of a tragedy," said Hubert gloomily, not able to deny the truth of her remark, even while he was forced to remember that many other girls of Enid's age had far more real and tangible sorrows than she. The vision of a girl plead- ing with him to find her work flashed suddenly across his mind; her words about London Bridge— " her last resource "—occurred to him ; and his common sense told him that after all Enid's position, sad and lonely though it was, could scarcely be called so pitiable as that of Cynthia West. But it was not his part to tell her so ; his own share in producing Enid's misfortunes sealed his lips. A LIFE SENTENCE, I4« What he said however was almost too dlre^f an allusion to the past to be thought sympathc-iic by E»-.d. A very natural habit had grown up at Beechficld Hall of never mentioning her father's fate ; and this silence had had the bad result of making her brood over the matter without daring to reveal her thoughts. The word "tragedy" seemed to her almost like a profanation. It sent the hot blood rushing into her face at onte. Enid's organisation was peculiarly delicate and sensitive ; her knowledge of the publicity given to the details of her father's death was torture to her. She was glad of the seclusion in which the General lived, because when she went into Whitminster, she would hear sometimes a rumor, a whispered word — " Look — that is the daughter of Sydney Vane who was murdered a few years ago ! Extraordinary case — don't you remember it ? " — and the consciousness that these words might be spoken was unbearable to her. Hubert had touched an open wound somewhat too roughly. He saw his mistake. " Forgive me for speaking of it," he said. " I fancied that you were thinking of the past." " Oh, no, no — not of that !" cried Enid, scarcely know- ing what she said. " Of other troubles ? " Hubert queried very softly. It was natural that he should think of what Flossy had said to him quite recently. " Yes — of other things." * Can you not tell me what they are ? " he said gently, taking one of her slight hands in his own. " Oh, no— not you ! " She was thinking of him as Florence's brother, possibly even as Florence's accomplice in a crime ; but he attributed her refusal to a very different motive. Tell him her, troubles ? Of course she could not do so, poor child, when her troubles came from love of him. He was not a coxcomb, but he believed what Flossy had said. " Not me? You cannot tell me? " he said, drawing her away from the cold uncurtained windows with his hand still on hers. " And can I do nothing to lighten your trouble, dear ? " She looked at him doubtfully. " I— don't— know." " Enid, tell me." ' '~''- 14^ A LIFE SENTENCE, i I " oil, no I" she cried. "I can't tell you— I can't tell any one — I must bear it all alone ! " — and then she burst into tears, not into noisy sobs, but into a nearly silent passion of grief which went to the very heart of the man who stood at her side. She drew her hand away from his and laid it upon the mantelpiece, which she crept to and leaned againLt, sobbing miserably meanwhile, as if she needed the support that solid stone could give. Her slender figure, in its closely-fitting white gown, shook from head to foot. It was as much as Hubert could do to restrain himself from putting his arm round it, drawing it closely to him, and silencing the sobs with kisse':. But his feeling was that of a grown-up person to a child whom he wanted to comfort and protect, not that of a man to the woman whom he loved. He waited therefore silently, with a fixed look of mingled pain and determination upon his face, until she had grown a little calmer. When at last her figure ceased to vibrate with sobs, he came closer and put his hand caressingly upon her shoulder. " Enid," he said, " I have asked you before if I could nake you happier ; you never answered the question. Will you tell me now ? " She raised herself from her drooping attitude, and stood with averted face ; but still she did not speak. " Perhaps you hardly know what I mean. I am willing — anxious — to give my whole life to you, Enid, my child. If you can trust yourself to my hands, I will take such care of you that you shall never know trouble or sorrow again; if care can avert it. Give me the right to do this for you, dear. You shall not have cause to repent your trust. Look at me, Enid, and tell me that you trust me." Why that insistance on the word "trust"? Was it — strange contradiction — because he felt himself so utterly unworthy of her confidence ? He said not a word of love. Enid looked round at him at last. Her gentle face was pale, her lashes were wet with tears, but the traces of emotion were not unbecoming to her. Even to Hubert's cold eyes, cold and critical in spite of himself, she was lovelier than ever. " I want to trust you — I do trust you," she said ; but there were trouble and perplexity in her voice. " I don't know what to do. You would not let me be deceived, A LIFE SENTENCE. <4S Hubert? You would not let dear uncle be tricked and cheated into thinking — thinking — by Flossy, I mean Oh, I can't tell you ! If you knew what I know, you would understand." Hubert had never been in greater danger of betraying his own secret. Knowing of no other, his first instinctive thought was that Enid had learnt the true story of her father's death and Flossy's share in bringing it about ; but a second thought, quickly following the first, showed him that in that case she would never have said that she wanted to trust him, or that he would not let her and her uncle be deceived. No, it could, not be that. But what was it? By a terrible effort he kept himself from visibly blenching at her woids. He stood still holding her hands, feeling himself a villain to the very lowest depths of his soul, but looking quietly down at her, with even a slight smile on the lips that — do what he would — had turned pale — the ruddy firelight glancing on his face prevented thijs change of color from being seen. " But how can I understand," he said, *' when I have not the slightest notion of what you mean ? " " You have not ? " " Not the least in the world." She crept a little closer to him. " You are not sheltering Flossy from punishment?" It was what he had been doing for the past eight years. " Good heavens, Enid," he cried, losing his self-pos- session a little for the first time, " #hat on earth can you possibly mean ? " She thought that he was indignant, and she hastened tremblingly to appease his apparent vrath. " I don't mean to accuse you or her," she said ; " I have said a great deal too much. I can trust you, Hubert — oh, I am sure I can ! Forgive me for the moment's doubt." " If you have not accused me, you have accused my sister. I must know what you mean." " Forgive me, cousin Hubert ! I can't tell you — even you." " But, my dear Enid, if you said so much, you must say more." " I will never say anything again ! " she said, her face quivering all over like that of a troubled child. * ■ i' .!'« ■■|r ^'i r I ill 'i % i. k :=1 !i fr. ^i » i - w Ml M 144 A LIFE SENTENCE. He loosed her hands and looked at her steadily for n, moment ; he had more confidence in his power over her now. " I think you should make me understand what you mean, dear. Do you accuse my sister of anything? " She looked frightened. " No, indeed I do not. I don't know what I am saying, Hubert. Tell me one thing. Do you think we should ever do wrong — or what seems to be wrong — for the sake of other people's happiness ? Clergymen and good people say we should not ; but I do not know." " Enid, you have not been consulting that parson at Beecnfield about it ? " * " Not exactly. At least" — the ingenuous face changed a little — " we talked on that subject, because he knew that I was in trouble, but I did not tell him anything. He said one should always tell the truth at any cost." "And theoretically one should do so," said Hubert, trying to soothe her, yet feeling himself a corrupter of her innocent candor of mind as he went on ; " but practically it would not be always wise or right. When you marry, Enid " — he drew her towards him — " you can confess to your husband, and he will absolve you." * Perhaps that is what would be best," she answered softly. "To no man but your husband, Enid." She drew a quick little sigh. " You can trust me ? " he said, in a still lower voice. " Oh, yes," she said*-" I am sure I can trust you ! It was only for a moment — you must not mind what I said. You will it set all right when you know." He was silent, seeing that she had grasped his meaning more quickly than he had anticipated, and had, in fact, accepted him, quite simply and confidently, as her husband that was to be. Her child-hke trust was at that moment very bitter to him. He bent his head and kissed her forehead as a father might have done. " My dear Enid," he said, " we must remember that you are very young. I feel that I may be taking advantage of your inexperience — as if some d&y you might reproach me for it." " I told you I did not feel young," she said gently ; " but perhaps I cannot judge. Do what you please." A LIFE SENTENCE. «4S The Hstlessncss in her voice ahnost angered Hubert. " Do you not love me then ? " he asked. "Oh, yes — 1 always loved you!" said the girl. But there was no look of a woman's love in her grave eyes. "You were always so kind to me, dear cousin Hubert; and indeed I feel as if I could trust you absolutely. You shall decide for me in everything." There was certainly relief in her tone ; but Hubert had looked for something more. ** I have been wanting to speak to you for several days," he said, " but I have never had the opportunity before ; and I must tell you, dear, that I spoke to the General before I spoke to you." " Oh," Enid's fair face flushed a little. " I thought— I did not know that you intended — when you began to speak to me first, I mean " Hubert could not help smiling. "I understand; you thought I spoke on a sudden impulse of affection, longing, lo comfort and help you. So 1 did. But that is not incompatible with previous thought and preparation, is it ? Surely my care for you — my love for you — would be worth less as a sudden growth than as a plant of long and hardy growth ? " He groaned inwardly at the subterfuge contained in the last few words, but he felt that it was unavoidable. Enid looked up and gave him an answering smile. " Oh, yes, I see ! " she said hurriedly ; but there was some little dissatisfaction in her mind, she did not quite know why. Even her innocent heart dimly discerned the fact that Hubert was not her ideal lover. His wooing had scarcely been ardent in tone ; and to find that it had all been discussed, mapped out, as it were, and formally permitted by the General, and perhaps by his wife, gavj her a sudden chill, tor Flossy's interpretation of Enid's melancholy was by no means a true one. She had dreamed a little of Hubert in a vague romantic way, as young girls are apt to do when a new-comer strikes their fancy ; but she had not set her heart upon him at all in the way which Florence had led her brother to believe. There was certainly danger lest she should do so now. "The General says," Hubert went on more lightly, " that you cannot be expected lo know your own mind for a couple of years. What do you say to that ? " i \ ■it t 1 ■ i I ; • ' 1! ; if ■ t ; - ■ \ 1 5 s k4^ A LIFE SENTENCP.. " I think that uncle Richard might know nie better," said the girl, smiling. She was still standing on the hearth-rug, and Hubert put his arm round her as he spoke. " And he will not consent even to an engagement until you are eighteen, Enid. But he did not forbid me to speak to you and ask you whether you cared for me, and if you would wait two years." "Oh, why should it be so long?" the girl cried out ; and then she turned crimson, seeing the meaning that Hu- bert attached to her words. " I only mean," she said, " that I wanted to tell you everything that was in my mind just now." ; " And can't you do it now, little darling? " " No, not now." " I must wait for that, must I ? We must see if we can soften the General's obdurate heart, my dear. But you are not unhappy now ? " To his surprise, the shadaw rose again in her beautiful eyes, the lips fell into their old mournful lines. '* I don't know," she said sadly. " I ought not to be ; but after all perhaps this does not make things any better. Oh, I wish I could forget what I know — what I have heard!" " It is about Flossy? " said Hubert, in a whisper. She hid her face upon his shoulder without a word. " My poor child, I am half inclined to think that I can guess. I know that Flossy's life has not been all that it should have been. No, don't tell me — I will not ask you again unless you wish to confide in me." *' You said you did not know," " I do not know — exactly ; but I suspect ; and, my dear Enid, we can do nothing. Make your mind easy on that point. Our highest duty now is to hold our tongues." He thought, naturally enough, that she had heard of Florence's secret interviews with Sydney Vane — so much, he was certain, even the village-people knew — that in her visits to the cottages she had heard some story of this kind, and had been distressed — that was all. " Do you really think so ? " said Enid, clinging to him. She was only too thankful to get rid of the responsibiHty of judging for herself. " You do not think that uncle Richard ought to know ? " * » A LIFE SENTENCE, »47 " My dear girl, what an idea ! Certainly not ! Do you want to break the old man's heart ? " " He is very fond of little Dick," murmured Enid, rather to herself than to him. He did not lay hold of the clue that her words might have given him if he had attended to them more closely. He went on encouragingly — " And of his wife too. ^ No, dear, we cannot wreck his happiness by scruples of that kind. We must endure our knowledge — or our suspicions — in silence. Besides, what you have heard may not be true." " Do you think so, Hubert ? " she said wistfully. " It is better surely to take a charitable view, is it not ? " " Oh, thank you ! That is just what I wanted ! " she said, a new brightness stealing into her eyes and cheeks. " Yes, I am sure that I must have been hard and unchar- itable. I will try to think better things. And, oh, Hu- bert, you have really made me happy now ! " "Tiiatis what I wanted," said Hubert, with a sigh, as for the first time he pressed his lips to hers. " Your happiness, Enid, is all that I wish to secure." He was in earnest ; and it did not seem hard to him that in trying to secure her happiness he had perhaps lost his own. CHAPTER XXII. " A Grand Morning Concert will be given on Thursday, June 25th, at Ebury's Rooms, by the pupils of Madame della Scala. By kind permission of Mr. Mapleson, the following artistes will appear." Then followed a list of well known operatic vocalists, also Miss This, That, and the other — '' and Miss Cynthia West." The last half-dozen names were not as yet famous. The above intimation, together with much detail con- cerning time, place, and performers, was printed on a very large gilt-edged card ; and two such cards, enclosed in a thick square envelope, lay upon Hubert Lepel's breakfast- table some months after the New Year's holiday which he had spent at Beechfield Hall. He looked at them with an amused, interested smile. ' \ ->' ;|! 5 !■ I I ,1 ' t 148 A LIFE SENTENCE. I I and read the word3 more than once — then, with equal interest, perused a programme of the concert, which had also been enclosed. " So it is to-day, is it ? " he said to himself, as he finished his cup of coffee. " She is late in sending me a ticket ; I shall scarcely be able to nail any of the critics for her now. I would have got Gurney to write her a notice if I had known earlier. Probably that is the very reason why she did not let me know — independent young woman that she is ! I'll go and see what I can do for her even at the ele- venth hour. She shall have a good big bouquet for her debut, at any rate ! " He sallied forth, making his way to his club, where he found occasion to remark to more than one of his freinds that Madame della Scala's concert would be worth going to, and that a young lady who had formerly been known in the theatrical world — Miss Cynthia West — would make her dibut as a public singer that afternoon. Meeting Marcus Gurney, the well-known musical critic of an influ- ential paper, soon afterwards, he pressed upon him his spare ticket for the concert, and give him to understand that it would be a really good-natured thing if he could turn in at Ebury's Rooms between three and four, and write something for the Scourge that would not injure that very promising dibutante, Miss West. Marcus Gurney laughed and consented, and Hubert went off well pleased ; he had at least stopped the mouth of the bitterest critic in London, he reflected — for, though Gurney was personally one of the most amiable of men, he could be very virulent in print. Then he went off to Covent Garden, and selected two of the loveliest bouquets he could find — one, of course, for Cynthia, and one for her teacher, Madame della Scala. For Hubert was wise in his generation. He had seen very little of Cynthia West during the last few months, and had not heard her sing at all. Shortly after his second interview with her, he had sent her to Italy for the winter, so that she might have a course of lessons from the most celebrated teacher in Milan. He was gratified to hear that there had been at least nothing to unlearn. Old Lalli had done his work very thoroughly ; he had trained her voice as only a skilled musician could have done ; and, on hearing who had been her teacher, the great Italian maestro had thrown up his hands and asked ier why she came to him. A LIFE SENTENCE, 149 " You will have no need of me," he had said to her. " Lalli — did you not know ? — he was once our prima tenor e in opera ! He would have been great — ah, great — if he had not lost his voice in an expedition to your terrible England ! So he stayed there and played the violon, did he ? And he taught you to sing with your mouth round and close like that — my own method ! La, la, la, la ! We shall see you at La Scala before we have done ! " But, when the spring came, and he himself was about to fulfil an engagement in Berlin, he handed Cynthia over to the care of Madame della Scala, who was then going to England, and advised her to sing in public — even to take a professional engagement — if she had the chance, and, if not, to spend another winter under his tuition in Milan. So Cynthia came back to London in May, and lived with Madame della Scala, and was heard by nobody until the day of the annual semi-private concert, which Madame della Scala loved to give for the benefit of herself and her best pupils. Hubert reached the rooms at three precisely. He might easily have sent in his name and obtained a little chat with Cynthia beforehand in the artists' room ; but he did not care to do that. He wanted to see her first ; he was curious to know whether her new experiences had taken effect upon her, and how she would bear herself before her judges. He had seen her once only since her return from Italy, and then but for a few minutes in the society of other people. He could not tell whether she was changed or not ; and he was curious to know. She had written to. him from Italy several times — letters like herself, vivacious, sparkling, full of spirit and humor. He knew her very well from these letters, and he was inclined to wish that he knew her better. He would see how she looked before she knew that he was present ; it would be amusing to note whether she found him out or not. Thus he argued to himself; and then, with perverse want of logic, after saying that he did not wish her to know that he was there, he sent his bouquets to the green- room for teacher and pupil alike, and compromised matters by attaching his card to Madame's bouquet only, and not to that which he sent to Cynthia West — a feeble com- promise certainly, and entirely ineffectual. i' \", ■ : ISO A LIFE SENTENCE, He seated himself on a green-colored bench on the right-hand side of the room, and looked around him at the audience. It consisted largely of mothers and other relatives of the pupils, some of whom came from the most aristocratic houses in England — largely also of critics, and of musical persons with flowing hair and note-books. Hubert knew Madame della Scala's reputation ; it was here that the impresario on the watch for new talent always came — it was here that the career of more than one fahious English singer had been successfully begun. It was of some importance therefore that Cynthia should sing her best and do her utmost to impress her audience. Having looked about him and consulted his programme, Hubert glanced at the platform, and was aware that a little comedy was being enacted for the benefit of all persons present Madame della Scala was first led forward by a bevy of admiring pupils, Cynthia not being one, and made her bow to the audience with an air of gracious humility that was very effective indeed. She was a dark, thin little woman who had once been handsome, and was still striking in appearance. She had been an operatic singer in days gone by, and had taken up the profession of a teacher only when her vocal powers began to fail. In, demi-toilette, with ribbons and medals adorning her square-cut bodice, long gloves on her hands, and a fan between her fingers, the little lady curtseyed, smiled, gesticulated, in a charm- ingly foreign way, which procured for her the warmest plaudits of the audience. One felt that, though she herself was not about to perform in person, she considered herself responsible for the efforts of her pupils, and made herself fascinating on the^r behalf. A large screen was placed on one side of the platform, and a grand piano nearly filled the other side, leaving a central space for the performers. At first Hubert had wondered vhy the screen was there. Now he saw its use. Madame della Scala seated herself in a chair behind it, with her face to the singers — evidently under the delusion that her figure was completely hidden from the audience, and that she could, unseen, direct, stimulate, or reprove the singers by movement of head, hands, handkerchief, and fan. The manoeuvre would have been successful enough, but for the fact that the back of the platform was were neve A Ufe sentence. »5t entirely filled with a sheet of looking-glass, and that in this mirror her gestures and facial contortions were all distinctly visible to the greater number of the listeners. Hubert found great satisfaction in watching the different expressions of her countenance ; he told himself that Madame's face was the most interesting part of the per- formance. How sweetly she smiled at her favorite pupils from the shadow of the screen ! How she nodded her head and beat time with her fingers to the songs they sang ! How, in moments of uncontrollable excitement, she waved her hands and swayed her body and gesticulated with her fan ! It was a comedy in dumb show. And, as each girl-singer, after performing her part and curtseying to the audience, passed her teacher on the way to the artists' room, Madame seized her impulsively by both hands, and drew her down to impress a kiss of satisfaction on the performer's forehead. The woman's old charm as an actress, the Southern grace and excitability and warmth, were never more evident than when reflected in Madame's movements behind the screen that afternoon, and visible to the audience — did she know it after all ? — only in a looking-glass. The humor of the situation impressed Hubert, and made him glad that he had come. The whole scene had something foreign, something half theatrical about it. An English teacher of music would have effaced herself — would have shaken with nervousness and scowled at her pupils. Madame had no idea of effacing herself at all. She was benignity, composure, affability incarnate. The girls were all her " dear angels," who were helping to make her concert a success. When, at a preconcerted signal in the middle of the afternoon, she was led forward by one of her most distinguished pupils, and presented by a group of adoring girls with a great basket of flowers, her whole face beamed with satisfaction, her medals and orders and brooches twinkled responsively as she cutseyed, waved her fan, spread out her lace and silken draperies, and slipped gracefully back into the screen's obscurity once more. Only one little contretemps occurred to mar the harmony of the scene. Just as Madame. had returned to her seat, the screen, displaced a little by her movement, fell over, drag- ging down flower-pots and ferns, and almost upsetting Madame herself The bevy of girls rushed to pick her up, :f , A LIFE SENTEMCS.. gentlemen and attendants came to the rescue, and in a few moments Madame was reinstated, a little shaken and flustered, but amiable as ever, the screen was replaced more securely, and the concert proceeded with decorum. But where all this time was Cynthia ? She had not joined the cluster of girls who presented the flowers to Madame, or run to pick her up when the screen fell down. Madame was reserving Cynthia for a great effect. She did not appear until nearly the end of the first part of the con- cert, when she came on to sing an Italian aria. " More beautiful than ever ! " was Hubert's first reflec- tion. " More beautiful than I remembered her I Is she nervous ? No, I think not. Her face will take the town if her voice does not. " And then he settled himself to listen. He was far more nervous than Cynthia herself or than Madame della Scala, who was keeping time to the music with her fan behind the screen. Cynthia's beauty, of an unusually striking order, was heightened by an excitement which lent new color to her cheeks, new fire to her eyes. She was dressed in very pale yellow — white had been rejected as not so becoming to her dark skin as a more decided tint — and she wore a cluster of scarlet flowers on her left shoulder. She looked like some brilliant tropical bird or butterfly — a thing of light and color, to whom sunlight was as essential as food. Hubert felt vain of his protigie as he heard the little murmur of applause that greeted her appearance. But the applause that followed her singing swamped every other manifestation of approval. Cynthia surpassed herself. Her voice and her method of singing were infinitely improved ; the sweet high notes were sweeter than ever, and were full of an exquisite thrill of feeling which struck Hubert as something new in her musical development. There was rto doubt about her success. No other singer had roused the audience to such a pitch of excitement and admiration. Hubert glanced at Madame della Scala. She was sitting with her hands folded, a placid smile of achievement upon her lips ; she had iiroduced all the impression that she wished to make, and for once was completely satisfied. Hubert read it in her look. Cynthia was curtseying to the audience, when, for the first time, Hubert caught her eye — or rather it was for the A LIFE SENTENCE, '53 first time only that she allowed him to see that she observ- ed him; as a matter of fact, she had been conscious of his presence ever since she c-tered the concert-room. She flashed a quick smile at him, bowed openly in his direction, and — as if by accident — touched the belt of her dress. He was quick enough to see what she meant ; some flowers from his bouquet were fastened at her waist. He half rose from his seat, involuntarily, and almost as if he wanted to join her on the platform, then sat down again, vexed at his own movement, and blushing like a schoolboy. He did not know what had come to him, he told himself ; for a moment he had been quite embarrassed and overwhelmed by this girl's bright glance and smile. She was certainly very handsome ; and it was embarrass- ing — yes, it was decidedly a little embarrassing — to be recognised by her so publicly at the very moment of her first success. " Know her ? " said a voice at his shoulder — it was th^ voice of a critic. '* Why, she's first-rate ! Isn't she the girl that used to play small parts at the Frivolity ? Who discovered that she had a voice ? " "Old Lalli, I believe — first-violin in the orchestra," said Hubert. " Ah ! Did he teach her, then ? How did she get to della Scala? That woman's charges are enormous — as big as Lamperti's ! " " Couldn't say, I^m sure," returned Hubert, with perfect coolness. " Well, della Scala made a big hit this time, at any rate. Old Mitcham's prowling about — from Covent Gar- den, do you see him ? That girl will have an engagement before the day's out — mark my words ! There hasn't been such a brilliant success for the last ten years." And then the second part of the concert began, and Hubert was left in peace. Cynthia's second song was a greater success even than the first. There could be no doubt that she would attain a great height in her profession if she wished to do so ; she had a splendid organ, she had been well taught, and she was remarkably handsome. Her stage-training pre- vented nervousness ; and that she had dramatic talent was evidenced by her singing of the two airs put down for her in the programme. But she took everybody by «S4 A LIFE SENTENCE. surprise when she was encored. Instead of repeating her last aria, she said a word in the accompanist's ear, and launched at once into the song of Schubert's which she had sung in Hubert's rooms. It was a complete change from the Italian music that constituted the staple of Madame della Scala's concerts ; but it revealed new capacities of passion in the singer's voice, and was not unwelcome, even to Madame herself, as showing the girl's talent and versatility. As she passed oflF the platform, Madame caught the girl in her arms and kissed her enthusiastically. The pupil's success was th6 teacher's success — and Madame was delighted accordingly. Hubert was leaving the room at the conclusion of the concert, when an attendant accosted him. " Beg pardon, sir ! Mr. Lepel, sir ? " *'Yes;what i»it?" ** Miss West told me to give you this, sir ; " and he put a .twisted slip of paper into Hubert's hand. Hubert turned aside and opened the note. He could have smiled at its abruptness — so like what he already knew of Cynthia West. "Why didn't you come round in the interval and let me thank you ? If I have been successful, it is all owing to you. Please come to see us this evening if you can ; I want very much to consult you. You know my address. Madame won't let me stay now. " C. W." " Impetuous little creature ! " Hubert smiled to him- self — although Cynthia was not little. He thrust the note into his pocket, and went home to dine and dress. He knew Madame della Scala's ways. This old lady, with whom Cynthia was now staying, loved to hold a little reception on the evening of the day of her yearly concert, and she would be delighted to see Mr. Lepel, although she had not sent him any formal invitation. For Cynthia's sake he made up his mind to go. " For Cynthia's sake." How lightly he said the words ! In after-days no words were fraught with deeper and sadder suggestion for him ; none bowed him down more heavily with a sense of obligation and shame and passion- ate remorse than these — " For Cynthia's sake." He went that night to Madame della Scala's house and sat for a full hour, in a little conservatory lighted with (Chinese lanterns^ ajone with Cyn^hi^ West, A LIFE SENTENCE, tss ;i! 5* r.1 CHAPTER XXIII. " I don't know how it is," grumbled the General, " but Enid looks scarcely any bettter than she did before this precious engagement of hers. You made me think that she would be perfectly happy if she had her own way; but I must say, Flossy, that I see no improvement." Flossy, lying on a sofa and holding a fan ove* her eyes, as though to shut out the sight of her husband's bowed shoulders and venerable white head, answered lan- guidly — " You forget that you did only half of what you were expected to do. You would not consent to a definite engagement until she should be eighteen years old ; she is eighteen now, and yet you are holding back. Suspense of such a sort is very trying to a girl." The General, who had been standing beside her, sat down in a large arm-chair and looked very vexed. " I don't care," he said obstinately — " I'm not going to have my little girl disposed of in such a hurry ! She shall not be engaged to anybody just yet ; and until she is twenty or twenty-one she s^ha'nt be married. Why, she's had no girlhood at all ! She's only just out of the schoolroom now. Eighteen is nothing ! " "Waiting and uncertainty are bad for a girl's spirits," said Mrs. Vane*. " You can do as you please, of course, about her engagement ; but you must not expect her to look delighted over the delay." The General put his hands on his knees and leaned forward mysteriously. " Flossy," he said, " I don't wish to make you anxious, dear ; but do you think Hubert really cares for her ? " Flossy lowered her fan ; there was a touch of angry color in her face. " What are you going to say next. General ? Why should Hubert have asked Enid to marry him if he were not in love with her ? He had, no doubt, plenty of opportunities of asking other people." % 156 A LIFE SENTEl^CE. " Yes — yes ; but Enid is very sweet and very lovely, my dear. You don't often see a more beautiful girl. I should not like her to marry a man who was not attached to her." Flossy controlled her anger, and spoke in a careless tone. " What makes you take such fancies into your head, dear?" " Well — more than one thing. To begin with, I found Enid wandering up and down the conservatory just now, looking as pale as a ghost, with tears in her eyes. I railed her a little, and asked hei to tell me what was the matter ; but she would not say. And then I asked if it had anything to do with Hubert, and whether she had heard from him lately; and, do you know. Flossy, '^he has had no letter from him for a fortnight 1 Now, in my day, although postage was dearer than it is now, we wouldn't have waited a fortnight before writing to the woman that we loved." " Hubert is a very busy man ; he has not time for the writing of love-lelters," said Flossy slightly. " He ought not to be too busy to make her happy." " You forget too,'* said Mrs. Vane, " that Hubert has no private fortune. He is working harder than ever just now — toiling with all his might and main to gain a compe- tency — not for his own, but for Enid's sake. Poor boy, he is often harassed on all sides ! " She drew a little sigh as if she were sorrowing for him. " I'm sure Enid does not harass him," said the General, getting up and pacing about the room in a hurry ; " she is sweetness itself ! And, as to money, why did he propose to her if he hadn't enough to keep her on ? Of course Enid will have a nice little fortune — he needn't doubt that ; but I shall tie it up pretty tightly wfien she marries, and settle it all upon herself. You may tell him that from me if you like, with my compliments ! " The General was excited — he was hot and breathing hard. " He must have an income to put against — that's all ; he's not going to live on his wife's fortune." " Poor Hubert — I don't suppose he ever thought of such a thing ! '' said Flossy, affecting to laugh at her hus- band's vehemence, but weighing every word she uttered with scrupulous care. " Indeed, if he had known that A LIFE SEMTEXCE. tS7 she would have money, I don't suppose he would even have asked her to marry him. He believed her to be all but penniless. " " And what right had he to believe that? " shouted the General, looking more apoplectic than ever. At which Flossy softly sighed, and said, " My nerves, dear ! " closed her eyes, and held a vinaigrette to her nose. The General was quieted at once. " I beg your pardon, my dear — I forgot that I must not talk so loudly in your room," he said apologetically. *' But my feelings get the better of me when I think of my j)oor little Enid looking so white and mournful. And so Hubert's working hard for her, is he ? Poor lad ! Of course I shall not forget him either in my will — you can tell him so if you like — and Enid's future is assured ; but he must not neglect her — mustn't let her shed tears and make those prettv blue eyes of hers dim, you know — you must tell him that." " The General grows more and more foolish every day, " said Flossy to herself, with disgust — "a garrulous old dotard 1 " But she spoke very sweetly. " I will talk to him if you like, dear ; but Tdo not think that he means to hurt or neglect poor Enid. He is coming down to-morrow to spend Easter with us ; that will please her, will it not ? I have been keeping it a secret from her ; I wanted to give her a surprise. It will bring the color back to her pale cheeks — will it not, you kind, sympathetic old dear ! " Flossy's white hand was laid caressingly on the General's arm. The old soldier rose to the bait. He raised it at once to his mouth, and kissed it as devoutly as ever he had saluted the hand of his Queen. " My dear," he said, *' you are always right ; you are a wonderful woman — so clever, so beautiful, so good ! " Did she not shiver as she heard the words ? "I will leave it in your hands —you know how to manage every one ! " "Dear Richard," said Flossy, with a faint smile, "all that I do is for your sake." And with these words she dismissed hin' radiantly happy. Left to her own meditations, the expression of her face changed at once ; it grew stern, hard, and cold ; ihere was an unyielding look about the lines of her features which f?T^^cr^v-^ ■si j4 LtFk ^enTeSce. reminded one of the fixity of a mask or a marble statuo. She lay perfectly motionless for a time, her eyes fixed on the wall before her ; then she put out her hand and touched a bell at her side. Almost immediately the door opened to admit her maid —a thin, upright woman with dark eyes, and curly dark hair, disposed so as to hide the tell-tale wrinkles on her brow and the crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes. She wore pink bows and a smart little cap and apron of youth- ful style; but it would have been evident to the eye of a keen observer that she was no longer young. She closed the door behind her and came to her mistress' side. Florence paused for a minute or two, then sjjoke in a voice of so harsh and metallic a quality that her husband would scarcely have recognised it as hers. "You have been neglecting your duty. You have not made any report to me for nearly a week." " You have not asked me for one, ma'am." " I do not expect to have to ask you. You are to come to me whenever there is anything to say." The woman stood silent ; but there was a protest in her very bearing, in the pose of her hands, the expression of her mouth and eyebrows. Flossy looked at her once, then turned her head away and said — " Go on." " There is nothing of importance to tell you, ma'am." ** How do you know what is important and what is not? For instance. Miss Enid was found by the General crying in the conservatory this morning. I want to know why she cried." The maid — whose name was Parker — sniffed signifi- cantly as she replied — " It's not easy to tell why young ladies cry, ma'am. The wind's in the east — perhaps that has something to do with it." " Oh, very well ! " said Mrs. Vane coldly. '* If the wind is in the east, and that is all, Parker, you had better find some position in the world in which your talents will be of more use to you than they are to me. I will give you a month's pay instead of the usual notice, and you can leave Beechfield to-night." . The maid's face turned a little pale. **rm sure I beg pardon, ma'am," she said rather .f^l-.. A LIFE SENTENCE, «59 hurriedly ; " I didn't mean that I had nothing to say. I — I've served you as well as I could, ma'am, ever since I came." There was something not unlike a tear in her beady black eyes. # " Have you ? " said her mistress indifferently. " Then let me hear what you have been doing during the last few days. If your notes arc not worth hearing" — she made a long pause, which Parker felt to be ominous, and then continued calmly — " there is a train to London to-night, and no doubt your mother will be glad to see you, charac- ter or no character." *' Oh, ma'am, you wouldn't go for to be so cruel, would you?" cried Parker the unwise, evidently on the verge of a flood of tears. " Without a character, ma'am, I'm sure I couldn't get a good place ; and you know my mother has only what I earn to live upon. You wouldn't turn me off at a moment's notice for " "You are wasting a great deal of time," said Flossy coldly. " Say what you have to say, and I will be the judge as to whether you have or have not obeyed my orders. Where are your notes ? " r Smothering a sob, Parker drew from her pocket a little black book, from which she proceeded to read aloud. But her voice was so thick, her articulation so indistinct by reason of her half-suppressed emotion, that presently, with an exclamation of impatience, Mrs. Vane turned and took the book straight out of her hands. " You read abominably, Parker ? ' she said. " Where is it ? Let me see. *■ Sunday' — oh, yes, I know all about Sunday ! — * Church, Sunday-school, church * — as usual. What's this ? * Mr. Evandale walked home with Miss E. from afternoon school.' I never heard of that ! Where were you ? " "Walking behind them, ma'am." " Could you hear anything ? What do your notes say ? H'm ! * They walked very slow and spoke soft — could not hear a word. At the Park gates Mr. E. took her hand and held it while he talked. Miss E. seemed to be crying. The last thing he said was, " You know you may always trust me." Then he went down the road again, and Miss E. came home. Monday. — Miss E. very pale and down- like. Indoors all morning teachirj Master D. Walked up to the village with him after his dinner ; went to thQ !' i i6o A LIFE SENTENCE. schools ; saw Mr. E. and walked along the lane with him. Mr. E. seemed more cheerful, and made her laugh several times. The rest of the day Miss E. spent indoors. Tuesday. — Miss E. teaching Master Dick till twelve. Riding with the master tiP two. Lunch and needlework till four. Mr. Evandale came to call.' Why was I never told that Mr. Evandale came to call ? " said Flossy, start- ing up a little, and fixing her eyes, bright with a wrathful red gleam in their brown depths, upon the shrinking maid. " I don't know, 7r<,a'am. I thought that you had been told." Flossy sank back amongst her cushions, biting her lip ; but she resumed her reading without further comment. " * Stayed an hour, part of the time with Miss E. alone, then with the master. Little Master Dick in and out most of the time. Nothing special, as far as I could tell. Wednesday. — Miss E. walked with Master Dick to the village after lessons. Went into Miss Meldreth's shop to buy sweets, but did not stay more than a few minutes. ! Passed the Rectory gate ; Mr. E. came running after them with a book. I was near enough to see Miss E. color up beautiful at the sight of him. They did not talk much together. In the afternoon Miss E. rode over to Whit- minster with the General. After tea ' Yes, I see," said Mrs. Vane, ■ suddenly stopping short — " there is nothing more of any importance." She lay silent for a time, with her finger between the pages of the note-book. Parker waited, trembling, not daring to speak until she was 'spoken to. "Take your book," said Mrs. Vane at last, "and be careful. No, you need not go into ecstasies " — seeing from Parker's clasped hands that she was about to utter a word of gratitude. " I shall keep you no longer than you are useful to me — do you understand ? Go on following Miss Vane ; I want to know whom she sees, where she goes, what she does — if possible, what she talks about Does she get letters — letters, I mean beside those that come in the post-bag ?" " I don't know, ma'am." " Make it your business to know, then. You can go ; " and Flossy turned away her face, so as not to see Parker's rather blundering exit, A LIFE SENTENCE, x6r " The woman is a fool," she said to herself contemptu- ously, when Parker had gone ; " but I think she is — so far — a faitljful fool. These women who have made a muddle of their lives are admirable tools ; they n.re always so afraid of being found out ; " and Flossy smiled cyni- cally, although at the same moment she was conscious that she shared the peculiarity of the woman of whom she spoke — she also was afraid of being found out. She had come across Parker before her marriage, when she was in Scotland. The woman had then been detected in theft and in an intrigue with one of the grooms, and had been ignominiously dismissed from service; but Flossy had chosen to seek her out and befriend her-. Vane, in your own way. You're too high and mighty, and pretend to be too ill to have to go to church ; but, if you was me, and heard what folks say of them that stop away, you'd go yourself." " Possibly," said Flossy ; ** we are in different circum- stances. Now tell me — why has y^x. Evandale questioned you ? " " Because of what he heard when mother lay dying, of courFiv?. I wrote and warned you at the time." " You should have said more then. You should have come and told me the whole story. Tell it me now." It was a proof of Flossy's curious power over certain natures that Sabina Meldreth, wild and undisciplined as she was, seldom thought of resisting her will when in her very presence. She sat down on a chair that Mrs. Vane pointed out to her, and recounted, in rapid and not ill- chosen words, what had passed in her mother's room in the presence of the Rector and of Enid Vane. Flossy listened silently, tapping her lips from time to time with her fan. ; I' \ I i I ii ^f ' V \ 51 H> I i i66 A LIFE SENl'ENCE. When the story was ended, she turned on her visitor with a terrible flash of her usually sleepy eyes. " You fool," she said, without however raising her voice — " you fool ! You have known this all these months, and have never made your way to me to tell it ! How was I to know that the matter was so important? How was I to suspect ? I guessed something, of course ; but not this ! Why, Sabina Meldreth, we are at the mercy of that child's discretion I She has us in her hands — she can crush us when she pleases ! Heavens and earth — and to think that I did not know ! " " You might have known," said Sabina sullenly. " I've been to the house more than once. I've written and said that I wanted to see you. I don't think it's me that's been the fool." But the last sentence was uttered almost in a whisper. " No, I have been careless — I have been to blame ! " said Flossy, a feverish spot of color showing itself in her white cheeks. "So she knows — she knows ! That is why she looks at me so strangely ; that is why she avoids me and will hardly speak to me. I understand her now." " Maybe," said Sabina, " she thought mother was raving, or didn't understand her aright." " No, no ; she understood — she believes it. But why has she kept silence? She hates me, and she might have ruined me — she might have secured Beechfield for herself by this time ! What a little idiot she must be ! " Mrs. Vane was thinking aloud rather than addressing Sabina ; but that young woman generally had an answer ready, and was not disposed to be ignored. "Miss Vane's fond of her uncle," she said drily, "and did not want perhaps to vex him. Besides " — her voice dropped suddenly — " they tell me she's fond of the child." Flossy did not seem to hear ; she was revolving other matters in her mind. " Do you think," she said presently, " that Miss Enid has told the Rector ? She has seen a good deal of him lately." " No, I don't ; I should have heard of it before now if she had," replied Sabina bluntly. " He don't mince mat- ters ; and he's got it into his head that I ought to be reformed, and that I've something on my mind. That's why I want to get to Whitminster." A LIFE SENTENCE. 167 " Go farther away than Whitminster," said Mrs. Vane suddenly ; " go to London, and I'll give you the money you ask — two hundred pounds a year." *' Will you ? Well, I'm not ill-disposed to go to London. One could live there very comfortable, I dare say, on two hundred a year. But how am I to know if you'll pay it ? Give me a bit of writing " " Not a word — not a line ! You need not be afraid. I'll keep my promise if I have to sell my jewels to do it; and the General does not ask me what I do with my allowance. By-and-by, Sabina, I may have an income of my own : and then — then it shall be better for you as well as for me." Her tone and manner had grown silky and caressing. Miss Meldreth looked hard at her, as if suspecting that this sugary sweetness covered some ill design ; but she read nothing but thoughtful serenity in Mrs. Vane's fair face. " When the General's dead, you mean ? Well, that's as it iriy be. But I can't wait for that, you know, ma'am. He's strong and well, and may live for twenty years to come. I want my affairs settled now." *' Very well. Go to London, send me your address, and you shall have the fifty pounds as soon as you are settled there." " That won't quite do, Mrs. Vane. I want something down for travelling and moving expenses. I have some bills to settle before I can leave the village." " You must be terribly extravagant ! " said Flossy bit- terly. " I gave you thirty pounds at Christmas. Will ten pounds do ? " " Twenty would be better." " I haven't twenty. I do not know where to get them. You must be content with ten." " Ten won't do," said Sabina obstinately. Mrs. Vane made a gesture of impatience. '' Reach me that jewel-box over there," she said. " Yes ; bring it close — I have the key. Here are two five-pound notes. And here — take this ring, this bracelet — they are worth far more than ten pounds — get what you can for them." " I'd rather have the money," said Sabina ; " but, if I must put up with this, I must. I'll be off in a couple of days," '.!» ■ ' i68 A LIFE SENTENCE. " You had better not tell anyone before hand that you are going. Some people might — think it their duty to interfere." " All right — I'll keep quiet, don't you fear, ma'am ! Well, then, that's settled. If I go to London, you'll send me the fifty pound a quarter. And it must be regular, if you please — else I'll have to come down here after it." ■ " You will ^t h ' to do that," said Mrs. Vane coldly. " Very wel'i '^'hv'n I'll say good-bye to you, ma'am. Hope you'll ge- « ■ f; i^ through your troubles ; but it seems to me that you're in ar ■^common risky position." " And, if I am," said Jbk/ssy, with sudden anger, " whose fault is it but yours ? " Sabina shrugged her shoulders, and did not seem to think it worth while to reply. She walked to the door, and let herself out without another look or word. She knew her way about Beechfield Hall perfectly well ; and it was perhaps of set purpose that she turned down a passage that led past the nursery door. The door was open, and Master Dick was drawing a horse-and-cart up and down the smooth boards of the corridor. It was his favorite playing-place on a summer evening. He stopped short when he saw Sabina, and looked at her with observ- ant eyes. **This isn't your way, you know," he said, facing her gravely. " This passage leads to my room, and Enid's room, not to the kitchens ; and you belong to the kit- chens, don't you ? " Sabina stopped and eyed him strangely. She looked at his delicate sharp-featured little face, at his fair hair and blue eyes, at the dainty neatness of his apparel, and the costly toy which he held in his hands. Her own bold eyes softened as she looked. She half knelt down and held ont her arms. " Will you kiss me once, dearie, before I go away ? " Dick looked at her wonderingly. Then he came and put his little arms around her neck and kissed her once, twice, thrice. " Don't cry," he said ; " I didn't know you were so nice and kind. But, you see, I've only seen you in the shop." " You won't see me in the shop any more. I'm going away," said Sabina, utterly forgetful of her promise to Mrs. Vane, A tfFit SENtENCf:. i<« " Are you ? *' said Dick. " Oh, then, won't there be any more sweeties in your windows? Or will some one else sell them ? " " Some one else, 1 expect. That's all that children care for 1 " cried Sabina, springing to her feet. " He's got no heart!" Turning her face suddenly, she saw that there had been a spectator of the little scene — a spectator at the sight of whom Sabina Meldreth turned deadly white. Miss Vane stood at the nursery door. She had been sitting there, and had heard Sabina's words and poor little Dick's inno- cent reply. "You are wrong," she said gravely, with her eyesint it on Sabina's pale distorted face. " He has a heart — h»- is very loving and gentle. But you cannot expect hi ■ to love you when he does not know you. If ever ht 'u w you better, he would — perhaps — love you more." This speech, uttered quite gently and even pitifu^V> had a curious effect upon Sabina. She burst into tej, ; and turned away, hiding her face and sobbing as she went. Enid stood for a moment in the doorway, holding the doorpost by one hand, and sadly watching the retreating figure until it disappeared. Then Dick pulled at her dress. " Cousin Enid, why does that woman cry ? And why did she want to kiss me? Was she angry or sprry, or what ? " " Sorry, I think, dear," said Enid, as she went back to her seat. She drew Dick upon her knee and caressed him tenderly for a few moments ; but Dick felt, to his surprise, that the kisses she bestowed on him were mingled with tears. " Cousin Enid, why do you cry too ? " But all she answered was — " Oh, Dick, Dick — my poor little Dick — I hope you will never — never know ! " Which poor little Dick could not understand. Hubert Lepel arrived on the following day. He had not been to Beechfield Hall for some weeks, and he seemed to feel it incumbent upon him to make up to Enid for his long absence by presents and compliments ; for he had brought her a beautiful bracelet, and was unusually profuse in his expressions of regard and admiration. And yet I i ,. * I I % i. ' ■ !•■; H ij 1 j ■1 '*". t7d A LIFE SENTENCE, Enid seemed scarcely so pleased as a young girl in similar circumstances ought to have seemed. Indeed she shrank a little from private conversation with him, and looked harassed and troubled. It was perhaps in consequence of this fact that three days after his arrival Hubert sought a private interview with his sister. Flossy had meanwhile not spoken a word ; she had been watching and waiting for those three days. "Florence, I am inclined to think that you were mis- taken." "So am I," thought Flossy to herself; but aloud she only asked, " Why, dear ? " with perfect tranquility. " About Enid. I — I am beginning to think that she doesn't much care." ^le said the last words slowly, with his eyes on the tip of his boot. " I am sure you are mistaken," said Flossy quietly. " But she is not demonstrative, and — well, I may as well say it to you — she has taken some idea into her head — something about me — about the past " She faltered skilfully ; but she kept her eyes on Hubert's face, and saw that it wore a guilty look. " Well, Flossy, you are right," he said. " She has heard something — village talk, I suppose — and I caniiot get her to tell me what it is." " She means perhaps to tell some one else ? " said Mrs. Vane, with bitterness. " No, I believe not. She has no wish to harm you, poor child, although she thinks that the General ought not to be deceived. However, I persuaded her to abandon that idea, showing her that it was not her duty to tell a thing that would so utterly destroy his happiness." Florence turned away her head. " I felt myself a villain," Hubert continued gravely, " in counseling her to stifle her con- scientious scruples, Florence ; but, for your sake and your husband's sake, I pleaded with her, and prevailed on her to keep silence — she will tell np one but myself after our marriage." " You had better not let her open the subject with you at all. It will only be productive of unhappiness." Flossy discerned the entanglement at once — she saw that Hubert meant one thing and Enid another ; but out of their cross- purposes she divined a way of keeping the girl silent. "For my sake Hubert, don't discuss my terrible past A LIFE SENTENCE, 171 between you. What good vould it do ? Promise me that, when y<^u are married, you will not let her speak of it — even to you." She shed a tear or two as she spoke. "Poor Flossy !" said Hubert, laying his hand on her arm. " Don't grieve, dear ! I have no right to say any- thing, have I ? Yes, I promise you I will not let her say a word about the matter, either now or afterwards, if I can help it, and certainly to no one beside myself." And with this promise Flossy feigned contentment. But, when Hubert had left her, she paced up and down the room with cheeks that flamed with excitement, and eyes that glowed with the dull red light of rage. " What was I thinking about to bring this engagement to pass ? " she said to herself. " Yet, after all, it is better so. Hubert has a reason for silencing her ; with any other man, she would have the matter out in a trice, and ruin me. Now what is the next move ? To delay the marriage, of course. I will come lound prettily to the General's view, and uphold him in his determination not to allow the marriage for at least two years. So Enid says that she will not betray me until she is married, does she ? Then she will never have the chance ; for a great deal may happen — to a delicate girl like Enid Vane — in two long years." i ; I CHAPTER XXV. Hubert had been worried and overworked of late ; it had appeared to him a good thing that he should spend a few of the spring days at Bcechfield, and try to recover in the society of his sister and his betrothed the serenity that he had lost. But this seemed after all no easy thmg to do. He was annoyed to find himself irritated by small matters ; his equanimity, usually perfect, was soon ruffled; and, although he did not always show any outward sign of vexation, he felt that his temper was not quite under his own control. And it was Enid, curiously enough, who irritated him most. "Who is this new singer," she asked one day, "about whom people are talking so much ? " "My dear Enid, how am I to know which singer you ' Vit:^ i7a ^ LIFE SENTENCE. mean ? " he said, letting the newspaper drop from his hand, and clasping his hands leisurely behind his head. ** There are so many new singers ! " They had been having tea under the beech-tree, and, as usual, had been left alone to do their love-making undis- turbed. Their love-making was of a very undemonstrative character. Enid sat in one comfortable basket-chair, Hubert in another, at a yard's distance. Their conversa- tion went on in fragments, interspersed by long pauses filled up by an orchestra of birds in the branches over- head. " I do not remember he^ name exactly," said Enid. "The Tollemaches were talking about her yesterday ; they heard her in town last week. * Cynthia' something — 'Cynthia,' I remember that, because it is such an un- common name." " I suppose you mean Miss Cynthia West," said Hubert, after a very long pause. " Yes, * Cynthia West ' — that was the name. Have you heard her ? " " Yes." " And do you think her very wonderful ? " " She is a remarkably fine singer." "Oh, I hope we shall hear her when we next go up to London I Aunt Leo wants me to stay with her." " That will be very nice," said Hubert, bestirring him- self a little. " Then you will hear all the novelties. But I would not go just yet if I were you, London has not begun to wake up again after its winter sleep." " What a horrible place it must be 1 " said Enid, with a little shiver. "You think so ? It is my home." * There was an accent in his voice which impressed Enid painfully. She clasped her hands rather tightly together in her lap, and said, after another pause, in a lower tone — " I dare say I should grow fond of it if I lived there." '• As you will do, in time," said Hubert, with a smile. " You must try to believe that you will soon be as absorbed in town-life as every other woman; that concerts and theatres and balls will make up for green fields and the songs of birds ; that men are more interesting than brooks and flowers ; that to shop and to gossip are livelier occu- pations than visiting the poor and teaching little Dick. Don'!: you think you can imagine it ? " \ A LIFE SENTENCE. >73 She shook her head. " I can't imagine it ; but, if I had to do it, I would try. I don't think your picture is very attractive, if I may say so, Hubert." " Don't you, dear ? Why not ? " " It sounds so unreal. Do women pass their liveu in that frivolous, vapid way ? " " Not all of them, of course. There are women who have work to do," said Hubert, looking idly into the dis- tance, as if he were thinking of some one or something that he could not see. " Oh, yes, I know — working women-r-profcssional women — women," said Enid, with u . innocent smile, ** like Cynthia West." Hubert gave a slight start ; then, to cover it, he changed his position, bringing his arms down and crossing them on his breast. ' " You might tell me what she is like," continued Enid, with more playfulness of manner than she generally showed. " You tell me so little about London people ! Is she handsome ? " ** Yes, very." " Dark or fair ? " "Very dark." " Is she an Englishwoman ? " pursued Enid. " I am sure I don't know. I never asked." "You. know her then ? " " What makes you ask all these questions ? " said Hubert, as if he had not heard th^ last. " Who has put Miss West into your head in this way ? " He looked annoyed. Enid at once put out a caressing hand. " I did not mean to be too inquisitive, Hubert dea-. But the TolleiTi iches are very musical, and they v, ore talking a great deal about her. They said they saw you at the concert when she came out — some Italian teacher's semi-private concert — and they seemed to think that you knew the whole set of people who were there." Mentally Hubert made some uncharitable remarks on the future destiny of the Tollemaches ; but he controUeci himself so far as to answer coolly — " I know several of that set, certainly. I know Miss West a little," : J f ■ i ;. J74 A LIFE SENTENCE, ** How delightful," cried Enid. " I should like to meet some of these great artists. Will you ever be able to in- troduce me to her, do you think, Hubert ? " " I think not," said Hubert, knitting his brows. He did not find himself able to turn the subject quite as easily as he could have wished. " Oh, isn't she nice ? " hazarded Enid doubtfully. " I always fancy that the people who sing and act ir. public can't be quite as nice as the people who stay in their own home-circle. I know that you will think me very narrow- minded to say so, but I can't help it." " 1 am afraid that I do'think it rather narrow-minded," said Hubert quietly, but with a dangerous lighting of his eyes. " You must surely know that some of these singers are as good, as noble, as womanly as any of your sheltered young ladies in their home-circles, who have not genius enough to make themselves talked of by the world ! " "Oh, yes, I suppose so ! " said Enid, quite unconscious of the storm that she was exciting in Hubert's breast. " But it is diff.cult to understand why they prefer a public life to a private one. Do you think they really like appear- ing on the stage ? " " I am sure they do," said Hubert, with a short laugh. " You cannot understand it as yet, I suppose ; you will understand it by-and-by. It would 1 j a very poor look- out for a novelist and playwright like myself, Enid, if every one thought as you do." And then be got up and walked to meet the General, who was approaching the tea-table, and, as the two were soon deep in political matters, Enid presently sHpped away unobserved. She felt vaguely that she had vexed or disappointed her lover ; she knew the tones of his voice well enough to feel sure that in some way she had said what he did not approve. And yet, on reflection, she couM not see that she had given him legitimate cause of offence. She knew that he did not agree with her in preferring country to town ; or in thinking that women who sang '^ pubHc were not quite of her class ; but she did not think that he ought to be angry with her for expressing her views. He perplexed her very much by his moments of irritation, of coldness, of absence of mind. At times he was certainly very different. He could be most tender, though always with A LIFE SEMTEMCE t7S the tenderness of a grown man to a child, of a strong person towards a weak one — and this was a kind of ten derness which did not satisfy Enid's heart. Sometimes indeed she was thankful that it was so, feeling as if any great display of affection on his part would be overwhelm- ing, out of place ; but at other times she felt that his calm kindness was almost an insult to the woman whom he had asked to be his wife. A little while back she would not have thought so — she would have been well content with his behavior ; but a new factor had come into her life since her engagement to Hubert Lepel, some new and agitating consciousness of power had dawned upon her, with a revelation of faculties and influences to which she had hitherto been a stranger ; and, in presence of these novel em otions and discoveries, Hubert was weighed in the balance and found wanting. Meanwhile Hubert was as uncomfortable as a man could well be. He had always meant to be faithful and tender to Enid — for whom, as he had said, he would do anything in his power to save her from unhappiness ; on the other hand, he found the task more difficult than he had dream- ed. He had seen her first as a sweet, docile, pliable creature, ready to be led, ready to be taught, and he had meant to mould her to his will. But, lo and behold, the girl was not really pliable at all ! She had a distinct character, an individuality of her own, as different from any ideal of Hubert s as ice from fire. Her inability to appreciate the artistic side of life — as he put it to himself — her dislike to the great town where all his interests lay — these were traits which troubled him out of proportion to their intrinsic worth. How could he be happy with a woman who differed from him so entirely in habits, taste, and train- ing? He forgot for a moment that he had asked her to marry him in order that she might be made happy — that he had solemnly put aside from himself all thought of personal joy. But human nature is weak, and renuncia- tion not always pleasant. It occurred to his mind that Enid herself might not be very happy if married to a man with whom she was not in sympathy. It was half with relief, half with regret, that he listened to a monologue from the General on the subject of Enid's marriage. "I always disapproved of early marriages," he said . ri i ■ ' i mm. t76 A LIFE SENTENCE, sapiently ; " they never turn out well. And Enid is deli- cate j she must not take the cares of a household upon her until she is older and stronger. Don't ask me for her until she is twenty-one, Hubert ! She shall not marry till then with my consent." He had never spoken so strongly before ; but he was reinforced by Flossy's recently-be- stowed approval. Till within the last few days, Flossy had been all for a speedy marriage. She said now that she was convinced that her " dear Richard " was perfectly right, and the General was " cock-a-hoop " accordingly. " I need not threaten ; you know very well that I have the whole control of the money that would go to her dowry — I need say nothing more. I will have no mar- riage talked about — no engagement even — for the present. Mind you, Enid is not engaged to you, Hubert. If she thinks fit to change her mind, she may do so." *' Certainly, sir." " And, if you think fit to change your mind, you may do so too. Nobody wants either of you to marry where you do not love ; the worst thing in the world ! " "When is this prohibition to be removed ?" asked Hubert. " It seems to me a little hard upon — upon us both." " If Enid is stronger, I will allow her to be engaged in a year's time," said the General, " but not before ; and I shall tell her so." The first time that Hubert found himself alone with Enid he said — '' The General seems to have changed his mind about our engagement, Enid." " Yes ; he told me so," she answered meekly. " He says we are not to consider ourselves engaged." " Yes." " I am very sorry that he should take that view " " Don't be sorry, please ! " she said, quickly interrupting him. '* I think that it is better so." " Better, Enid ? " " Yes. He says that I am not strong — and it is true. I feel very weak sometimes, not strong enough to bear much, I am afraid. If I were to become an invalid, I should not marry." She spoke gently, but with great resolution. " That is all a morbid fancy of yours," said Hubert. *' You will be better soon. After this summer, the General A LIFE SENTENCE, 177 talks of winter in the Riviera. That will do you all the good in the world." ** I think not," she answered quietly. " I am afraid that I am not so likely to recover as you think. And, if not, nothing on earth will induce me to marry any man. Re- member that, Hubert — if I am not better, I will not marry you. I intend to join the sisters at East Winstead." "It is that meddling parson who is at the bottom of this, I'll swear ! " said Hubert angrily, quitting her side and pacing about the room. He noticed that at his words the color rose in the girl's pale cheeks. "If you mean Mr. Evandale," she said, "I can assure you that he has never said a word to me about East Win- stead. It is entirely my own wish." " My dear child," said Hubert, halting in front of her, " the last thing we want is to force your wishes in any direction. If, for instance, you wish to throw me over and be a nun, do so by ail means. I only ask you to be true to yourself, and to see that you do not act on im- pulse, or so as to blight the higher impulses of your nature. I can say no more.'* Enid looked at him wistfully, and seemed inclined to speak ; but the entrance of her uncle at that moment put a stop to further conversation, and the subject was not re- opened before Hubert's return to town. " No engagement — free to do as I please." The words hummed themselves in Hubert's mind to the accompani- ment of the throbs of the steam-engine all the way back to London. What did it mean? What did Enid herself mean? Was it not a humiliating position for a man to be in ? Was it fair either to him or to the girl ? Did it not mean, as a matter of fact, that Flossy had been mistaken, and that Enid was not in the least in love with him ? He could not say that she had been especially affectionate oi late. Passively gentle, sweet, amiable, she always was, but not emotional, not demonstrative. At that moment Hubert would have given ten years of his life to know what was in her heart — what she really meant, and wanted him to do. Arrived at Charing Cross Station, he seemed uncertain as to his movements. He hesitated when the porter asked him what he should do with his luggage, and gave an order which he afterwards contradicte ^ ! i t i ■ ) ' 17^ A LIFE SENTENCE. "No," he said, '*1 won't do that. Put my things on a cab. All right ! Drive to No. — Russell Square." This was his home-address ; but, when there, he did not go upstairs. He told his landlady to send his things to his room, and not to expect him back to dinner, as he meant to dine at his club. He did so ; but after dinner his fitful hesitancy seemed to revive. Hv'; smoked a cigarette, talked a little to one of his friends, then went out slowly and, as it seemed, in- decisively into thv? street, and called a hanscm-cab. Then his indecision seemed to leave him. He jumped in, shouted an address to the driver, and was driven on to a quiet square in Kensington, where h<^ knocked at the door of a tall narrow house, only noticeable in the daytime by reason of the masses of flowers in the balcony, and at night by the rose-colored blinds, illuminated by the hgiit of a lamp, in the drawing-room windows. The servant who opened the door welcomed him with a smile, as if his face was well known to her. He passci- her with a word of explanation, and marched ups lairs to the first-floor, where he tapped lightly at the dravving- room door, and then, without waiting, walked into the room. A girl in a red dress, who had been kneeling on the rug before the fire, rose to her feet as he came in and uttered a blithesome greeting. " At last ! " she said. '^ So hc-e you are, monsieur ! I was wondering what had become of you, and thought you had deserted me altogether ! " ** Could I do that ? " said Hubert, in a tone in which mock gallantry was strangely mingled with a tenderness which was altogether passionate and earnest. ** Do you really think that I ever could do that ? " Tne girl he spoke to wr\s Cynthia West. CHAPTER XXVI. Cyi^iTinA West made a delighful picture as she stood in tl: '. glc'.v of vhe firelight and the rose-shaded lamps. Her drci-=5, of deep red liidian silk, partly covered with pufiings L\ ;oU'lDo''in,c, net of the same shade, was cut low, to show A LIFE SENTENCE, 179 her beautiful neck and throat ; the sleeves were very narrow, so that the whole length of her finely-shaped arm could be seen. Her dusky hair gave her all the stateliness of a coronet; swept away from her neck to the top of her head, it left only a few stray curls to shadow with bewitching lightness and vagueness the smooth surface of the exquisite nape. What was even more remarkable in Cynthia than the beauty of her face was the perfection of every line and contour of her body ; the supple, swelling, lissom figure was full of absolute grace ; she could not have been awkward if she had tried. It was the characteristic that chiefly earned her the admiration of men ; women looked more often at her face. " Are you alone ? " said Hubert, smiling, and holding out both his hands, in which she impulsively placed her own. " Quite alone. Madame has gone out ; only the servants are in the house. How charming ! We can have a good long chat about everything ! " '' Everything ! " said Hubert, sinking with a sigh of rehef into the low chair that she drew forward. " I shall be only too happy. I have stagnated since I saw you last — which was in March, I believe — an age ago ! It is now April, and I am absolutely ignorant as to what has been going on during the last few weeks." " You have been in the country ? " laughed Cynthia. " How I pity you ! '* " You do not like the country ? " *' Not one little bit. I had enough of it when I wr a child." " You were brought up in the country, were you? " said Hubert carelessly, *' I should never have taken yo . for a country-bred girl — althdtrgh your physique does not speak of town-life, after all." " Is that meant for a compliment? " said Cynthia, the clear color suddenly rising in her cheeks. " Bah — I do not like compliments — from some people ! I should like to forget all about my early life — dull tiresome days ! I began to live only when I came to London." " Wliich was when you were about fifteen, was it rot? You have never told me where you lived before that.' Cynthia made a liltle tnoue of disgust. " You have always been much too polite hitherto to ask ! 1 ! I i 1 I t^M i! .r:i t8o A LIFE SENTENCE. unpleasant questions. I tell you I want to forget those earlier years. If you must know, I was at school." " I beg your pardon," said Hubert ; " I had no idea that the subject was so unpleasant to you, or I would not have alluded to it, of course," Cynthia gave him a quick look. " You have a right to ask," she said, in a lower voice. " I suppose I ought to tell you the whole story ; but " There was strong reluctance in her voice. =* You need do nothing of the kind. I have no right at all ; don't talk nonsense, Cynthia. After all, what is the use of raking up old reminiscences ? I have always held that it is better to put the past behind us — to live for the present and the future. All of us have memories that we would gladly forget. Why not make it a business of life to do so ? " " ' Forgetting those things which are behind,' " Cynthia murmured. She was sitting on a very low chair, her hands loosely clasped before her, her eyes searching the embers of the fire. Hubert looked at her curiously. "I neve: heard you quote Scrij Lure before," he said, half laughing. '* Why not ? There are plenty of things in the Bible worth thinking about and quoting too," said Cynthia briskly, but with a sudden change of attitude. " It would be better for us both, I have no doubt, if we knew it a little better, Mr. Lepel. Aren't you going to smoke ? It does not seem at all natural to see you without a cigar in your mouth." " What a character to give me ! Smoke in this rose- tinted room ? " *' Ma'lamt's friends all smoke here. You need not be an exception. Sie herself condescends at times to the luxury (tf iv cigarette " " You caii it a kixary ? " "Certainly. Madame has initiated m^. But you will understavid thi i don't display my accomplishment to every cue." *' No — don't," .said Hubert, a trifle gravely. '' She; looked round at him with a pretty defiance in her eyes and a laugh upon her face. " Don't you approve ? " she said mockingly. " Ah, you A LIFE SENTENCE, l8f have yet something to learn ! It is quite evident that you have been spending Easter in the country, and its gentle dulness hangs about you still." •' Gentle dulness ! " Hubert thought involuntarily of Enid. Yes, the term fitted her very well. Timid, gentle, dull— thus unjustly he thought of her ; while, as to Cynthia — whatever Cynthia's faults might be, she was not dull — a great virtue in Hubert's eyes. " I think you could make me approve of anything you do," he said, as he rose in obedience to her invitation to light his cigar. " Some people have the grace of becom- ingness ; they adorn all they touch." '' What a magnificent compliment ! I will immediately put it to the test," said Cynthia lightly. She had also risen, and was examining a little silver box on the mantel- piece, she said (( II Here Madame keeps her Russian cigarettes. " I have not set up a stock of my own, you see. Now give me a light. There — I can do it quite skilfully ! " she said, as she placed one of the tiny papeliios between her lips and gave one or two dainty puffs. '* Now does it become me ? " " Excellent well ! " said Hubert, who was leaning back in an enormous chair, so long and deep that one lay rather than sat in it, and regarding her with amusement. " ' All what you do, fair creature, still betters what is done.' " " Then I'm content," said Cynthia, seating herself and holding the cigarette lightly between her fingers. She still kept it alight by an occasional little puff; but Hubert smiled to see that her enjoyment of it was, as a hunaorist has said of his first cigar, ** purely of an intel- lectual kind." She enjoyed doing what was unusual and bizarre — that was all. He wondered whence she sprang, this brilliant creature of earth with instincts so keen, desires so ardent, mind and imagination so much more fully developed^ than was usual with girls of her age. Cynthia's beauty was undeniable ; but even without beauty, save that of youth, she would have been striking and re- markable. She was not conscious of his continued gaze at her ; she seemed to be lost in thought — perhaps of her earlier years, tor presently she said in a reflective tone — '' You were surprised at my quoting Scripture. I won- If: |8a A LIFE SENTENCE. der why ? I do not seem such a bad person that I must not quote the Bible, do I ? " ** Certainly not." " I used to be at the head of the Bible -class always when I was at St. Elizabeth's," she said dreamily. She did not notice that Hubert gave a little start when he heard the name. " Your school was called St. Elizabeth's ? " ''Yes." " At East Winstead ? " " Yes " — this time rather hesitatingly. " Why ? " " Did you happen to know a girl called Jane Wood ? " The two looked at each other steadily for a minute or two, Hubert had spoken with resolute quietness ; he thought that Cynthia's expression hardened, and that her color failed a little as she replied^ — " I remember her quite well. She ran away." " Before you left ? " '' Before I left," said the girl, looking down at the cigarette she had taken from her lips and held between her fingers. Suddenly she threw it into the fire, and sit- ting erect, while a hot flush crossed her face, went on, " Why do you want to know ? " *' Oh, nothing ! What sort of a girl she was, for in- stance." "A wild little creature — a horrid, ungiateful, bad-tem- pered girl ! They — we were all glad when she went." '"Why, the old woman — what's her name? — Sister Louisa — said that she was a general favorite ! " " I'm sure she wasn't. When were you there? " " The day after her departure, I think." " And what took you there, Mr. Lepel ? " There was a touch of bewilderment in Cynthia's voice. " Curiosity, for the most part." " No one was at the school whom you knew, I sup- pose ? " " No," said Hubert, reflecting that Jane Wood had gone before he paid his visit. Perhaps Cynthia did not understand this point. At any rate, she looked relieved. " I was glad when my time came to leave," she said more freely. '* Did you not like the place ? " " Pretty well. It was frightfully, awfully dull I " A LIFE SENTENCE. 183 " And yet you had never known anything more excit- ing ? Were you really conscious at the time that it was dull, or did you realise its dulness only afterwards ? " " Oh, I must have had it in my blood to know the difference between dulness and enjoyment," she said lightly ; " otherwise " «< Well— otherwise? " ** Otherwise," she said smiling at him, '' how should I know it now? There is a vast difference between dulness and enjoyment — as vast as that between happiness and misery ; and I know them both." '•' Cynthia," he said, rising and leaning towards her — " Cynthia, child, you do enjoy your present life — you are happy, are you not ? " She looked at him silently. The smile faded ; he noticed that her bosom rose and fell more quickly than be- fore. "You think I ought to be ? " she said. "But why? Because I have been in Italy — because I have had a little success or two— because people say that I am handsome and that I have a voice ? That is not my idea of happiness, Mr. Lepel, if it is yours ; but you know as well as I do that it is not happiness at all. It is excitement if you like, but nothing else — not even enjoyment." " What would you call enjoyment then, Cynthia ? What is your idea of happiness ? " Her hurried breathing seemed to have infected him with like shortness of respira- tion ; there was a lire in his eyes. " Oh," she said looking away from him and holding her hands tightly clasped upon her knee, " it is not different from other women's ideas of happiness — it is quite com- monplace ! It means a safe happy home of my own, with no reasonable fear that distrust or poverty or sin should invade it — congenial work — a companion that I could love and trust and work for and care for " she stopped short. *' A husband," said Hubert slowly, " and children to kiss your lips and call you ' Mother,' and a man's love to soften and sweeten all the days of your life." She nodded, but did not speak. " And I," he said, with an irrepres- sible sigh — " I want a woman's love — I want a home too, and all the sweet charities of home about me. Yes, that is happiness." " It will be yours by-and-by, I suppose," said Cynthia, 1^4 A LIPE SENTENCE, in a rather choked voice — he told her that he was engaged to be married. " I see no probability," he answered drily. " She — her guardian will not allow an engagement." " But — she loves you ? " " I do not think so ; I am sure indeed that she does not ! " " And you — you care for her ? " " No ; by Heaven, I do not ! " ** Then by-and-by you will meet somebody whom you love." " I have met somebody now," said Hubert, in a curi- ously dogged tone; "but, as I am sure that she does not care a pin for me, there is no harm in letting the secret out." " Who is she ? " — in a startled tone. " She is a singer. She used to be an actress ; but she has a magnificent voice and is in training for the operatic stage. She will be a great star one day, and I shall worship her from afar. But I have never met anybody in the world who will ever be to me what that woman might have been." " How do you know," said Cynthia, in a scarcely audible voice, " that you are not so much to her as she is — you say — to you ? " " How do I know ? I am certain of it — certain that she regards me as a useful, pleasant friend who is anxious to do his best for her in the musical world, and nothing more. If I dreamed for a moment that I was nearer and dearer to her than that, I should hold my tongue. But, as it is, knowing that I am not worthy to kiss the hem of her garment, and that if she knew all my unworthiness she would be the first to bid me begone, I do not fear — now, once and once only — to tell her that I love her with all my heart and mind and body and soul, and that I ask nothing from her but permission to love on until the last day of my life." "Now, once and once only? " repeated Cynthia. She looked up and saw that he stood ready for departure. His face was pale, his lips were tightly set, and his eyes sent forth a strange defiant gleam which she had never seen before. He made three strides towards the door be- fore she collected herself sufficiently to start up and speak. " No — ^no — ^you must not go 1 Orie moment 1 And A LIFE SENTENCE, I8S what if — if " — she could hardly get out the words — " what if the woman that you loved had loved you too, ever since you saved her from poverty and disgrace and worse than death in the London streets ? " She held out her arms to him, as if praying him to save her once again. Hj stood motionless, breathing heavily, swaying a little, as if impelled at one moment to turn away and at another to meet her extended hands. " Then," he said at last — ** then I should be of all men most miserable ! " It was illogical, it was weak, it was base, after those words, to yield to the tide of passion which for the first time in his life surged up in his soul with its full strength and power. And yet he did yield — why, let those who have loved like him explain. As soon as he had uttered his protest, and it seemed as if the battle should be over and these two divided from each other for evermore, the two leapt together, and were clasped in each other's arms. She lay upon his breast ; his arms were around her, his lips pressed passionately to hers. In the ecstacy of that moment conscience was forgotten, the past was obliterat- ed ; nothing but the fire and energy of love remained. And then — quite suddenly — came a revulsion of feeling in the mind of the man whose guilt had, after all, not left him utterly without remorse. To Cynthia's terror and dismay, he sank upon his knees before her, and, with his arms clasped round her waist, and his face pressed close to her slight form, burst into a passion, an agony of sobs. She did not know what to do or say ! she could but entreat him to be calm, repeating that she loved him — that she would love him to the last day of her life. It was of no use, the agony would have its way. He did not try to explain his singular conduct. When he rose at last, he kissed her on the forehead, and, murmuring, somewhat inarticulately, that he would see her oil the morrow, he left the room. She heard the street door close, and knew, with a strange mixture of fear and joy, that he had gone, and that he loved her. In the con- sciousness of this latter fact she had no fear of the morrow. He might perhaps have kept his lips from an avowal of love, which was afterwards bitter to him as death if he had known that at St. Elizabeth's Cynthia West had once been knowii ^s th^ convict's daughter, Jane Woodr I ' ! : i ^, IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) s.o I.I ■tt Ui2 mil £f 1^ 12.0 1.8 111:25 II U. 1 L6 11^^^^ llll=^B= lifflaBs ^ 6" >■ y. #^ / V - ^ '/ /A Photographic Sciences Corporation 4^ iff \ <^ ^. ''% 4^\ 23 WfST MAM STIRT WEBSTER, N.Y. 145M (716) •72-4503 Vv ^ 6^ |86 A LIFE SENTENCE^ CHAPTER XXVII. " Look here, Cynthia," he said abruptly, when he met her the next morning — " this ^yon't do ! I was to blame ; I made a fool of myself last night." " What — in saying that you loved me ? " she inquired. " Yes — in saying that I loved you. You know very well that I did not intend to say it." " Does that matter ? " she asked, in a low voice. She had taken his hand, and was caressing his strong white fingers tenderly. " I did it against my conscience." " Because of that other girl ? " He considered a moment and then said " Yes." But he was not prepared for the steadily penetrating gaze which she immediately turned upon him. " I don't quite believe that," she said slowly. *' You doubt my word ? " " Yes," said Cynthia, in a dry matter-of-fact way ; " I doubt everybody's word. Nobody tells the whole truth in this agreeable world. You forget that I am not a baby- that I have knocked about a good deal and seen the seamy side of life. Perhaps you would like rae better if I had hot? You would like me to have lived in the country all my life, and to be gentle and innocent and dull ? " " I could not like you better than as you are," he said, passing one arm round her. " That's right. You do love me ? " " Yes, Cynthia." " That is not a very wdrm assurance. Do you feel so coldly towards me this morning ? " " My dearest — no ! " "That's better. Dear Hubert may I call you Hubert? " — he answered with a little pressure of his arm — " if you really care for me, I can say what I was going to say ; but, if you don't — if that was hJow you made a fo(jl of yourself by saying so when you did not mean it — then tell me, and I shall know whether to speak or to hold my tongue," as a nov( A LIFE SENTENCE, 187 She spoke forcibly, with a directness and simplicity which enchanted Hubert in spite of himself He assured her that he loved her from the bottom of his heart, that she might speak freely, and that he would be guided, if possible, by what she .said — he knew that she was good and wise and generous. And then he kissed her once more on the lips, and she believed his words. She began to speak, blushing a little as she did so. " I only want to understand. You are not married, Hubert?" " My darling — no ! " " And you said last night that you were not engaged ? " -' I am not engaged," he said more slowly. " You have — some other engagement — entanglement— of which I do not know ? " " No, Cynthia." " Then,'' she said, facing him with a boldness which he thoroughly admired, " why do you want to draw back from what you said to me last night ? " Hubert looked more than serious — he looked unhappy. " Draw back," he said slowly — " that is a hard expres- sion ! " "It is a hard thing,'' she rejoined. " Cynthia, if I had suspected — if you had ever given me any reason to suppose — that you were willing to think of me as more than a friend, I would not have spoken. I am not worthy of you ; I can but drag you back from a bril- liant career; it is not fair to you." The girl stood regarding him meditatively ; there was neither fear nor sign of yielding in her eyes. " That does not sound natnral," she said ; " it does not sound quite real. Excuse me, but you would not, merely as a novelist, make your hero try to back out of an engagement for that reason. If he gave it, the reader would know at once there was something else — something in the background. I believe that the amiable heroine would accept the explanation and go away broken-hearted, lint I," said Cynthia, with a little stamp of impatience — " I am not amiable, and I mean neither to believe in your c'X])lanation nor to break my heart ; and so, Mr. Hubert Lepel, you had better tell me what this is really all about." "Ah, Cynthia, I had better let you think me a fool or a brute than lead you into this ! " cried Hubert. i88 A LIFE SENTENCE, " But I should never think you a fool or a brute, what- ever you did." " You do not know what you might think of me — in other circumstances." ** Try," she said, almost in a whisper, slipping her hand into his. But he shook his head and looked down, knitting his brows uneasily. " What will satisfy you? " she asked at length, evidently convinced from his manner that something was more seriously amiss than she had thought. " Do you not know that where I give my love I give my whole trust and con- fidence. More than that, I shall never take it away, even if all the world told me — even if I had some reason to believe — that you were not worthy ot my trust. Oh, what does the world know of you? I understand you much better. Can't you see that a woman loves a man for what he is, and not for what he does ? " " What he does proceeds from what he is, Cynthia, I am afraid," said Hubert sadly. "Not always. People ar; often betrayed into doing things that do not show their real nature at all," said the girl eagerly. " A man gives way to a sudden temptation— he strikes a blow — and the world calls him a ruffian and a murderer ;-or he takes what belongs to another because he is starving, and the world calls him a common thief. We cannot judge." He had drawn away from her, and was resting his arm on the mantelpiece, and his head upon his arm. A strange vibration passed through his frame as he listened to her words. \ " Do you think, then," he said at last, speaking with difficulty, and without raising his head, " that you could love a man that the world condemned, or would condemn, if they knew all — could you love a man who was an out- cast, a felon, a — a murderer ? " " I am sure that I could," said Cynthia fervently. For the moment she was not thinking of Hubert, however, but of another man whom she had loved, and whom she had seen condemned to death for the murder of Sydney Vane. Hubert put out his left hand and drew her close to him. Even now there was one thing that he dared not say ; he did not dare ask her whether she could love a man who A LIFE SENTENCE, 189 had allowed another to bear the punishment which he had deserved, although he had hidden his guilt from a desire to save another rather than himself. He remained for a few moments in the same posture, with his face hidden on his right arm and his left encircling Cynthia ; but, after a time, he stood up, drew her closer to his breast and kissed her forehead. Then he put her away from him and crossed his arms across his chest. His face was pale and drawn, there were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his lip was bitten underneath his thick moustache. " Cynthia," he said hoarsely, " to you, at least, I will try to be an honest man. I never knew a woman as brave, as true as you are ; I'll do my best, at any rate, to be not altogether unworthy of you, my darling. I would give all I have in the world if I could ask you to marry me, Cynthia; but I can't. There is an obstacle; you were right — I am not free." " I thought there was some real reason," she said quietly. " I knew you would not have spoken as you did without a reason." " I am not engaged ; or perhaps I should say that I am engaged, and that she is free. If at the end of two years she is stronger in health, and her uncle withdraws his opposition, and she cares to accept me, I have promised to be ready. The last thing I ever meant was to ask any other woman to be my wife. But I was weak enough not to deny myself the bitter-sweet solace of telling you that I loved you ; and thus I have drawn down punish- ment on myself. Cynthia, can you ever forgive me ? " She did not answer ; she seemed to be thinking deeply. After a few minutes' silence, she looked at him wistfully, and asked another question. " You said she did not love you. Was that true ? " " I believe so." " Then why does she want to marry you ? " There was something childlike in Cynthia's tone. ** I don't think she does, Cynthia ; I think it is only her uncle's wife who has been trying to bring about a marriage between us ; and perhaps it was my conviction that this marriage would never come about which made me less careful than I might have been. Assuredly I never intended to tell you what I told you last night." " But I am glad you did," said Cynthia, almost inaudibly. Then she put her hand on Hubert's arm, and looked at I9d A LIFE SE/^TENCE, him with a soft and beautiful expression in her large dark eyes. " I am glad, because it will make life easier for me to know that you care for me. Now 1 want you to listen to me for a few moments. From what you say, I think that this girl is weak in health, an orphan, and not perhaps very happy in her home ? Yes, that is so- — is it not ? Do you think then that I would for a r- oment rob her of what might make all her happiness ? You say that she does not care for you. But you may be mistaken ; you know you thought that — that I did not care either. You must wait for her, and see what will happen at the end of the two years. If she claims you then — well, it will be for you to decide whether you will marry her ; but I shall not marry you unless she gives you up of her own free will. And, if she does — and if you care for me still " " Then you will be my wife ? " Cynthia paused. " Then," she said slowly — " then you may, if you like, ask me again. But then you will perhaps remember that I am a nobody — that I was born in a cottage and educated at a charity-school — that I — that I No, I can't tell you my history now — don't ask me ; if you love me at all, don't ask me that ! I will tell you — I promise you — before I marry you, if ever — at the end of two year.s — at the end of half a century — you ask me again." She was weeping in his arms — she, the brilliant, joyous, successful woman, with a life of distinction opening out before her, with spirits and courage that never failed, with beauty and gifts that were capable of charming all the world — weeping like a child, and in need of comfort like a child. What could he do ? " My darling, my own darling," he said, " I cannot bear to hear you speak so ! Do you doubt my love for you, Cynthia ? Tell me nothing but what you please ; I shall never ask you a question — never desire to know more than what you choose to tell. And in two years Oh, what can I say? Marry me to-morrow, Cynthia, my dearest, and let everything else go by ! " " And despise you ever after for yielding to my weak- ness ? " she said, checking her tears. " Do you think I could bear you to lower yourself for my sake ? No ; you shall keep your word to her — to the woman, whoever she may be, who has your word. But I — ^I have your heart." • She sent him away from her then with proud but gentle A LIFE. SENTENCE, 191 words, caressing him, flattering him, after the fashion of women with those they love, but inexorably determined that he should keep his word. For she had a strong sense of honor and honesty, and she could not bear to think that he could be false to anyone who trusted hira. It was weighing heavily on her own conscience that she had deceived him once. Hubert left her with his senses in a whirl. He knew, as he said, that he had been weak ; but Cynthia's beauty intoxicated him. But for her determination, her courage, he would have failed to keep up even the appearance of faith with Enid — he would have been utterly careless of Enid's trust in him. But this declension Cynthia was resolved not to permit. It was strange to see what noble- ness of mird and generosity of feeling existed beneath her light and careless demeanor ; and while these character- istics humiliated her lover, they filled him with genuine pride and admiration. She was not a woman to be lightly wooed and lightly won ; she was worthy of respect, even of reverence. And, as he thought of her, his heart burned with anger against the innocent girl at Beechfield who had dared to speak of this noble woman with something very like contempt. Cynthia was glad that she had no public engagement for that evening. She was invited to go with Madame della Scala to a large party ; but she pleaded a headache, and begged to be allowed to stay at home. Madame scolded her playfully, but did not oppose her whim; she was sufficiently proud of her pupil and housemate to let her take her own way — a practical compliment for which Cynthia was grateful. When the old lady had gone, Cynthia returned to her favorite rose-lighted sitting-room, and sank somewhat languidly into a lounging-chair. She had forbidden Hubert to return to her that night — she had said that she wanted to be alone ; and now she was half inclined to repent her own peremptoriness. " I might have let him come just once," she said to herself " I shall not allow him to come often, or to be anything but a friend to me ; but I feel lonely to-night. It is foolish of me to be depressed. A month ago I should have thought myself happy indeed if I could have known that he loved me ; and now I am more miserable than ever. I suppose it is the thought of that other girl — mean, jealous, miserable wretch that I am I ! :' tN \ I i ill 19a A LIFE SENTENCE. But I will not be mean or jealous any longer. He has promised himself to her, and he shall keep his word." She was startled from these reflections by the sound of a tap at the door, followed by the entrance of a maid whose office it was especially to attend on Miss West. " If you please, miss," she said, in a low and rather confidential tone — " if you please, there's a — a person at the door that asks to see you." " It is late for visitors," said Cynthia. " A lady, Mary ? " " No, miss." " A gentleman ? I do not see gentlemen, when Madame is out, at this hour of the night. It is ten o'clock. Tell him to come to-morrow." "I did, miss. He said to-morrow wouldn't do. He asked me to mention * Beechfield ' to you, miss, and to say that he came from America." " Old or young, Mary ? " The color was leaving Cynthia's face. ** Old, miss. He has white hair and black eyes, and looks like a sort of superior working-man." Cynthia deliberated. Mary watched her in silence, and then made a low-voiced suggestion. " There's cook's young man in the kitchen, miss, and he's a policeman. Shall I ask him to step up to the front and tell the man to move on ? " " Oh, no, no ! " said Cynthia, suddenly shrinking. " I will see the man, Mary. I think that perhaps he knows a place — some people that I used to know." There was a sort of terror in her face. Mary turned rather reluctantly to the door. " Shall I come in too, miss, or shall I stand in the passage ? " " Neither," said Cynthia, with a little laugh. " Go down to your supper, Mary, and I will manage the visitor. Show him in here." She seemed so composed once more that Mary was reassured. The girl went back to the hall door, and Cynthia rose <^o her feet with the look of one who was nerving hersell for some terrible ordeal. She kept her eyes upon the door ; but, when the visitor appeared, they were so dim with agitation that she could hardly see the face or the features of the man whom Mary decorously announced as — ** Mr. Reuben Dare." A LIFE SENTENCE, m s \ \l ) '. ' " CHAPTER XXVIII. Cynthia looked round at her visitor with a sort of timidity which she did not often exhibit. He was appa- rently about sixty years of age, broad-shouldered, and muscularly built, but with a stiffness of gait which seemed to be either the result of chronic rheumatism or of an accident which had partially disabled him. His face was brown, his eyes were dark and bright ; but his hair and beard were almost white, although his eyebrows had not a grizzled tint. He was roughly but respectably dressed, and looked like a prosperous yeoman or an artisan of the better class. Cynthia glanced at him keenly, then seemed to gain confidepce, and asked him to sit down. The visitor obeyed ; but Cynthia continued standir»g, with her hands on the back of a heavy chair. " Mr. Reuben Dare ? " she said at length, as the old man did not speak. " Come straight from Ameriky," said he — he sat bolt- upright on his chair, and looked at the girl with a steady interest and curiosity which almost embarrassed her — *' and promised to look you up as soon as I got over here. Can you guess who 'twas I promised, missy ? " Cynthia grew first red and then white. " No," she said ; ** I am not sure that I can." " Is there nobody belonging to you that you haven't heard of for years and years ? " " Yes," said Cynthia ; " I think perhaps there is." " A man," said Mr. Reuben Dare, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, and trying to subdue his rather harsh voice to quietness — " a man as was related to you, maybe ? " " If you will say what you mean, I think I can answer you better," said Cynthia. " Do you think 1 am going to say what I mean until I know what sort of a young woman you are, and how you'll take the news I bring you ? " said the man. With a somewhat savage and truculent air he drew his 7 ( ' 1 1." i ■ . I*' 194 A LIFE SENTENCE, eyebrows down over his eyes as he spoke ; but there was a touch of something else as well — of stirred emotion, of doubt, of troubled feeling — which dissipated Cynthia's fears at once. She left the chair which she had been grasping with one hand, and came closer to her visitor. " I see that you are afraid to trust me," she said quickly. " You think that perhaps 1 am hard and worldly, and do not want to have anything to do with my relatives ? That is not true. You are thinking — speaking — of my poor father perhaps. As long as I was a child — a mere girl— I did not think much about him , I was content to believe what people told me — not that he was guilty — I never believed that ! — but that I could do nothing for him, and that I had better not interfere. When I was independent and beginning to think for myself — about six months ago — ' I found out what I might have done. Shall I go on to tell you what I did ? " " Yes, yes — go on ! " The man's voice was husky ; his wrinkled hand trembled as it lay upon his knee. He watched the girl's face with hungry eyes. " I wrote to the Governor of the prison," said Cynthia, " and told him that I had only just discovered — having been such a child — that I could write to my father or see him at regular intervals, and that I should like to do so from time to time. He asked me in return how it was that an intimation — which had been forwarded, I believe, to certain persons interested in my welfare — of my father's fate had not been given to me. My father had, by a desperate effort, succeeded in escaping from Portland ; he had never been recaptured ; and, from certain information received, the authorities believed that he was dead. He added however that he had a shrewd suspicion that Andrew Westwood had thrown dust into the eyes of the police, had left the country, and was not dead at all." " And begged you to communicate with the authorities if you heard from him, I suppose ? " " No ; he did not go so far as that to the man's own daughter," said Cynthia calmly. " And it would, of course, have been useless if he had." "Why—why?" " Because," said the girl, her lips suddenly trembling and her eyes filling with tears — " because I love my father, 4nd would do anything in the world for him — if he would J i/FJt SENTEI^CE. Hi let me. Can you not tell me where he is ? I would give all I have to see him once again ! " Reuben Dare fidgeted in his chair, and half turned his face away. Then, withoi't meeti.ig her eager tearful eyes, he replied half sullenly — " The Governor was right. He got away — away to America." " Oh, then he is living still? He is well ? " '• Oh, yes — he's living, and well enough 1 He hasn't done so badly neither. He got some land and * struck ile,' as they say in America ; and living under another name, and nobody knowing anything about him — he — ^well, he's had fair luck." " And you come from him — you are a friend of his ? Did he want to hear of me ? " " Yes, missy, he did. But he would scarce ha' known you if he'd met you in the street — you, grown so tall and handsoi: e and dressed so fine. It was your name as gave him the clue — * Cynthia ' — * Cynthia West ' ; for he read in the papers as you were singing at concerts, and he says to himself, * Why, that's my gal, sure enough ; and she hain't forgotten her mother's name 1 ' " " Go on 1 " said Cynthia quickly. " Go on ? What do you mean ? " asked Reuben Dare, a little suspiciously. "There's nothing more to say, is there ? And he asked me to make inquiries while I was in England — that was all." " Oh, no, that was not all ! " said Cynthia, drawing nearer, and holding out her hands a little, like one under hypnotic influence, fascinated by a power over which she had no control. " I can tell you the rest. The more he thought of his child, and the more he remembered how she used to love him and trust in him, the more he felt that he could not stay away from her ; and so, although the risk was great — terrible — ^he determined to come back to England and see with his own eyes whether she was safe and well. And when he saw her " — there was a sob in her voice — "he said to himself that perhaps after all she was a hard, unfeeling creature who had forgotten him, or a wicked, treacherous woman who would betray her own father, and that he would go away back to America and never see her again, forgetting to ask whether she had not a heart and a memory too, and whether it might not be that she had ^ 1 I I I: i h- ^t s i I ^i 196 A LIFE SENTENCIl, loved him all her life, and whether she was not longing \^ fall upon his neck and kiss his dear face, and tell him thai she wanted a father for many, many dreary years, and that she trusts him, believes in him, loves him with all her heart ! Oh, father, father!" — and Cynthia lay sobbing on his breast. She had thrown herself impulsively on her knees beside him ; her arms were round his neck, and he was covering her face with kisses. He did not attempt to deny that she had spoken the truth — that he was indeed her father — the man who had been condemned to death, and whom she had believed until this moment to be in America, if still indeed alive ; but neither did he try to prove the fact. He sat still, with his arms round her, and — to her surprise — the tears running down his cheeks as freely as they were running down her own. She looked up at him at last and smiled rather piteously in his face. " Dear father," she said, " and have you come all this way and run into so much danger just to see me ? " " Yes, I have, Cynthy," said the man who called himself Reuben Dare. " I said to myself, I can't get on any longer without seeing her, any way. If that's my girl that sings — as her mother did before her — I shall know her in a trice. But, bless you, my girl, I didn't — not till you began to speak I And then t'was just like your mother." " Am I so much altered ? " said Cynthia wistfully. " As much as you ought to be, my beauty, and no more. You ain't like the skinny little bit of a thing that ran wild round Beechfield lanes ; but then you don't want to be. You're a good deal like your mother ; but she wasn't as dark as you. And, being so different, you see, I thought you might be different in yourself — not ready to acknow- ledge your father as belonging to you at all, maybe ; and so I'd try you with a message first and see what you said to that." " You are altered too, father." " Yes, my deary, I'm altered too. Hain't I had enough to alter me ? Injustice and oppression have almost broke my heart, and ague and fever's taken the strength out o' my limbs, and a knock I got in the States three years ago has nigh crippled me. I'm a broken-down man, with only strength left for one thing — and that's to curse the hard- hearted ruffian, whoever he was, that spoiled ray life for A LIFE SENTENCE, ^9f mc, and thought to hang me by the neck or shut *• up in prison for the rest of my days. If ever I could come across him, I'd do my best to make him suffer as I have suffered. I pray God night and day that He'll let me see that rascal on his knees to me yet before I die ! " His voice had grown loud and fierce, his eyes shone beneath the shaggy eyebrows, his hand shook as he raised it to call down vengeance on the man who had left him to his fate. Cynthia trembled in spite of her love for him — the tones, the look, brought back memories which made her feel that her father was in a great many ways unchanged, and that the wild, lawless nature of the man might be sup- pressed but never utterly subdued. She did not feel the slightest abatement of her love for him on this account ; but it suddenly made her aware of the dangers and difH' culties of his position, and aroused her fears for his safety, even in that house. •• Father," she said " are you sure that nobody will remember you ? " Westwood laughed narshly. " They're not likely to know me," he said. " I've taken care to change my looks since then ; " and, by a sudden movement of his hand, he showed her that hair, beardy and moustache were all fictitious, and that beneath the silvery exterior there grew a scantier crop of sparse gray hair and whiskers, which recalled his former appearance much more clearly to his daughter's mind. "Oh, d6n't take them oflfl" she cried. "Somebody may come in — the door is not locked I At another time, dear father, you will show me your real face, will you not?" He looked at her with a mingling of pride and sorrow in his glance. " And you ain't wanting me to be found out then — you don't want to give nie up to the police ? " " Father, how can you think of such a thing ? " " Some women-folks would think of it, my girl. But you — you're fond of your father still, Cynthy ? " She answered by taking his rough hand in her own and kissing it tenderly. "And you don't believe I killed Mr. Vane down at Beechfield — eh, Cynthy ? Because if you believe it, you know, you and me had better part without more words about it. Least said, soonest mended." ' '9 ! t ' I ■' I ( '•! m^ i dj ; 111 l\ 3 ■Am <-i t9^ A LIFM SENTENCE. not believe it — I never did ! " said Cynthia "I do proudly. " On your word and honor and Bible-oath, Cynthia ? ** " On my word and honor and on my Bible-oath, father," she said, repeating the words, because she saw that hr attached espe'^ial importance to the formula. " I never believed and never will believe that you were guilty of Sydney Vane's murder ! My father " — she said it as proudly as if he had been a Royal Prince — " was never capable of a base and wicked deed ! " " It's her mother's voice," murmured the man, raising his hand to his eyes, as if to shut out the sight of the young girl's face, and to abstract himself from everything but the sound, " and it's her mother's trust in me ! Cyn- thia, my dear, what do you know o' your father to niake you so ready to stand by him ? " There was a great and an unaccustomed tenderness ir his tone. *^ I'm a common man, and I've spent years of my life in gaol, and I was a tramp and a poacher — I won't oeny it — in the olden days ; and before that — well, before that, I was a gamekeeper on a big estate — turned away in disgrace, my dear, because my master's daughter fell in love with me. You never heard that before, did you ? — though any one would guess that you didn't come of a common stock ! Wetheral was her name — Cynthia Wetheral of Bingley Park, in Glou- cestershire. There are relatives o^ hers living there still ; but they don't acknowledge us — they won't hav c anything to do with you, Cynthia, my girl. I married her and took her away wi' me ; and for twelve blessed months we were as happy as the day was long ; and then she died." He paused a little, and caressed Cynthia's head wi*h his hand. " You're like her, my dear. But I'm only a low common sort o' man that sunk lower and lowei* since the day she died ; and you've no call to trust me unless you feel inclined — no call in the very least. If you say you don't quite believe my word, my pretty, I'll not cut up rough— I'll just go away quiet, and never trouble you any more." " Father," said Cynthia, " listen to me one moment. We were separated when I was only eleven years old ; but don't you think that in eleven years I could learn something of your real disposition — ^your true nature ? I remember how you used to care for me, how tender and kind you were to me, although you might perhaps seem gloomy and morose A LIFE SENTENCE, 199 to all the world beside. I remember your bringing home a dog with a broken leg, and nursing it till it was cured. You had pets of all kinds — ^birds, beasts, flowers. You never did a cruel thing in your life ; and how could I think then, that you would lie in wait to kill a man out of mere spite and revenge — a man, too, with a wife and a child — a little girl like me ? I knew you better, father, all the time ! " Westwood shook his head doubtfully. '■ Maybe you're right," he said, " and maybe wrong. I've seen rough deeds done in my day, and never lifted a hand to interfere. I won't deny but what I did lie in wait for Mr. Vane that very afternoon — but with no thought of murder in my mind. I meant to tell him what my opinion was of him and of his doings ; for there was carryings-on that I didn't approve of, and it's my belief that in those very cariyings-on lies the key of the mystery. I've thought it a!l out in prison, slow-like — at nights when I lay in bed, and ila> s when I was hewing stone. I won't tell you the story, my pretty j it ain't fit for the likes of you. But there was a woman mixed up in it ; and, if there was any man who had rights over the woman^ — sweetheart or husband, brother or father, or such-like — it's in that quarter that you and we should look for the real murderer of Sydney Vane." " Can't we do anything, father? Won't you tell me the whole story ? " " Not now, my girl ; I must be going." "Where are you going, father? 'Will you be in a safe place?" " Quite safe, my dear — quite safe ! Nobody would know me in this guise, would they? I'm at No. 119 Isabella Street, Camden Town — quite a little out-o'-the-way place — ■ just the sort to suit a quiet respectable-looking man like me." He gave vent to a grim little chuckle as he went on. " They don't know who they've got hold of, do they ? i\Iaybe they wouldn't be quite so pleased if they did." " May I come and see you there, father? " " AVell, my girl, I think not. Such a — a splendid-looking sort of a party as you've turned out coming to visit mo would make people talk. And we don't want people to talk, do we? Isn't there any quiet spot where you and me could meet and walk about a bit ? Kensington Gardens, maybe, or Regent's Park ? " *.«> m\ ' I \\ „i utt, •lil m, it:. lip:' soo 4 LIFE SENTENCE, Cynthia thought that Kensington Gardens would be quiet enough in the morning for their purpose, and it was agreed that they should meet there the next day at noon. Westwood's disguise was so perfect that he did not attempt to seclude himself during the day. " And then," he said, ** we can talk about you coming over to Ameriky, and living happy and quiet somewhere with me." " Oh, I can't leave England ! " said Cynthia, with a sudden little gasp. " Don't ask me, father ; I can't possi- bly go away." He looked at her keenly and scrutinisingly for a moment, and then he said — " That means that you've got a reason for wanting to stop in England. That means that you've got a sweetheart — a lover, my pretty — and that you won't leave him. I know the ways of women well enough. I don't want to force you, my girl ; but I hope that he's worthy of the woman you've grown to be. Tell me his name." CHAPTER XXIX. Cynthia's father did not get his question answered, because at that moment a thundering knock at the front-door announced the return of ¥ adame, and there was rather a hasty struggle to get him away from the house without encountering that lady's sharp eyes and vivacious question- ing, which Cynthia was not at all sure that he could meet .with equanimity. For herself she felt at that moment equal to any struggle involvirg either cunning or courage. She could combat to death for one she loved. " "Who was that man, carissima ? Why was he here at this hour of the night ? You are a little imprudent, are you not, to receive such visitors without me ? " said Madame, having caught a glimpse of the intruder's retiring figure. Cynthia laughed. " He is venerable, Madame — white-bearded, old, and a relative — an uncle from America whom I have not seen since I was a child. I believe that he has made a fortune gnd wants to endow me with it. We shall see I " -4 LlP^ ^ENtEMdM, lof " Ah, my angel, if he would do that," cried Madame cheerfully, " we would ;velcome him at any hour of the day or night, would not we r Bid him tu dinner with thee, little one, or to tea, after thy English fashion — as thou wilt. The uncle with money is always a desired visitor." And thus Cynthia escaped further questioning, although at the cost of an untruth which she did not consider it her duty to repent. ** For surely," she said to herself, " it is right for a daughter to sacrifice anything and everything to her father's safety 1 I was ashamed of having to tell Hubert what was not true just for my own benefit ; but I am not ashamed of deceiving Madame for my father's sake. I am sorry — ah, yes, I am sorry 1 But what can I do ? " And in the solitude of her own room Cynthia wrung her hands together, and shed a few bitter tears over the hardness and strangeness of her fate. To one who knew all the facts of her story and her father's story, it might indeed have 'been a matter for meditation that "wrong-doing never ends" — that, because Sydney Vane had been an unprincipled man and Florence Lepel a woman without a conscience, therefore a child of whom they never heard had grown up without the presence of a father's love, or the innate reverence for truth that prevailed in the heart of a Jeanie Deans. Cynthia was no Jeanie Deans ; she was a faulty but noble-hearted woman, with a nature that had suffered some slight warping from the effect of adverse circumstance. Cynthia and her father met the next morning under the spreading branches of the trees in Kensington Gardens j and there, as they walked up and down together, Westwood unfolded his plans. From what he let slip — although he tried not to be too definite — it was evident that he had made considerable sums of money, or what he thought «uchj and he wanted Cynthia to give up working, and "go West" with him. He assured her that she should have every comfort, every luxury ; that he was likely to make more and more money as time went on, and that he might even become a millionaire. Would she not partake of the magnificence that was in store for her? But Cynthia shook her head. And then he spoke of his lontli- ness, of his long absence from his only child, and his desire to have a home of his own ; now that he began to feel the infirmities of age, he not only wanted a daughter as ; > ^ I w ftoi J UPS: SENTEUCM, an ornament to his house, but as the prop of his declining years. And at this Cynthia shed tears and began to waver. Ought she not to go with her father? she asked herself. It might be better for Hubert, as well as for her, if she went away ; and, even if at the end of two years she became Hubert's wife, she would at any rate have had two years with her father. And, if Hubert married '* the other girl," she would stay with her father until his life's end— or hers. But the fact remained at the end of all arguments — she did not want to go. " What do you want to stay in England for ? " Westwood said at length. " Is it to make money? I've got enough for both of us. Is it to sing in public ? You'll get bigger audiences over there, my girl. If you love your old father as you say you do, why won't you come along with him ? " He paused, and added, almost in a whisper, "Unless there's somebody you like better, I don't see why you want to stay." Cynthia's face turned crimson immediately. Her father's words made her feel very guilty. She loved him — true ; but she loved Hubert better, and she had not known it until that moment. She knew it thoroughly now. " Well," said Westwood, in a peculiarly dogged tone, " I see what's up. Who is he ? " " He is a very clever man, father," said Cynthia, keep- ing her hot face away from him as much as possible — " a literary man ; he writes plays and novels and poetry. He is thought o. great deal of in London." "As poor as a rat, and wants you to keep him. Is that it ? " ** Oh, no, indeed, father ! He makes a great deal of money. It was he who sent me to Italy to study music ; he paid for me to live where I do, with Madame della Scala." They were in a quiet part of the Gardens, and her father sudden! V laid an iron grip upon her wrist. " Look at me," he burst out — " tell me the truth ! You ' — you ain't — you ain't bound to him in any way ? " He dare not, after all, put his sudden suspicion into plainer words. " It's all fair and square ? He's asked you to be his wife, and not- » Cynthia wrenched away her arm. " I did not think that my own father would insult me A LIFE SENTENCE, 993 she said, in a "lam voice which, though low, vibrated with anger. " 1 am quite well able to take care of my own honor and dignity ; and Mr. Lepel would never dream of assailing either." Then she broke down a little, and a few tears made their way over the scarlet of her cheeks ; but of these signs of distress her father took no notice. He stood still in the middle of the path down which they had been walkmg, and repeated the name incredulously. " * Lepel ' ! * Lepel ' ! Is that your sweetheart's name ? " " ' Hubert Lepel.* It is a well-known name," said Cyn- thia, with head erect. " Hubert Lepel ! Not the man at Beechfield, the cousin of those Vanes ? " He spoke in a whisper, with his eyes fixed on his daughter's face. Cynthia turned very pale. " I do not know. Oh, it can't be the same," she said. " It's not likely that there are two men of the same name. He was a cousin of the man who was killed, I tell you ; and he was the brother — the brother — -, — " Suddenly West- wood stopped short ; his eyes fell to the ground, his breath- ing quickened ; he thrust his hands into his pockets and frowned heavily as he reflected. " Have I got a clue ? " he said, more to himself than to Cynthia. " H'^'s the brother of that woman — the woman that Sydney Vane used to meet in the wood so often, and thought that no- body knew. Did he — did he " But, raising his eyes suddenly, he saw the whiteness of Cynthia's face, and did not finish his question. " Listen to me ! " he said, with sudden sternness. " This man belongs to them that put me in prison and believe me to have murdered Sydney Vane. Do you understand that, girl ? " " Father, he would trust you — he would believe in you — if once he saw you and talked to you." " So you mean to betray me to him, do you? " " Father— dear father ! " " If you say a word to him about my being in England, Cynthia, you may just as well put a rope round my neck or give me a dose of poison. For buried alive at Portland I never will be again ! " " He would no more betray you, father, than " "• Promise me that you'll not breathe a word to him about me ! " • M ■{ ff-- ' V|1 \ I V tm i 204 A LIFE SENTENCE, »> " I promise." " And swear? " " I swear, father — not until you give me leav: " I shall never give you leave. Do you want to kill me, Cynthid? I'd never have thought it of you after all you said! Come, my girl, you needn't cry; I did not mean to suspect you ; but I'm so used to being on my guard. Does he know whose daughter you are ? " "No, father." '* You haven't dared to tell him, and yet you wanted to put my safety in his hands ! " " I am sure he is too kind, too noble, to think of betray- ing any one ! " Cynthia pleaded ; but her father would not hear. " Tut ! If he thinks I murdered his cousin, he wouldn't feel any particular call to be kind to me, I guess. I should like to understand all about this affair, Cynthia. Come, sit down on this bench here under the trees, and tell me about it. Don't vex yourself over what I said ; I was but carried away by the heat of the moment. Now are you promised to this Mr. Lepel — engaged to him, as you young folk call it?" " I don't know whether I can tell you anything, father," murmured Cynthia. "You'd better," said Westwood quietly, "because it hangs on a thread whether I ain't going to denounce Mr. Lepel as the man that killed Mr. Sydney Vane. I never thought of him before, although I did see hir * at the trial and knew that he'd been hanging round the place. He was her brother, sure enough — he had a motive. Well, Cynthia?" *' Father, if you are thinking such terrible things of Hu- bert, how can I tell you anything ? You know I — I love him ; if you accuse him of a crimej I shall cling to- him still — and love him still — and save him if I can." ** At your father's expense, girl ? " She writhed at the question, and twisted her fingers nervously together, but did not speak. Westwood waited for a minute or two, and then resumed — this time very bitterly. "It's always so ! The lover always drives the parent out of the young folks' hearts. For this man — that you haven't known more tb?w a few months, I suppose — you'd A LIFE SENTENCE, 205 give up your father to worse than the gallows— to the misery of a life sentence- and be glad, maybe, to see the last of him ! If it was him or me, you would save him — and perhaps you're in the right of it. I wish," said the man, turning away his face—" I wish to God that I'd never come back to England, nor seen the face of my girl again ! " ^ Cynthia had been physically incapable hitherto of stem- ming the flow of his words ; but now, nlthough she was trembling with excitement and sorrow ind indignation, she answered her father's accusation resolutely. " You are wrong, father. I will not sacrifice you to him. But you must not expect me to sacrifice him to you either. My heart is large enough to hold you both." Thejre was a pathos in the tone of her last few words which impressed even Westwood's not very plastic nature. He turned towards her, noting with half-unconscious anxiety the whiteness of the girl's lips, the shadow that seemed to have descended upon her eyes. He put out his rough hand and touched her daintily-gloved fingers. " Don't be put out by what I say, my girl ! If I speak sharp. It's becai.se I feel deep. I won't be haid on any one you care for, I give you my word ; but it'll be the best thing for you to be fair and square with me and tell me all about hii i. Are you going to marry him ? " " He wishes to marry me," said Cynthia, yielding, with a sigh ; "but there has been an arrangement — a sort of family arrangement, I understand — by which he must — ought to marry a young lady in two years, when she is twenty or twenty-one, if she consents and if she is strong enough. She is ill now, and she does not seem to care for him. That is all I know. I have promised to marry him if he is free at the end of the two years." It sounded a lame story — worse, when she told it, than when she had discussed it with Hubert Lepel or wept over it in her own room. Westwood uttered a growl of anger. " And you're at his beck and call like that ! He is to take you or leave you as he pleases ! Pretty state of mat- ters for a girl like you ! Why, with your face and your pretty voice and your education, I should think that you could have half Lunnon if you chose ! " " Not I," said Cynthia, laughing with a little of her old spirit — " or, if I had, it would b^ the wrong half, father, 2o6 A LIFE SENTENCE. Besides, Mr. Lepel is not to blame. He — he would marry me to-morrow, I believe, if I would allow it ; it was I that arranged to wait. I would rather wait. Why should I marry anybody before I have seen the world ? " " Where does Mr. Lepel live, Cynthy ? " said Westwood slowly, as if he had not been attending very much to what she said. Cynthia hesitated ; then she gave him Hubert's address. She knew that her father could easily get it elsewhere, and that it would only irritate him if she refused. Besides, she had too much confidence in her lover to think that harm could come of her father's knowledge of the place in which he lived. But she was a little surprised when her father at once stood up and said, with his former placidity of tone — " Well, then, my dear, I'm a-going round to look at Mr. Lepel. I'm not going to harm him, nor even maybe to speak to him ; but I want to have a little look at him before I see you again. And then I shall maybe go out of town for a bit. There are one or two places I want to look at again. So you needn't be surprised if you don't hear from me again just yet a while. I'll write when I come back." " Oh, father, you will not run into any danger, will you ? " " Not a bit, my dear. There's not a soul on earth would know me as I am now. Don't you be afraid ! I'll walk back with you to the gate, and then we'd better say good- bye. If you want anything special, write to me — Reuben Dare, you know — at the address I gave you ; but even then, my girl, don't you mention names. It's a dangerous thing to do on paper." " I'll remember," said Cynthia, with unwonted sub- missiveness. They parked at the gate, and Westwood, without look- ing round, went some paces in the easterly direction which he had chosen to take. But all at once he heard a light footstep behind him, and a small gloved hand was laid upon his arm. It was Cynthia, slightly flushed and pant- ing a little, her eyes unusually bright. She ran after him with a last word to say. " Father," she said, " you will remember, will you not, that, although I love him, I love you too ? " " Do you, Cynthia ? " said the man, rather sadly. " Well, maybe — maybe." A LlF^ s^^rTEA^cM, te^ " And that you are to take care of yourself for my sake ? " ** Eh ? For your sake ? Yes, my dear — yes." " Good-bye, dear father I" He nodded simply in reply ; but, as he pursued his way eastward, his heart grew softer towards his child's lover than it would otherwise have been. How beautiful she had looked with those flushed cheeks and shining eyes ! What was he that he should interfere with her happiness ? If the man that she loved was good and true why should he not marry her, although he was a kinsman of the Vanes an., the brother of a woman whom Westwood held in peculiar abhorrence ? For accident had revealed to him many years before the relation between Sydney Vane and Florence Lepel, and she had seemed to him then and ever since to be less of a woman than a fiend. Yet, being some- what slow in drawing conclusions, he had never associated her or her brother with Mr. Vane's death, until, in the solitude of his cell, he had laboriously " put two and two together " in a way which had not suggested itself either to himself or to his defenders at the time of the trial. He himself, from a strange mixture of delicate feeling and gruff reserve, had not chosen to tell what he knew about Miss Lepel and Sydney Vane ; and only when it was too late did it occur to him that his silence had cost him his freedom, and might have cost him his life. He saw it all clearly now. It was quite plain to him that in some way or other Mr. Vane's death had been caused through his unfaithfulness to his wife. Some one had wished to punish him — some friend of hers, some friend of Miss Lepel's. Right enough he deserved to be killed, said Westwood to himself, as he elaborated his theory. If only the slayer, the avenger, had not refused to take the responsibility of his act upon his own shoulders ! " If only he hadn't been cur enough," Westwood muttered to himself, as he went along the London streets, " to leave me — a poor man, a common man, that only Cynthia loved — to bear the blame 1 " ' I ! i'- V- ■ t, I !fi |i 1?^ teS A LIFE SEi^TENCE, CHAPTER XXX. W«EN Hubert Lepel quitted Beechfield, a Sudden calm, almost a stagnation of interest, seemed to fall upon the place. Mrs. Vane was said to be " less strong " than usual; the spring weather tried her; she must be kept quiet, the doctor said, and, if possible, tranquil in mind. " God bless my soui, isn't she tranquil in mind ? " the General had almost shouted, when Mr. Ingledew gave this opinion. "What else can she be? She hasn't a single thing to worry her ; or, if she has, she has only to mention it and it will be set right at once." The village doctor smiled amiably. He Was a pale, thin, dark little man, with insight rather in advance of his actual knowledge. He would have been puzzled to say why he had jumped to the conclusion that Mrs. Vane's mind was not quite tranquil ; but he was sure that it was not. Possibly, he was influenced by the conviction that it ought not to be tranquil ; for, in the course of his visits among the villagers, he had heard some of the ugly rumors about Flossy's past, which were more prevalent than Mrs. Vane herself suspected and than the General ever had it in his power to conceive. " Well, sir," he said — for Mr. Ingledew was always very deferential to the Squire of the parish — " what I meant was more perhaps that Mrs. Vane requires perfect freedom from all anxiety for the future than that she is suffering from uneasiness of mind at present. Possibly Mrs. Vane is a little anxious from time to time about Master Dick, who is not of a particularly robust constitution, or per- haps about Miss Vane, who does not strike me as looking exactly what I should call * the thing.' " " No — does she, Ingledew? " said the General, diverted at once from the consideration of his wife's health to that of his niece. '■'■ She's pale and peaky, is she not ? Have you seen her to-day ? " " H'm — not professionally," replied Mr. Ingledew, rub- bing his chin. " In point of fact, Mrs. Vane intimated to me that Miss Vane refused to see me — to see a doctor at A LIFE SENTENCE, ^ all. I am sorry, for Miss Vane's own sake, as I think that she is not looking well at present — not at all well." " There she goes I " cried the General. " We'll have her in, and hear what all this is about. Enid, Enid — come here ! " He had seen her in the conservatory, which ran along one side of the house. He and Mr. Ingledew were sitting in the library, and through its half-open glass door he had caught sight of the girl's white gown amongst the flowers. She turned instantly at his call. " Did you want me, uncle? " " Yes, dear. You are not looking well, Enid ; we are concerned about you," said the General, going up to her and taking her by the hand. ** Why do you refuse to see a doctor, my dear child ? " " But I have not refused, uncle." ** Oh — er — Mr. Ingledew " ** I understood from Mrs. Vane," said the doctor, " that you did not wish for medical advice. Miss Vane." Enid colored a little, and was silent for a moment ; then she answered, in her usual gentle way — " I had some disinclination a few days ago to consult a doctor, and perhaps Mrs. Vane has accidentally laid more stress upon my saying so than I intended. But I am quite willing— now — to consult Mr. Ingledew a little." She sank into a chair as if she were very tired, and for a moment closed her eyes. Her face was almost colorless, and there were violet tints on her eyelids and her lips. Mr. Ingledew looked at her gravely and knit his brows. He knew well that her explanation of Mrs. Vane's words Was quite insufficient. Mrs. Vane had sweetly and solemnly assured him that she had begged " dear Enid " to see a doctor— Mr. Ingledew or another — and that she had firmly refused to do so, saying that she felt quite well. Enid's Words did not tally with Mrs. Vane's report at all. The doctor- knew which of the two women he would rather believe. The General walked away, leaving the patient and the medical man together. At the close of the interview, which did not last more than a few minutes, Enid rose with a weary little smile and left the room. The General came back to Ingledew. , " Well, Ingledew ? "—Mr. Ingledew looked grave. i \r \ \ . i « Hi 'f! \hi iio A LIFE SEf^TEtfCR, " I should not say that there was anything very serious," he said ; " but Miss Vane certainly requires care. She suffers from palpitation of the heart and faintness ; her pulse is intermittent ; she complains of nausea and dizzi- ness. Without stethoscopic examination I cannot of course be sure whether there is anything organically wrong ; but I should conclude — judging as well as I can without the aid of auscultation — that there was some dis- turbance — functional disturbance — of the heart." "Heart! Dear, dear — that's very serious, is it not?" " Oh, not necessarily so ! It may be a mere passing derangement produced by indigestion," said the doctor prosaically. " I will come in again to-morrow and sound her. I hope it is nothing more than a temporary indispo- sition." And so Mr. Ingledew took his leave. " Mrs. Vane didn't want me to see her ! " he said, as he left the house. " I wonder why? " Meanwhile Enid, passing out into the hall, had been obliged to stand still once or twice by reason of the dizzi- ness that threatened to overcome her. She leaned against the wall until the feeling had gone off, and then dragged herself slowly up the stairs. She had suffered in this way only for the last week or two — since Hubert went away. At first she had thought that the warm spring weather was . making her feel weak and ill ; but she did not remember that it had ever done so before. She had generally revived with the spring, and been stronger and better in the warmth and sunshine of summer. She could not under- stand why this spring should make her feel so ill. She went into her own room and lay down flat on the bed. She had the sensation of wishing to sink deeper and deeper down, as if she could not sink too low. Her heart seemed to beat more and more slowly ; each breath that she drew was an effort to her. She wondered a little if she was go- ing to die. Presently she heard somebody enter the room. She was not strong enough to turn her head ; but she opened her eyes and saw her maid Parker standing beside her bed and regarding her with alarm. ]. "Law, miss, you do look bad ! " she said. Enid's white lips moved and tears trembled on her eye-lashes; but she did not speak. Parker, seriously alarmed, hastened to procure smelling-salts, brandy, and A LIFE SENTENCE. •If eau-de-Cologne, and, with a few minutes' care, these appli- cations produced the desired result. Enid looked a little less death-like ; she smiled as she took a dose of brandy and sal-volatile, and moved her fingers towards the woman at her side. Parker did not at first know what she wanted, but discovered at last that the girl wanted to hold her hand. Contact with something human seemed to help to bring her back from the shadowy borderland where she had been wandering. Parker, astonished and confused, wanted to draw away her hand ; but the small cold fingers closed over it resistlessly. Then the woman stood motionless, holding a vinaigrette in her free hand, and looking at the pale face on the pillow, at the pathetic blue eyes which sought her own from time to time as if in want of pity. Something made Parker's heart beat fast and the hot tears came into her hard, dark eyes. She had never felt any particular fondness for Miss Enid before j but somehow that mute appeal, that silent cUiiming of sympathy and help, made the v/oman who had spent the last few weeks in dogging her footsteps and spying out her secrets bitterly regret the bondage in which her past life had placed her. " Do you feel better now, miss?" she asked, in an un- usually soft tone, presently. " Ves, thank you, Parker ; but don't go just yet." Parker stood immovable. Secretly she Jiegan to long to get away. She was afraid that she should cry if she stayed there much longer holding Enid's soft little white hand in hers. " Parker,'* said Enid presently, " were you in your room last night soon after I went to bed? " The maid slept in the next room to that of her young mistress. "Yes, miss — at least, I don't know what time it was." " It was between nine and ten o'clock when I went to bed. Did you see anybody — any one all in white — come into my room after I was in bed? If your door was open, you might have seen any one pass." *' Good gracious, miss, one would think that you was speaking of a ghost ! No, I didn't see anybody pass." " I thought, perhaps," said Enid rather faintly, " that it might be Mrs. Vane coming to see how I was, you know. She has a loose white wrapper, and she often throws a white lace shawl over her head when she goes down the; passages." 1 ■.lit- I i , I r ! t ^ \ \\ f i 'ifi' «1 u n 212 A LIFE SENTENCE, " You must have been dreaming, miss," said Parker. She found it easier to withdraw her hand now that the conversation had taken this turn. "I suppose I must," said Enid, in a scarcely audible tone. Then she turned away her face and said, * You can go now, Parke: ; I feel better. I think that I shall go to sleep." But she did not sleep even when Parker had departed. She lay thinking, with the tears gathering and falling one by one, until they made a great wet spot on the pillow beneath her head. The shadow that hung over her young life was growing very dark. Parker had hurried into her own room, where she first shut and locked the door, as if afraid to think even while it was open, and then wrung her hands in a sort of agony. " To think of it — to think ot it ! " she said, bursting into sudden sobs. "And Miss Enid so sweet and innocent and gentle ! What has she done ? What has she got to be put out of the way for? Just for the sake of the money, I suppose, that it may all go to that wretched little Master Dick ! Oh, she's a wicked woman — a wicked woman ; and I'd give my life never to have set eyes upon her, for she'll be the ruin of me body and soul ! " But " she " in this case did not mean Enid Vane. Parker was aroused from her meditations by the sharp tinkle of a bell, which she knew that Mrs. Vane must have rung. She started when she heard it, and a look of dis- gust crossed her face ; but as she hesitated, the bell rang again, more imperiously than ever. Parker dashed the tesCrs from her eyes, and sped down the long corridor to Mrs. Vane's dressing-room. Her hands were trembling still. . " Why do you keep me in this way when I ring for you, Parker ? " said Mrs. Vane, in her coldest tone. " I rang twice." " Miss Vane wanted me, ma'am. I have been with her." There was an odd tremor in the woman's voice. Mrs. Vane surveyed her critically. "You look very strange, Parker. What is the matter with you? Are you ill? " " No, ma'am ; but Miss Vane is." Flossy grew a shade paler and looked up. She was §till in her dressing-gown — white, edged everywhere with A LIFE SENTENCE, 2*3 costly lace — and her fair hair was hanging loose over her shoulders. " 111 ? What is the matter with her ? " " I — I thought perhaps you would know, ma'am," said Parker desperately. Then, afraid of what she had said, she turned to a drawer, pulled it open, and began ransack- ing it diligently. From the momentary silence in the room she felt as if her shaft had gone home ; but she dard not look round to see. " What on earth do you mean, Parker ? " said Mrs. Vane, after that one dead pause, which said so much to her maid's suspicious ears ; the chill disdain in her voice was inimitable. " How can I tell you what is the matter with Miss Vane when I have not seen her since dinner- time yesterday ? She was well enough then — at least, as well as she has been since this trying weather began." " Didn't you see her last night, ma'am, when you went to her room about eleven o'clock ? " said Parker, trying to assume a bolder tone, but failing to hide her nervousness. Again a short but unmistakable pause. " No, I did not," said Mrs. Vane drily. " I listened at the door to see if she was asleep, but I did not go in." " She seems to have been dreaming that you did, ma'am." " What nonsense ! " said Mrs. Vane, a little hurriedly. " You should not attend to all her fancies, Parker. You know that she has very odd fancies indeed sometimes. The shock of her father's death when she was a child had a very injurious effect upon her nerves, and I should never be surprised at anything that she chose to do or say. Pray don't get into the way of repeating her words, or of imagin- ing that they must necessarily be true ! " " No, ma'am," said Parker submissively. Evidently there was nothing more for her to say. Wdl, perhaps she had put her mistress on her guard. " Oh, by-the-bye, Parker ! There are two dresses of mine in the wardrobe — the brown one and the silk — that you can do what you like with. And I was thinking of sending a little present to your mother. You may take this purse — there are seven pounds in it; send it to her from me, if you like, as a little acknowledgment of your faithful service. And, if— if there is anything else that I can do for her, you need only mention it."^ "Thank you, ma'am/' said Parker, but without $uth\;- I \ » m w ■ I \ I' \ 111 '■I- '1 i i ',1 ■iii I; 314 A UFE SENTENCE, siasm. " I don't know as there's anything that she wants at present." " Take the purse," said Flossy impatient^ ; " and then go away and come back when I ring. I won't have my hair brushed just now. Is Miss Vane better? " " Yes, ma'am — she's better now." And Parker went away, knowing very well that she had been bribed to hold h^r tongue. But after that interview she noticed that Enid seemed to recover tone and strength, that for a ffew succeeding days she was more like herself than she had been of late, and that the symptoms of faintness and palpitation which she had mentioned to Mr. Ingledew disappeared. Parker nodded mysteriously as she remarked on these facts to herself, and thought that for once her interference had had a good effect. She had lately found less to report concerning Miss Vane's movements than before Mr. Lepel's visit ; for Enid's ministrations amongst the poor had been almost entirely brought to a close, on the ground that close cottages and the sight of suffering must necessarily be bad for her health. Accordingly she had gone less and less to the village, and had seen almost nothing of Mr. Evandale. Parker, being thus less often " on duty," found more time than usual for her own various scraps of business, and took occasion cne evening to run out to the post-office when all the family were at dinner ; and while at the post- office she noticed a stranger in the village street — a highly respectable, venerable-looking old man with picturesque white hair and beard. " That's Mr. Dare, who's a-stayin' at the inn," said the postmistress to Parker, who was a person of considerable importance in village eyes. " Such a nice old gentleman ! He comes from America, where they say he's made a for- tune, and he's very liberal with his money." So good a character interested Parker at once in Mr. Dare. She felt quite flattered when, in passing down the lane, she was accosted by the gentleman in uestion, who pulled off his hat to her politely, and asked her whether she could tell him if Mr. Lepel was likely to visit Beech- field Hall in the course of a week or two. " Let me see," said Parker. " Why, yes, sir — I heard yesterday that he was coming down next Saturday, just for a day or two, you know." ^ LIFE sentence:. 2151 *' I used to know a Mr. Lepel once," said the stranger, " and he did me a kindness. If this is the same, I'd like to thank him before I go. I heard him mentioned up at the * Crown ' yonder and wondered whether I could find ; out." " I dare say it's the same — he's always a very kind - gentleman," quoth Parker, remembering the half-crowns ; that Hubert had many a time bestowed on her. * Fair, isn't he ? " said Mr. Dare. " That was my Mr. Lepel — fair and short and stout and a nice little wife and ' family " " Oh, dear, no — that isn't our Mr. Lepel ! " said Parker, ; with disdain. "He's tall and very dark and thin; and, as to being married, he's engaged to Miss Vane of Beech- field Hall, or as good as engaged, I know ; and thf'v're to ' be married when she's out of her teens, because the viene- ral, her uncle, won't consent to it before." "Ah," said the stranger, "you're right; that's not the gentleman I know. Engaged, is he ? And very fond of the young lady, I suppose ? " " Worships the very ground she treads upon 1 " said Parker. She would have thought it infra dig, to allow for one moment that Miss Enid did not meet with her deserts in the way of adoration. " He's always coming down here to see her. And she the same ! I don't think they could be happy apart. He's just devoted ! " " And that," said Reuben Dare to himself, " is the man who makes my girl believe that he is fond of her I " CHAPTER XXXL Hubert was sadly puzzled by Cynthia's manner to him at this time. She seemed to have lost her bright spirits; she v/as grave and even depressed ; now and then she manifested a sort of coldness which he felt that he did not understand. Was this the effect of his confession to her that he had pledged his faith before he lost his heart? She had shown no such coldness when he told her first ; but perhaps reflection had changed her tone. , He began by trying to treat her ceremoniously in return ; but he found it a difficult task. He had never been on v^ry cere^- I ! 'I I \ \ W- L-. 1 1' I tip* ! ! \ V-i it^ A Life iiEi^tEkc&. monious terms at all with her, and to begin them noW, when she had acknowledged that she loved him and he had kissed her ripe red lips — he said to himself that it was absurd. He did not cease his visits to Madame della Scala's house, nor try to set up an artificial barrier between him- self and his love. Why then should she ? He would not have this coldness, this conventionality of demeanor, he told himself; and yet he hardly knew how to beat it down. For he certainly had no right to demand that she should treat him as her lover when he was engaged — or half en- gaged — to marry Enid Vane. He came one evening in May, and found her on the point of starting for a soirie where she was to sing. She was £n grande tenueiox the- occasion, dressed, after an old Venetian picture, in dull red brocade, point-lace, and gold ornaments. He had given her the ornaments himself — golden serpents with ruby eyes — which she had admired m a jeweller's window. But for the rest of her dress she was in no wise indebted to him; she had been mnking money lately, and could afford herself a pretty gown. She received him, he thought, a little coolly — perhaps only because Madame della Scala was sitting by — gave him the tips of her fingers, and' declared that she must go almost immediately. It turned cut that he was bound for the same place ; and Madame at once asked him to escort them thither — the carriage would be at the door at half- past nine o'clock. " I shall be only too happy," said Mr. Lepel, " if you will allow me such an honor. And, m the meantime, it is not yet nine o'clock, Cynthia ; so, in spite of your impa- tience, you cannot start quite 'immediately.' What is there so attractive at the Gores' this evening that you wish to set off so early ? " ** Oh, nothing — I did not know the time ! " said Cynthia. She did not reply jestingly, after her usual fashion ; she sat down languidly, and spread her heavy skirts around her so as to make a sort of silken barrier between herself and Hubert. He bit his lip a little as he looked at her. " Our little bird is not quite herself," said Madame, with a side grimace at Hubert which she did not want Cynthia to see. "She has what our neighbors call ^ la migraine^ oionsieur. She has never been well since the return of her A LIFE SENTENCE, 217 old uncle from America, whose fortune — if he has a fortune — does not seem likely to do any of us any good her least of all." Cynthia lowered her head a little and darted a sudden and fierce glance at her teacher and chaperon — a glance of which Hubert guessed the meaning. She had never mentioned this " uncle from America " to him ; probably she had told Madame not to do so either, and the little Italian lady had broken her compact. Madame della Scala laughed and spread out her hands deprecatingly. '* Che, chi — what is it I have done to make you look so fierce at me? I will leave her to you, Mr. Lepel, and trust you to make her tractable before we reach the house where we are to sing. For the last few days I have not known how to content la signorina at all ; she has twice refused to sing when refusal meant — well, two *^' 'ngs — ^loss of money and offence of friends. Those are two things which I do not like at all." So saying, Madame, with a fan outstretched before her like a palm-leaf, moved towards the door ; but Cynthia in- tercepted her. "Madame, do not go!" she cried, "lideed I am sorry ! Do not make Mr. Lepel think that I have been behaving so like a petted child. I will do what you wish henceforward — I will indeed ! Do not go, or I shall ihink that you are angry with me ! " *' Angry with you, carissima ? Not one bit ! " said Madame, touching the girl's hot cheek with the end of her dainty fan. " Not angry, only a little — ^little tiny bit dis- appointed ! But what of that ? I forgive you ! Genius must have its moods, its freaks, its passions. But calm yourself now, for Heaven's sake, or we shall be in bad voice to night ! I am just going to my room to get my scent-bottle ; I will return immediately ; " and Madame escaped. Hubert was delighted with the Httle lady's manoeuvre, designed, as he knew, to leave him alone with Cynthia. As for Cynthia, she gave one scared look round, as if she dreaded to meet his eyes, then dropped into the nearest chair and placed one hand over her face. He thought that she was crying. " Cynthia, my darling, what is all this ? " he said apptoach- : t i { \ I > I I I I I I -. •i !:. I !l t i ms A LIFE SENTENCE, ing her. " My dearest, you are not happy I What can 1 do?" " Nothing," she answered, dashing away a tear and let- ting her hand fall into her lap — " nothing indeed ! " " But you are not — as Madame says — quite like your- self." " I know ; I am very cross and disagreeable," said Cyn- thia, with a resolute assumption of gaiety. " I always had a bad temper ; and it is well perhaps that you should find it out." Without speaking, he bent his head to kiss her ; but she drew back. " No ! " she said, with decision. " No, Hubert — Mr. Lepel, I mean — that will not do ! " "What, Cynthia?" " We are not engaged. We are really nothing to each other; I was wrong to forget that before." " This is surely a new view on the subject, Cynthia ! " " Yes ; it is the view I have taken ever since I thought it over. We will be friends, if you like — I will always be your friend " — and there came over her face an indescribable expression of yearning and passionate regret — " but we must remember that I shall be nothing more." . " Nothing more ? Why, my darling, do you forget what you promised me — that at the end of two years- " " If you were free — yes," she interrupted him. " But it was a foolish promise. You know that you are not likely to be free. You — you knew that when you told me that you loved me ! " She set her teeth and gave him a look of bitter reproach. " What does this mean ? " said Hubert, flushing up to the roots of his hair. " I told you everything the next morning, Cynthia ; and I acknowledged to you that I loved you only because I thought that I was too miserable a wretch for you to cast a sigh upon. You have changed since then — not I." Cynthia suddenly rose from her chair. ** I hear the carriage," she said abruptly ; " Madame is at the door. There is no use in continuing this conver- sation." " No use at all," said Hubert, who by this time was not in the best of tempers. " Perhaps you would rather that J. did pot accompany you to-ni^ht, Mi§s West ? " A i/P£ s£Arr£j\;c£. it^ ''Oh, pray come !" said Cynthia, with a heartless little laugh. " Madame will never forgive me if I deprive her of a cavalier ! It does not matter to me." Hubert turned at once to Madame della Scala, and offered her his arm with the courtesy of manner which she always averred she found in so few Englishmen , but which he displayed to perfection. Cynthia followed, not waiting for him to lead her to the cairiage. He was about to hand her to her seat, but she had so elaborately encumbered herself with gloves, fan, bouquet, and sweeping silken train, that it seemed as if she could not possibly disentangle her hands in time to receive his help. She took her seat beside Madame with her usual smiling nonchalance, and the two ladies waited for Mr. Lepel to take the opposite seat. He took off his hat and made a sweeping bow. " Madame," he said, *' I am unfeignedly sorry, but I find that circumstances will not allow me to accompany you this evening. Will you pardon me therefore if I decline the honor of the seat you have offered me ? " This stately mode of speech was intended to pacify Madame della Scala, who liked to be addressed as if she were a princess ; he knew that she w6uld be angry enough at his defection. Before she had recovered herself so far as to speak, he fell back and signed to the coachman to drive on. They had left him far behind beforjs Madame ceased to vent her exclamations of wrath, despair, and dis- appointment. " What can he mean by * circumstances ' ? " 1 !s was the phrase that rose most frequently to her tongue. " * Cir- cumstances will not allow me ' ! But that is nonsense — • absolutely nonsense ! " " I think by ' circumstances ' he meant me," said Cynthia at last — by which remark she diverted all Madame's wrath upon her own unlucky head. She did not seem to mind however. She looked brilliant that evening, and she sang her best. There was a royal personage amongst her hearers, and the royal personage begged to be presented to her, and complimented her upon her singing- As Cynthia made her little curtsey and smiled her bright little smile, she wondered what the royal person- age would say if he knew that she was " Westwood, the murderer's daughter." She had been called so too often in her earliest years ever to forget the title. r f ' H i: if \ ' l\ ; i f m A UF^ <;Ei^rs^c£. In spite of her waywardness that night, she was woman enough to wish that Hubert had been there to witness her triumph. She had never offended him before. She thought that perhaps he would come back, and darted hasty glances at the throng of smart folk around her, longing to see his dark face in some corner of the room. But she was dis- appointed ; he did not come. " Oh, Miss West," said her hostess to her, in the course of the evening, " do come here one moment 1 I hope you won't be very much bored ; you young people always like other young people best, I know. But there is a lady here — an old lady — who is very much impressed by your voice : — your charming voice — and wants to know you ; and she is really worth knowing, I assure you ogives delightful parties now and then." " I shall be most happy 1 " said Cynthia brightly. " I like old ladies very much ; they generally have something to say." "Which young men do not, do they? Oh, fie, you naughty girl 1 I saw you with young Lord Frederick over there Dear Miss Vane, this is our sweet songstress, Miss Cynthia West — Miss Vane. I have just been telling her how much you admire her lovely singing ; " and then the hostess hurried away. Something like an electric shock seemed to pass through Cynthia's frame. She did not show any trace of emotion, the smile did not waver on her lips ; but suddenly, as she bowed gracefully to the handsome, keen-eyed old lady to whom she had just been introduced, she saw herself a ragged, unkempt, savage little waif and stray, fresh from the workhouse, standing on a summer day upon a dusty road, the centre of a little group of persons whose faces came back to her one by one with painftil distinctness. There was the old lady — not so wrinkled as this old lady, but still with the same clearly-cut features, the same sharp eyes, the same inflexible mouth ; there was the child with delicate limbs and dainty movements, with sweet sympathetic eyes and lovely golden hair, which Cynthia had passionately admired as she had never admired any other hair and eyes in the world before ; and there was a young man. His face had hitherto been the one that she thought she remembered best ; she was suddenly aware that she had so idealised and glorified it that jts very lea- j4 tWE SENTENCE. sij tures had become unreal, and that when she met it in the flesh in later years it remained unrecognisable. Never once till now had it been borne in upon her that this hero of her childish dreams and her present lover were one and the same. It was a terrible shock to her — and greater even then she knew. " I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss West," said Miss Leonora Vane, holding out her hand so cordially that Cynthia could not in common politeness refuse to take it. ''Your singing has delighted everybody — and myself, I am sure I may say, not l^sl. You have been some time in Italy, I suppose ? Do sit down here and tdl nie where you studied." Cynthia fancied that she heard the same voice telling her what a wicked girl she was, and that she deserved to be whipped for running away from the workhouse. She repressed a little shudder, and answered smilingly — " You are very kind. Yes, I have studied in Italy." " Under Lamperti, I hear. Do you think of coming out in opera next season ? You may always count me among your audiejice." Cynthia remembered how this courteous gentlewoman had once put her hand over her eyes and declared that the sight of Westwood's daughter made her ill. The burning sense of injustice that had then taken possession of the child's soul rose up as strong a's ever in the woman. She wished, in her bitterness, that she were free to rise from her seat and cry aloud — " Yes, look at me — listen to me — for I am Westwood's daughter ! I am the child of a felon and escaped convict, a man whom you call a murderer — and I am proud of my name ! " Curiously enough. Miss Vane touched closely upon this subject before long. She was anxious to know whether Cynthia's name was her own or only assumed for stage purposes, and managed to put her question in such a way that i "; sounded less like impertinence than a manifestation of kindly interest — which was very clever of Miss Vane. "No," said Cynthia coldly, "'West' is not my name exactly ; but I prefer to be known by it at present." She had never said as much before ; and Miss Vane felt herself a little bit snubbed, and decided that the new singer had not at all good manners ; but she meant to secure her iAt A LIFE SENTENCE, for her next party nevertheless. She rather prided herself upon her parties. To her utter surprise and bewilderment, Miss Cynthia West absolutely declined to come. She gave no reason except that she thought that she should before long give up singing in drawing-rooms at all ; and she was not to l)c moved by any consideration of payment. Miss Vane ventured to intimate that she did not mind what she paid ; but she was met by so frigid a glance that she was really obliged, in self-defence, to be silent. She carried away an unpleasant impression of Cynthia West, and was heard to say afterwards that she could believe anything of that young woman. Cynthia was, however, acknowledged to have made in every other way a great success. Madame della Scala was delighted with her pupil, and quite forgot all the little dis- agreeables of the evening ; while Cynthia, during their drive home, was as charming and as lively as she had ever been. When the c irriage stopped at the quiet little house in Kensington, the weather had changed, and rain was falling rapidly. One of the servants was in waiting with an umbrella, ready to give an arm to Madame, who alighted first. Cynthia followed, scarcely noticing the man who stepped forward to assist her, until something prompted her suddenly to look at his face. Then she uttered an inarticulate exclamation. " Yes, it is I," said Hubert. " I have been waiting to help you out. I don't know how I have offended you ; but, whatever it is, forgive me, Cynthia — I can't bear your displeasure ! " " Nor I yours," she said, with a sob ; and, under the umbrella that he was holding, she actually held up her face to be kissed. Nobody saw the little ceremony of reconciliation. The next moment Cynthia was in the hall, having her dress shaken out and let down by a yawning maid's attentive hands, and the coachman had driven off, and the hall door was shut, and Hubert Lepel was out in the street, with a wall between him and his love. There were tears in Cyn- thia's eyes as she went wearily, her gaiety all departed, up to her room. Nobody suspected that the charming singer whose gaiety and audacity, as well as her beauty, had won all hearts that evening passed half the night in weeping on 4 LIFE SENTENCE, 333 the hard floor — weeping over the fate that divided her from her lover. For ever since the day that she had learned from her father that Hubert Lepel was a cousin of the Vanes — more than ever now she knew that he was the man who had befriended her in her childhood — she felt it to be utterly impossible that she should marry him until he knew the truth ; and the truth — that she was Westwood's daughter — would, she felt sure, part him from her for ever. CHAPTER XXXII. Early in the sweet June morning — sweet and fair although it brooded over London, the smokiest city in the world — Cynthia was again walking in Kensington Gardens* She hid not gone far before she met her father, with whom she had made an appointment for that hour, " Well, Cynthia, my girl ? " " I have come, you see, father." " I hardly thought you'd get here so soon after your party-going last night," said her father. " You look pretty tired too. Well, my gir', I told you I'd been staying down at Beechfield." " Yes ; and I was terribly anxious about you all the time, father. It was such a daring thing to do ! Suppose any one had suspected you?" " Not much fear o' that ! " said Westwood, a little scorn- fully. " Why, look at me ! Am I like the man I was ai Beechfield ten years ago ? I was a sort of outcast then, having sunk from bad to worse through my despair when I lost your mother, Cynthia ; but, now that I have a new coat on my back, and money in my pocket, all through my luck in the States, not to speak of this white hair, which I shall keep to until I'm back in the West again, I'm a different man, and nobody ever thinks of suspecting me." He was different, Cynthia noticed, in more than one respect — he was far less silent and morose than he used to be. Life in the West had brought out some unexpected reserves of decision and readiness of speech, and his success — his luck, as he sometimes called it — had cheered his spirits. He was defiant and he was often bitter still ^ but he was np longer downcast. I ! f . i !: I- ;. t !: 1 t^ii Mi. h Hi.. aJ4 A LIFE SENTENCE, \i " They'd not have much chance if ihey did suspect mc," he said, after a little pause ; ** if they thought that they'd got me again, they'd find their mistake. I'd put a bullet through my head afore ever I went. back to Portland I " " Oh, father, don't speak so 1 " " Come, Cynthy, don't you pretend ! You're a brave girl and a spirited one. Now wouldn't you yourself sooner die than be cooped up in a gaol, or set to work in a quarry with an armed warder watching you all day long — wouldn't you put an end to it, I ask you — being a brave girl and not a namby-pamby creature as hasn't got a will of her own, and don't know better than to stay where she's put — eh, Cynthia ? " . ♦' Don't speak quite so loud, father dear," said Cynthia — " there are people turning round to look at us. I don't know what I should do in those circumstances ; perhaps, as you say, I should think it better to end it all." She looked aside as she spoke, for her dark eyes had filled with heavy tears. How she wished at that moment that she could " end it all " as easily as she said the words ! " Sit down for a little time, will you, father ? " she asked. ** It is a warm morning, and I am rather tired." She had another reason for wishing to sit down. She had observed that for some time a tall woman in black had been apparently regarding them with interest, following them at a little distance, slackening and quickening her . pace in acci.rdance with their own. The stranger was thickly veilea _, and, when she saw that Cynthia and her father were walking towards a vacant seat, she turned in the same direction. There was nothing to prevent her from sitting down on the same bench, and either putting a stop to all private conversation or listening to what they had to say ; but Cynthia was equal to the emergency. She turned her head and gave the woman a long look, half of inquiry, half of disdain, which seemed to overawe the intruder, who stood by the bench for a moment rather uncertainly. Then Cynthia touched her father's arm. " Do you know this person ? " she asked in a low voice, but one so clear that it must have reached the woman's ears. " Know her ? " said Westwood, starting and looking suspiciously at the black figure. *' No, I don't know her, unless she's She's very much like a person staying with A LIFE SENTENCE. 225 my landlady just now — a Miss Meldreth. I wonder Shall I sp-ak to her, Cynthia ? " But th«.' woman had already moved from her standing position Ijy the bench, and was walking away as fast as she could ronveniently go. She had fair hair and a fine figure, but her face could not be seen. " It is very like," said VVestwood, standing up and staring after her. '* She's been very friendly with me since I came \ and I've had tea with her and Mrs. Gunn more than once. Strange to relate, she comes from Beechfield too. She's the daughter of old Mrs. Meldreth, who used to keep the sweetie-shop ; don't you remember her ? " " Then she was watching you — following you f Oh, father, do be careful ! " "What should she be watching me for?" said West- wood, but with rather a troubled look upon his face. " I've never had aught to do with her." " Did you hear of her at all at Beechfield ? " " There was a bit of gossip about her and her mother ; they said that Mrs. Vane at Beechfield Hall knew them and was kind to them. Some said that she paid them ; but nobody knew what for." " And she is lodging in the same house with you and following you about ? Then I'll tell you what she is, father — she is a spy of the Vanes. She suspects you and wants to put you in prison again. Oh, father, do change your lodgings, or go straight back to America I You have been in England a month, and it is very dangerous. You have nothing to stay for — nothing; and, if you likv " — ^er voice sank almost to a whisper — *' I will go back with you." ** Will you, Cynthy ? There's my own good girl ! " said her father, an unwonted sense of pleasure beaming in his eyes. "You're one of the right sort, you are, and you sha'n't regret it. But, as to danger, I don't see it. There's nobody can recognise me, as you are well aware ; and what else have I to fear ? " Cynthia had noted before that he was almost childishly vain of his disguise. She herself was not disposed to rely upon it with half so blind a con- fidence, for she knew how easily the secrets of " making- up " can be read by an experienced eye. " Besides, Miss Meldreth was lodging at Mrs. Gunn's before ever I went there — so that's a pure coincidence. If she'd come after 8 ^ , ililil •11 226 A LIFE SENTENCE. I went down to Beechfield, there might be something in it. But It's an accidental thing." " It may be accidental, and yet a source of danger," said Cynthia anxiously. " I wish you would go back to the States at once, father. I am quite ready to go. There is nothing to keep me in England now." ** Why, have you broken off with that young man ? " said Westwood sharply. "Not altogether.' The remembrance of the previous night's kiss under the umbrella made Cynthia's cheeks burn red as she repHed. "But since I know what you have told me — that he is a relative of the Vanes of Beechfield — I have determined that it cannot go on. He and his family would hate me if they knew. I cannot forget the past; I cannot forget what they did and said; and I do not see how I can marry a man who unjustly believes that my father was his kinsman's murderer." The fire came back to her eyes, the firmness to her voice, as she spoke. Westwood watched her admiringly. " Well spoke, my little girl — ^well spoke ! I didn't think you had it in you — I didn't indeed ! Let him go his way, and let us go ourn. I didn't tell you all that I might ha' done when I came back from Beechfield the other day, because I didn't rightly know whether you was with me or against me." " With you — always with you, dear father ! " " And I was a little doubtful, so to speak, seeing as how you had taken up, although by accident, with a fellow belonging to the camp of my enemies. But now I'll tell you a Httle more. Has Mr. Lepel ever told you that he had a sister ? " " No." " Well, he has ; and, what's more, she's married to the old General — you remember him at Beechfield ? " " Yes." "Maybe you remember her too — a very fair lady, as used to walk out with the little girl — Mr. Sydney Vane's little girl ? " Cynthia was silent for a moment. " Yes," she said, at length — " I think I remember her." " You've seen the child too ? " " Yes " — Cynthia's eyes softened ; " I ^m sure I remem- ber her," ^ UFE SENTEJ^Ck. 227 ^* I'll tell you about her presently. I've got a notion in my head about these Lepels. Miss Lepel, as was, and Mr. Sydney Vane was in love with one another and about to run away from England when he was killed. I know that for a fact, so you needn't look so scared. They was on the point of an elopement when he died — I knew that all along ; but, stupid-like, I never thought of putting two and two together and connecting it with his death. It just seemed a pity to throw shame and blame on the dead, seeing as how there was his wife and child to bear all the disgrace ; and so I held my tongue." ** But how did you know, father ? " " By using my eyes and my ears," said Westwood briefly — " that's how I knew. They used to meet in that little plantation often enough. I've lain low in a dry ditch more than once when they were close by and heard their goings-on. They were going off next day, when Mr. Vane met with his deserts. And what I say is that somebody related to Miss Lepel found out the truth and shot him like a dog." " Why did you not think of all this at the right time? Oh, father, it is too late now ! " " I'm not so sure of that. And, as for the gun — well, that often puzzled me ; for I hadn't fired it myself that afternoon, Cynthy, and yet it had been fired — and that's what made part of the evidence against me. I'd been out that afternoon, and, coming home, who should I see in the distance but two or three gentlemen strolling along the road — Mr. Vane and the General and one or two strangers ? Quick as thought, I laid my gun down and walked on as careless as you please. They met me — ^you know, that was a bit of the General's evidence, I looked back when I'd passed them, and I saw Mr. Sydney Vane separate himself from the other gentlemen and walk into the planta- tion. I did not like to go back just then ; and so I waited. There was two c three ways of getting into the fir planta- tion, so I don't know who came into it across the fields, as anv^^ jdy might have done either from the village or from the Hall. But presendy I heard the report of a gun — two reports, as far as I remember ; and then I saw Miss Lepel flying along the road — and I knew that she'd been in the plantation, any way. So, after watching a little while longer, I went back to the wood; and I found my gun \ • I ^i. i I \. 1BI i: t '■3j ! ■ii 'M'^ ir I A i! ;: 'il 22S A LIFE SENTENCE, pretty near where I had left it — only it had been moved and fired. So I took it up and walked away home." '* Without stopping to see whether any one was hurt ? " " Yes, my girl — and that was my mistake. If I'd gone on and found Mr. Vane and given the alarm and all that, I dare say I should have got off. But that was my misfor- tune, and also my hatred to Mr. Vane and his wicked ways. I says to myself, * This ^s no business of yours. Let them settle it between themselves. I'll not interfere.' So I sort of hardened my heart and went on my way." " Father, perhaps you might have saved a life ! " " No," said Wcstwood calmly, " I couldn't have done that. He was shot clean through the heart. And I'm not sure that I would if I could. He was a bad man, and deserved his punishment. The only thing I can't under- stand is why the man as did it hadn't the pluck to say what he had done, instead of leaving a poor common man like me to bear the blame." " Did you not tell all this to the jury and the counsel ? " " Yes, my dear, I did — every word. But who was there to believe me ? It didn't sound likely, you know. And who else was there, as the lawyers said, that had reason to hate Mr. Vane ? Why, if they'd known all I knew, they would have seen that every honest man would have hated him ! But, by never telling what I knew previous 'bout Miss Lepel, I didn't put 'em on the right track, you see. I own that now." " Father, I see to whom your suspicions point — ^you said as much to me before. But I feel sure that Mr. Hubert Lepel is incapable of such a deed — not only of the murder — for which one could forgive him — ^but of letting another bear the blame." " Well, perhaps so, Cynthy. I don't think you would ha' given your heart to an out-an-out scoundrel — I don't indeed. And Mr. Lepel has a good sort o* face. I've seen him, and I like him. He looks as if he'd had a good bit o' trouble somehow ; and I daresay it's likely, with a sister like that on his hands. It's my belief, Cynthia, not that Mr. Lepel, but his sister. Miss Florence Lepel, as she was then, did the deed and put the blame on me. And I'm incHned to think as how Mr. Lepel knows it and wouldn't tell." " A woman ! Could a woman manage a heavy gun like that ? " A UFk SEMTEMC&. 2i^ " If she was desperate, she could, my dear. It's wonderful what strength a woman will have when she's in a temper. And maybe Mr. Vane failed her at the last moment — wouldn't go with her away frcm England, or something o' that kind — and she thought she would be revenged on him." The theory did credit to Reuben Westwood's imagina- tion ; but it was a mistaken one. At present, however, it seemed sufficiently credible to give Cynthia much cause for reflection. She did not speak. Westwood gave his knee a sudden stroke with one hand, expressive of grow- ing amazement, as he also mediated on the matter. " And then for her to go and marry the old man — Sydney Vane's brother ! It beats all that I ever heard of ! She must have got nerves of steel and muscles of iron; she must be the boldest, hardest liar that ever trod this earth. If I thought that all women was like her, Cynthia, I would go to the devil at once ! But I've known two good ones in my time, I reckon— your mother and you — and that should p'r'aps be enough for any man. Yes, she's married and got a child — a little lad that'll have the estate and prevent the giil from coming to her own — at least, what would have been her own if there had been no boy." " You mean Miss Enid Vane ? " said Cynthia, again with a curious softening of the eyes. " Yes, some outlandish name of that sort — * Enid,' is it ? Well, you know better than I. I'm glad you're breaking it off with that man Lepel, Cynthia, for more reasons than one." Cynthia hardly noticed the significance of his tone or the conjunction of the two names in his remarks. She had something else in her mind which she was anxious to have said. " Father, I am to see Mr. Lepel this afternoon." " Yes, my girl ? " " And I want to say good-bye to him for jver." Westwood nodded ; he was well pleased with her deci- sion. *' And then I will go to America with you whenever you please. But one thing I want you to allow me to do." " Well, Cynthy ? " " I must tell Mr. Lepel who I am. I will not of course let him think that I know anything of you now. He shall ■ >i i \ g !: V ■ i: I :i '■ i r.l ^i ' 'I I 1 I' :' ' hi I M !• I ^30 A LIFE SENTENCE. not know that you are alive. But I must do as I please about telling him my own name." " Very well, Cynthia," said her father ; " do as you like in that matter. I can trust you with a good deal, and I trust you so far ; but don't let out that you know anything about me now — that I'm alive, and that you have seen me, or anything of that sort." " No, father." " I see what you're after," said he, after a pajise. " You think he'll give you up more ready when he knows that you are my daughter — isn't that it? You may say so open- like ; it doesn't hurt me, you know. Of course I can understand what he will feel. And what's always been hardei^t to me was the feelin' that I had injured you so much, my dear — you, the only thing left to me in the world to love." "You could not help it, father dear." " Well, I don't know. I might have done many things different — I see that now. But there's one thing to be said— if you feel inclined to break off with Mr. Lepel with- out telling him your name, I think it would be easy enough to do it." " How ? What do you mean ? " " You think he's fond of you — don't vou, my dear ? " '* I thought so, father." " He's tried to make you believe so for his own ends, no doubt. But he means to marry the other girl, my dear — they told me so at Beechfield. They say he worships the very ground she treads upon ; and she the same with him. Being fond of you was only a blind to lead you to your destruction, I'm afraid, my poor pretty dear I " Cynthia shrank a little as she heard. Could this be true ? " The girl lives down there then, does she ? " she asked, in a strange hard voice not like her own. "Yes, my dear. He would not be able to break off there without a tremendous to-do, I'll warrant you ; for the girl is the General's niece, the daughter of Mr. Sydney Vane — the Miss Enid you spoke about just now." As he got no answer, he turned to look at her, and found that she was deadly white ; but, when she noticed that he was looking at her, she smiled and passed her hand reassuringly within his arm. A LIFE SENTENCE. 231 " You make my task all the easier for me, father," she said ; '* I shall know what to do now. And I think that it is about time for me to go home." CHAPTER XXXIII. Cynthia had already despatched a little note to Hubert asking him to visit her at a certain hour that afternoon — hence the certainty with which she spoke of his visit to her father. After what had passed between them, she did not think that he would fail to come. She wanted him at half-past five precisely, because at that hour Madame had promised to go for a drive in the Park with one of her most fashionable pupils and her friends, and Cynthia knew that she could then see him alone. And she was right in thinking that he would come. Just as the half-hour struck, Hubert knocked at Madame della Scala's door, and was immediately ushered into a tiny little room on the ground-floor which was always called " Miss West's parlor," and which contained little furniture except a piano and table and a couple of chairs. It was here that Cynthia practised and studied, and sat when she wanted to be alone. Two or three photographs of the heads of great singers and musicians were the sole decorations of the walls ; a pile of music and some books lay on the table. The place had a severely business-like air ; and yet its very simplicity and the sombreness of its tints had hitherto always given Hubert, who knew the room, a sense of pleasure. But he knitted his brows when he was taken to it on this occasion. It seemed to him that Cynthia wanted to give her inter- view with him also a business-like character. But perhaps, he reflected, it was only that she wanted a peculiarly con- fidential talk. He looked at her a little anxiously when she came in, and was rather puzzled by her face. She was pale, and she had been crying, for her eyelids were red ; but she gave him a peculiarly sweet and winning smile, and there was a pleading softness in the lovely eyes under the wet lashes which melted his heart to her at once, although she offered him her htmd only and would not allow him to kis§ her cheek. nl ' i;'i t 333 A LIFE SENTENCE. " What — not one kiss for me this ufternoon ? I thought I was forgiven i" h2 said repro: hfully. " It is I who want forgiveness," she answered, " for being so bad-tempered and cross and rude last night." " Take my forgiveness then," said Hubert almost gaily in his relief at hearing the sweetness of her voice — "and take it in this form." He would not be denied ; and Cynthia had no heart to struggle. She let him enfold her in his arms for a moment, and press a dozen kisses on her lips and cheek ; then she drew herself away. He felt the movement ; although he did not let her go. " My dearest, you do not speak naturally — and you want to get away from me. What does this mean ? " " I don't know that I exactly want to get away from you," said Cynthia, smiling ; " but I think that perhaps I must." The smile was a. very woeful little affair after all. " Must ! I don't think I shall ever let you go again ! " He tightened his clasp. She looked up into his face with beseeching eyes. " Do take away your arm, please, Hubert ! I want to talk to you, and I cannot if it is there." " Then we will leave it there. I don't think I want to talk, darling. I am very tired — I think I must have walked miles last night before I came back to this door to hand my lady out of her carriage, and I want to be petted and spoken to kindly." Cynthia's fingers twitched and she turned her head aside, but not before Hubert had noticed the peculiar expression that crossed her face. Being a play-writer and constant theatre-goer, his mind was full of theatrical reminiscences. He remembered at that moment to have noticed that peculiar twitch, that odd expression of countenance, in Sarah Bernhardt when she was acting the part of a pro- foundly jealous woman. It had then meant, " Go to my rival, to her whom you love, and be comforted — do not come to me ! " But there was no likeness between the great tragic actress and Cynthia West either of character or of circumstance ; and Cynthia had no cause to be jealous. But he thought of the momentary impression afterwards. She turned her face back again with as sweet a smile as ever, f' 1 A LIPE SENTENCE. h% ** You think you must always have your own way ; but I want to be considered too. I have something to tell you, and I shall not be happy until it is said. If you are tired, you shall sit down in this chair — it is much more comfort- able than it looks — and have some tea, and then we can talk. But Madame may be in by half-past six, and I want to get it all over before she comes." " * Getting it all over ' sounds as if something disagree- able were to follow ! " said Hubert, releasing her and taking the chair she proffered. " No tea, thank you ; I had some at my club before I came. Now what is it, dear? Bat sit down; I can't sit, you know, if you stand." " I must stand," said Cynthia, with a touch of imper- iousness. " I am the criminal, and you are the judge. The criminal always stands." *• It is a very innocent criminal and a very unworthy judge in this instance. * Sit, Jessica.' " She laughed and drew a chair forward. Sitting down, he saw that her figure fell at once into a weary, languid attitude, and that the smile faded suddenly from her face. He put his hand on hers. " What is it, my dearest ? " he said, seriously this time. She raised her eyes, and they were full of tears. " It is of no use trying to speak lightly about it," she said. " I may as well tell you that it is a very important matter, Hubert. I sent for you to-day to tell you that we must part." " Nonsense, Cynthia ! " " We must indeed ! The worst is that we might have avoided all this trouble — this misery — if I had been candid and open with you from the first. If I had told vou all about myself, you would perhaps never have helped me — or at least — for I won't say that exactly — you would have helped me from a distance, and never cared to see me or speak to me at all." "Of course you know that you are talking riddles, Cynthia." " Yes, I know. But you will understand in a minute or two. I only want to say, first, that I had no idea who — who you were." " Who I am, dear ? Myself, Hubert Lepel, and nobody else." \ It I? I IB. .Jl : I I .:( :■;:: i'. I ;l I :.t ^34 A LIPE SENtEh}(^n. " And cousin "—she brought the words out with diffi- culty — " cousin to the Vanes of Beechfield." " Well, what objection have you to the Vanes of Beech- field ? " " They have the right to object to me ; and so have you. Do you remember the evening when 1 spoke to you in the street outside the theatre? Did it never cross your mind that you had seen and spoken to me before ? You asked me once if I knew a girl called Jane Wood. Now don't you remember me ? Now don't you know my name ? " Hubert had risen to his feet. His face was ghastly pale ; but there was a horror in it which even Cynthia could not interpret aright. " You — you, Jane Wood ! " he gasped. " Don't trifle with me, Cynthia ! You are Cynthia West ! " " Cynthia Janet Westwood, known at St. Elizabeth's as Janie Wood." " You — you are Westwood's child ? " She silently bowed her head. "Oh, Cynthia, Cynthia, if you had but told me before 1 " He sank down into his chair again, burying his face in his hands with his elbows on his knees. There was a look of self-abasement, of shame and sorrow in his attitude inexplicable to Cynthia. Finding that he did not speak, she took up her tale again in low, uneven tones. " I knew that I ought to tell you. I said that I would tell you everything before — before we were married, if ever it came to that. I ought to have done so at once ; but it was so difficult. They had changed my name when I went to school so that nobody should know ; they told me that it would be a disgrace to have it known. I ran away from St. Elizabeth's because I had been fool enough to let it out. I could not face the girls when they knew that — that my father was called a murderer." Hubert drew his breath hard. She tried to answer what she thought was the meaning of that strange sound, half moan, half sigh. " I never called him so," she said. "You will not believe it, of course ; but I know that my father would never have done the deed that you attribute to him. He was kind, good, tender-hearted, although he lived in rebellion against some of the ordinary laws of society. A LIFE SENTENCE, •35 There was nothing base or mean abo"* him. If he had killed a man, he would not have tola lies about it ; he would have said that he had done it and borne I'he punish- ment. He was a brave man ; he was not a murderer.'' Still Hubert did rio. answer. He dared net let her see his face ; she must not know the torture her words inflicted on him. She went on. " Lately I have thought that it would be better for mc to face the whole thing out, and not act as if I were ashamed of my father, who is no murderer, but a martyr and an innocent man. I took my first step last night by telling your aunt Miss Vane that * West ' was only an assumed name. I had never said that before. Do you remember how she looked at me — how she hated me — when we stood outside the gates of Beechfield Park that afternoon ? The sight of me made her ill ; and, if she knew me by my right name, it would make her ill again. If I had known that you were their cousin, I would never have let you see my face ! " " Cynthia, have a little mercy ! " cried Hubert, suddenly starting up, and dashing his hair back from his discolored, distorted face. "Do you think I am such a brute? What does it matter to me about your father? Was I so unkind, so cruel to you when you were a child thai you cannot trust me now ? " ** No," she said, looking at him gently, but with a sort of aloofness which he had never seen in her before ; " you were very good to me then. You saved me from the workhouse ; you would not even let me go to the charity- school that Mrs. Rumbold recommended. You told me to be a good girl, and said that some day I should see my father again." She put her hand to her throat, as if choked by some hysteric symptom, but at once controlled herself and went on. " I see it all now. It was through you, I suppose, that I was sent to St. Elizabeth's, where I was. made into something like a civilised being. It was you to whom they applied as to whether I should be removed from the lower to the upper school ; and you — out of your charity to the murderer's daughter — you paid for me forty pounds a year. I did not know that I had so much to be grateful for to you. I have taken gifts from you since, not knovnng; but this is the last of it — I will never take another now I " I .1' r \\ !!■ I ! \ \ >. ; i 23<5 A LIFE SENTENCE, " Are you so proud, Cynthia, that you cannot bear me to have helped you a little ? My love, I did not know, I never guessed that you were Westwood's daughter. But can you never forgive me for having done my best for you. Do you think I love you one whit the less ? " " Oh, I see — you think that I am ungenerous," cried Cynthia, "and that it is my pride which stands in your way ! Well, so it is — this kind of pride — that I will not accept gifts from those who believe my father to be a guilty man when I believe in his innocence. They did well never to tell me who was my benefactor — for whom I was taught to pray when I was at St. Elizabeth's. If I had known, the place would not have held me for a day when I was old enough to understand ! At first I was too ignorant, too much stupefied by the whole thing to under- stand that the Vanes were keeping me at school and sup- porting me. It is horrible — it is sickening — to send my father to prison, to the gallows, and his child to school ! Much better have let me go to the workhouse ! Do you think I wish to be indebted to people who think my father a murderer ? " *• You mistake ! " said Hubert quickly. " The Vanes knew nothing about it. If Mrs. Rumbold ever said so, it was my fault. I did not like her to think that I was doing it alone. And, as for me, Cynthia, I never thought your father guilty — never ! " He trembled beneath the burning gaze she turned on him, and his color changed from white to red, and then to white again. He felt as ii" he had been guilty of the meanest subterfuge of his whole life. " You never thought so ? " she said, with a terrible gasp. " Then who was guilty ? Who did that murder, Hubert? Do — you — ^know ? " She could not say, *'Was your sister guilty, and are you shielding her ? " He looked at her helplessly. His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth ; he could not. speak. With a bitter cry she fell upon her knees before him and seized his hands. " You know — you know ! Oh, Hubert, clear my father's name ! Never mind whom you sacrifice ! Let the punish- ment fall on the head of the wrong-doer not on my dear, dear father's ! I will forgive you for having been silent so long, if now you will only speak. I will love you always, I will give you my life, if you will but let the truth be known I " A LIFE SENTENCE, 237 He gathered his forces together by an almost superhu- man effort, and managed to speak at last ; but the sweat stood in great drops on his brow. " Cynthia, don't— don't speak so, for God's sake ! I know nothing, I have nothing to say ! " Clinging to his knees, she looked up at him, her eyes full of supplication. ** Is the cost too great ? " she cried. " Will you not tell the truth for my sake — for Cynthia's sake ? " Scarcely knowing what he did, he pushed back his chair, and wrenched himself free from her entreating hands. " I cannot bear this, Cynthia ! If I could But it is of no use ; I have nothing — nothing to tell." He had moved away from her ; but he came back when he saw that she had fallen forward with her face on the chair where he had been sitting. He leaned over her. At first he thought that she had fainted ; but presently the move- ment of her shoulders showed him that she was but vainly endeavoring to suppress a burst of agonising sobs. "Cynthia," he said, "believe in my 'ove, darling! If you believe in nothing else, you maybe sure of that." He laid his hand gently round her neck, and, finding that she did not repulse him, knelt beside her and tried to draw her to his breast. For a few minutes she let her head rest on his shoulder, and clung to him as if she could not lek him go. When she grew calmer, he began to whisper tender words into her ear. " Cynthia, I will give up all the world for yoiir dear sake ! Let us go away from England together, and live only fcl each other, darling ! We could be happy some- where, away from the toil and strife of London, could we not ? I love you only, dearest — only you ! If you like, we would go to America and see whether we could not find your poor father, who, I have 'heard, is living there ; and we could cheer his last days together. Will you not make me happy in th's way, Cynthia? Be my wife, and let us forget all the world beside." She shook her head. She nad wept so violently that at first she could not speak. " Why do you shake your head ? You do not doubt toy love ? My darling, I count the world well lost for you. Do not distrust me again ! Do you think I mind what thr world says, or what my relatives say : You are Cyn- M'H ajS A LIFE SENTENCE, thia and ray love to me, and whose daughter you arc mat- ters nothing — nothing at all ! " " But it matters to me," she whispered brokenly — " and I cannot consent." ''Dearest, don't say that! You must consent ! Your only chance of happiness lies with me, and mine with you." ** But you have promised yourself," she murmured, " to Enid Vane." ** Conditionally ; and I am certain — certain that she does not care forme.". " I am not certain," she whispered. Then there was a little pause, during which he felt that she was bracing herself to say something which was hard for her to say. " I have made up my mind," she said at length, " to take nothing away from Enid Vane that is dear to her. Do you remember how she pleaded with you for me ? Do you remember how good she was — how kind ? She gave me her shilling because I had had no food that day. I never spent it — I have that shilling still. I have worn it ever since, as a sort of talisman against evil." She felt in her bosom and brought out the coin attached by a little string around her neck. *' It has been my greatest treasure ! I have had so few treasures in my life. And do you think I am going to be ungrateful ? If it broke my heart to give you up, I would not hesitate on' moment, when I had reason to think that you were plighted to Enid Vane." She drew herself away from him as she spoke, and rose to her full height. Hubert stood before her, his eyes on the floor, his lips white and tremulous. What could he say ? He had nothing but his love to plead — and his love looked a poor and common thing beside that purity of motive, that height of purpose, that intensity of noble passion which at that moment made Cynthia's face beauti- ful indeed. '* I will see you no more," she said. " You must go back to Enid Vane, and you must make her happy. For me, I have another work to do. In my own way I — I shall be happy too. There is a double barrier between us, and we must never meet again." " Is it a barrier that can never be broken down, Cyn- thia ? " A LIFE SENTENCE, ^39 " No," she said — " not unless my father is Siiown to be innocent to the world and the stain removed from his name — not unless we are sure — sure that Knid Vane has no affection for you save that of a cousin and a friend. And those things are impossibilities ; so we must say good- bye." It seemed as if he had not understood her words. He muttered something, and clutched at the table behind him as if to keep himself from falling. " Impossibilities indeed ! " he said hoarsely, after a moment's pause. '• Good-bye, Cynthia ! " Struck with pity for his haggard face and hollow eyes, Cynthia came up to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed his cheek. " I was mad just now I I said more than I think I meant, Hubert. Forgive me before you go ; but never come here again." Their eyes met, and then some instinct prompted her to r/nisper very low — " Could you not, even now, save my father if you tried ? " Surely his good angel pleaded with him in Cynthia's guise, and, looking into her face, he answered as he had never thought to answer in this world — " Yes, Cynthia ; if I took his place, I could." \ CHAPTER XXXIV. Westwood had scouted Cynthia's notion that the woman in black who seemed to be following them could possibly be a spy ; nevertheless he meditated upon it with some anxiety, and resolved, on his arrival at his lodgings, to be wary and circumspect — also to show that he was on his guard. He relapsed therefore into the very uncommuni- cative "single gentleman" whom Mrs. Gunn, his land- lady, had at first found him to be, and refused rather gruffly her invitation that afternoon to take tea with her in her own parlor in the company of herself and her niece. " He's grumpier than ever," she said to this niece, who was no other than Sabina Meldreth, now paying a visit — on business principles — of indefinite! duration to her aunt's abode in Camden Town; "and I did think that you'd •BtT; i Hd A LIFE SENTENCE, melted him a bit last week, Sabina ! But he's as close as wax ! Let's sit down to our tea before it gets black and bitter, as he won't come." " He must have stten me in the Gardens," said Sabina, who was dressed in the brightest of blue gowns, with red ribbons at her throat and wrists, " though I should never have thought that he would recognise me, being in black and having that thick black veil over my face." " I don't see what you wanted to foller him for ! " said Mrs. Gunn. " What business o* yours was it where he went and what he did ? I don't think you'll ever make anything of him " — for Miss Meldreth had begun to harbor matrimonial designs on the unconscious Mr. Reuben Dare. " I'm not so sure," said Sabina. " Once get a man by himself, and you can do a* most anything with him, so long as there's no other woman in the way." " And is there another woman in the way ? " " Yes, aunt Eliza, there is." "You don't say so ! " exclaimed Mrs. Gunn, emptying the water-jug into the tea-pot in pure absence of mind. " You saw him with one, did you ? " " Yes, aunt Eliza, I did." " And what was she like, Sabina ? " " Well, some folks would call her handsome," said Sabina dubiously; "and she was d»"essed like a lady — I'll say that for her. But what's odd is that I'm nearly sure I heard her call him * father.' She's young enough to be his daughter, anyway." " Did he call her anything? " " I couldn't hear. But I'll tell you what I did after- wards, aunt E^iza ; I followed her when she came out at the gate — and she didn't see me then. She went straight to a house in Norton Square ; and I managed to make some inquiries about her at a confectioner's shop in the neighborhood. The house belongs to a music-mistress ; and this girl is a singer. * Cynthia West,' they call her — I've seen her name in the newspapers. Well, I thought I would wait round a bit, and presently I saw a man go to the house to deliver a note ; and thinks I to myself, * I know that face.' And so I did. It was Mr. Lepel's man, Jenkins, as used to come down with him to Beechfield." " You don't say so 1 " cried Mrs. Gunn, raising her hands in amazement. A LIFE SENTENCE. i4< " He knew me," Sabina proceeded tranquilly; "and so we had a little chat together. I says to him, * Who is it you take notes to at number five — the old lady or the young one?' *0h,' says he, * the young one, to be sure. Scrumptious, isn't she ? ' ' Cynthia West ? ' says I. * Yes/ he says — * and Mrs. Hubert Lepel before very long, if I've got eyes to see ! He's always after her.' * That ain't very likely,' I said, * because he's got a young lady already in the country.' * One in the country and one in the town/ he says, with a wink — ' that's the usual style, isn't it ? ' And, seeing that he was disposed to be familiar, I said good-day to him and came away." " What will you do now then, Sabina ? " " Well," said Sabina reflectively, " I think I shall let Mrs. Vane know. She'd be glad to have a sort of handle against her brother, I'm thinking. And these people-— Mr. Dare and Miss West — seem to have got something to do with Beechfield, for I'm certain it was to Beechfield he went when he left here for that fcrtnight. He gave no address — that was natural maybe- but he'd got the Whit- minster label on his bag when he came back. And, if Miss West was being courted by Mr. Lepel, and her father wanted to know who Mr. Lepel was and all about him, he might easily gather that Beechfield was the place to go to. I suppose he wanted to find out whether Mr. Lepel was engaged to Miss Vane or not. And I've a sort of idea too that there's something mysterious about -it all. Why shouldn't he have said straight out where he was going, especially when I had already told him that I knew Whit- minster so well and belonged to Beechfield ? It seems to me that Mr. Dare has got something to conceal ; and I'd like to knov/ what it is before I go any farther." " Any farther ! " said her aunt contemptuously. " It don't seem to me that you've got very far ! " " Farther than you think," was Miss Meldreth's reply. " He's afraid of me, or else he would have come to tea this afternoon. i*.nd a woman can always manage a man that's afraid of her." Fortified by this conviction, Sabina sat down after tea to indite a letter to Mrs. Vane. She was not a very deft scribe, and the spelling of certain words was a mystery to her. But, with the faults of its orthography corrected the letter finally stood thus — II % f %: ■' I - I I t f I 4 i;. :l ;; m i ?1 [Hi \ t Hi ^ A LIPE SENTEJ^CJ^. " Madam — I thought you might like to know as how there is a gentleman, named Reuben Dare, lodging here at my aunt's, as seems to have a secret interest in Beechfield. I think, but I am not quite sure, that he spent a few days at the Beechfield inn not long ago. He is tall and thi^ and brown, with white hair and beard and very black eyes. He will not talk much about Beechfield, and yet seems to know it well. Says he comes from America. He was walking for a long time in Kensingston Garden this morn- ing with a young woman that goes by the name of Cynthia West and is a singer. She calls him * Father.' Madam, I take the liberty of informing you that Mr. H. Lepel visits her constant, and is said to be going to marry her. She is what gentlemen call good-looking, though too dark for my taste. It does not seem to be generally known that she has a parent living. " Yours respectfully, • *' Sabina Meldreth." Mrs. Vane read this letter with considerable surprise. She meditated upon it for some time with closed lips and knitted brows ; then she rang the bell for Parker. " Parker," she said, " can you tell me whether any strangers have been visiting Beechfield lately ? " " Oh, yes, ma'am ! There was an old gentleman at the * Crown ' a few days ago. The post-office woman told me thai he came from America." ** Do you know his name ? " " Yes, ma'am — * Mr. Dare.' " " The woman at the post-office told you that? Did you ever see him ? " "Yes, ma'am. He spoke to me one evening when I'd run out with a letter, and asked me the way to the Hall." " And then ? " " He said he'd heard of a Mr. Lepel at Beechfield, ma'am," said Parker, rather reluctantly, " and that he knew a Mr. Lepel and wondered whether it was the same. But it wasn't. The Mr. Lepel he knew was short and fair and was married ; the Mr. Lepel that came here, as I told him, was dark and tall and engaged to Miss Vane." " You had no right to tell him that, Parker ; it is not public property." " I beg your pardon, I'm sure, ma'am ! I'd heard it so often that I thought everybody knew." . A LIFE SEyTENCE, 243 " What else did this Mr. Dare say ? " " I don't remenber, ma'am." " Did he ask no other questions ? Did he ask. for ins- tance, whether Mr. Lepel was not very fond of Miss Vane?" " Well, yes, ma'am ; now you mention it I think he did — though how you came to guess it " " Never mind how I came to guess it. What did you say?" " I said that he worshipped the ground she trod upon, and that she was just the same with him." *• And pray how did you know that ? " — Parker shuffled. " Well, ma'am, I couldn't rightly say ; but it's what is general with young ladies and young gentlemen, and it wouldn't have looked well, I thought, to ha' said anythink else." " Oh, I see ! The remark was purely conventional," said Flossy cynically. *' I congratulate you, Parker, on always doing as much harm as you can whenever you take anything in hand. Did he seem pleased by what you said ? " " Not exactly pleased, ma'am — nor displeased ; I think, if anything, he was more pleased than not." " That will do," Mrs. Vane said shortly ; and Parker retired, much relieved in her mind by having come off, as she considered, so well. Mrs. Vane proceeded to electrify the household the next morning by declaring that she must at once go up to Lon- don in order to see her dentist. She announced her in- tention at a time when the General, much to his annoyance, could not possibly accompany her. She said to him very sweetly that she had chosen that hour on purpose because she did not want to put him to needless inconvenience, and that she preferred to go with Parker only as her companion. She hated to be seen, she said, when she was in pain. The General fumed and fretted ; but, as he had an im- portant meeting to attend at Whitminster that day, ho could but put his wife into the train and give Parker end- less injunctions to be careful of her mistress. Parker promised fervently to do all that lay in her power ; and with a serene smile Flossy listened to the General's orders and her maid's asseverations with equal tranquility. They had the carriage to themselves ; and not until the train V. w\ fl:'\ m I i 1'. i. I ^'lea^'^fv)! 1 i-n %^'< 244 A LIFE SENTENCE, ^ was nearly to London did Mrs. Vane rouse herself from the restful semi-slumber in which she seemed to have passed the journey. Then she sat up suddenly, with a curiously wide-awake and resolute air, and addressed herself to her maid. " I shall not require you at all to-day, Parker. I brought you only because the General would never have allowed me to come alone ; but I dislike being attended by any one when I go to the dentist's or to the doctor's. Yoii may wait at the railway-station until I come back. I may be only an hour, or I may be. gone all day." . . ** The General's orders, ma'am," began Parker, with a gasp ; but her mistress cut the sentence short at once. " I suppose you understand that you are my servant and not the General's ? " she said. " You will obey my orders, if you please." She gave the maid some monef, and instructions to spend as much as she pleased at buffet and book-stalls until her return. ** Enjoy yourself as much as you like and as much as you can," said Mrs. Vane carelessly — "only don't stir from the station, for when I come back I shall want you at once." She installed the faithful Parker safely in the waiting- room, and then went out and got into a cab — not a hansom cab; Mrs. Vane did not wish to be seen in her drive through the London streets. The address which she gave to the cabman was not that of her dentist, but of the lodg- ings at present tenanted by her brother. Parker remained at the station in a state of tearful collapse. She was terribly afraid of being questioned and stormed at by the General when she got back for neglect of her trust. She was certainly what Flossy had called her — "a faithful fool." She wanted to do all that her mistress required ; but it had not as yet even occurred to her that Mrs. Vane was quite certain to require utter silence, towards the General and everybody else, on the question of her disposition of the day. And, if silence was impossible, a good bold lie would do as well. Parker had not yet grasped the full afiiount of devotion that was ex- pected of her. Hubert had seldom been more surprised in his life than when th? elegantly-dressed lady who was ushered into his A LIFE SENTENCE. Hi sitting-room proved to be his sister Florence. She had never visited him before. He sprang up from his writing- table, which was piled high with books and manuscripts, flung a half-smoked cigar into the grate, and greeted her with a mixture of doubt and astonishment, which amused if it did not flatter the astute Mrs. Vane. " This is indeed an unexpected pleasure ! I hope you are not the bearer of ill news, Flossy ! Is any thing wrong at Beechfield ? " " Oh, dear, no ! 1 came up to see my dentist," said Flossy carelessly, " and I thought that I would give you a call en passant. So these are your rooms ? Not at all bad for a bachelor ! " "That is high praise from you, I suppose," said Hubert, smiling faintly. " But you do not look at all well, Hubert. What is the matter with you ? You look terribly fagged ! " Her remark was justified by his appearance. His face had a drawn look which added ten years to his age \ his eyes seemed almost to have sunk into his head. He made an impatient gesture, and looked away. " I have not been very well," he said ; "but there is no need to speak about it. I am very busy, and I want rest — change of scene and air." " Why not come down to Beechfield ? " He gave a slight but perceptible shudder. " No," he said briefly, and then stood leaning against his writing-table, and was silent. " Hubert," said his sister, a little more quickly than usual, " I said that I wanted to see my dentist, but I had another reason for coming to town. Can you tell me where I can find a file of the Times newspaper for the early months of the year 187-? " — she mentioned the year of Sydney Vane's death and the trial of Andrew West- wood. " You want — the trial ? " said her brother, with an evident effort. She bowed her head. "Why?" "I have forgotten one or two points in the evidence. I want to recall them to my mind." He stood looking at her silently. " It doesn't matter," she said, feigning indifference, and rising as if to take her leave ; " I can see the papers in a ' \ n Vii I: p I *\ ii i^ 1^ : 13 1' •i::i 24^ A LIfiE SENTENCE, public library, no doubt. The General would not have a copy left in the house. I will go elsewhere." " It is needless," Hubert answered, in a gloomy tone. "I have kept copies myself. Wait a moment, and I will bring them to you." " I thought that you would probably possess them," said Flossy softly, as she settled herself once more in her comfortable chair. He went into another room, and soon returned bearing in his arms a little pile of papers, yellow indeed with age, but, as Mrs. Vane noticed, completely free from dust. It was evident that some one else had been very lately per- using them ; but she made no comment on the subject. ** Go on with your writing," she said, beginning to take off her gray gloves with admirable coolness. " I can find what I want without your aid." He gave her a long look, then set the papers on a little table beside her and returned to his own seat. He did not however begin to write again. He turned the chair almost with its back to Mrs. Vane, and clasped his hands behind his fine dark head. In this position he remained perfectly motionless until she had finished her examination of the newspapers. In a quarter of an hour she declared herself satisfied. Have you found all that you wanted ? " Oh, yes, thank you ! " One important item she had certainly secured — the fact that Westwood's daughter had been named " Cynthia Janet." " Cynthia Janet Westwood " — " Cynthia West " — it was plain enough to her quick intelligence that the two were one and the same. Hubert had never thought of looking for the name of Westwood's little daughter in the Times. " By-the-bye," said Flossy lightly, " I hear sad tales of you in town. How often is it that you go to see the new singer — Miss West ? Has poor Enid a rival ? " He did not look round ; but she saw that her question sent a shock through his nerves. " I do not know what you mean," he answered coldly. " Oh, do you not ? You may as well speak the truth — to me, Hubert. Are you going to marry Miss West or Miss Vane — ^which ? " " Neither, I think." "Don't be absurd. West ? " (( (( Are you going to marry Miss A LIFE SENTENCE, HI " Shall you marry Enid Vane ? " " It is not very likely that she will marry me." Something in the intense dreariness of his tone struck painfu'y on Florence's ear. She rose and put her hand on Hubert's shoulder. " What is the matter with you, Hubert ? " He shook off her hand as if it had been a noxious reptile of which he desired to rid himself, and rose to his feet. " You must not mind what I say to-day, Florence. I am not well. I — I shall see you another time." " Of course you will — plenty of times, I hope ! " A look of dismay began to show itself in Flossy's velvet-brown eyes. " You are not contemplating any new step, I hope? I " " Don't be alarmed ! " he said, with a hoarse unnatural laugh. " Before I take any new step I will come to you, I will not leave you without a warning." Then he seemed to recover his self-possession and spoke in more measured tones. " Nonsense, Florence — don't concern yourself about me ! I have a bad headache — that is all. If I am left alone, I shall soon be better." " I hope you will," said Flossy, rather gravel/, " for you look alarmingly ill to-day. You should send for the doctor, Hubert. And now I will say good-bye, for I have two or three other things to do to-day, besides going to my dentist's. The cab is at the door ; you need not come down." He rose, as she really expected him to do, to see her to her cab ; but a sensation of dizziness and faintness made him sit down again and bury his head in his hands. Con- siderably alarmed, Florence rang for Jenkins, his man, and gave strict orders that the doctor should be sent for at once. Then, feeling that she had for the present at least done her duty, she took her leave, promising to call again before she left town that afternoon. Jenkins went for the doctor, as Mrs. Vane had told him to do. When that gentleman arrived, he found Mr. Lepel stretched on a sofa in a half-unconscious state, and declared him to be in one of the incipient stages of brain-fever. ■ U"' I %i M A LIFE SENTENCE, CHAPTER XXXV. Mrs. Vane, on leaving her brother's lodgings, drove straight to Camden Town. She had reasons for wishing to see Sabina Meldreth. The house was a little difficult to find, because the street had recently been renamed and renumbered, and Mrs. Vane was forced, to her great dis- gust, to descend from the cab and make inquiries in her own person of various frowsy-looking women standing at their own doors. ** I wish I had brought Parker," she said to herself more than once ; " she would have been useful in this kind of work. Surely Sabina has given me the right address ! " " There goes the gentleman that lodges at Mrs. Gunn's ! " said one of the frowsy-looking women at last. " I've heard tell that he was there, though I didn't know the number. Will you tell this lady, please, sir, what number Mrs. Gunn's is ? " The white-bearded old man who was just then passing along the street turned to Mrs. Vane. " I shall be very happy to show the lady the house," he said half raising his felt hat from his white head with something like foreign politeness. And then he and Flossy exchanged glances which were hard and keen as steel. He knew her well by sight ; but she did not recognise him. She had seen Westwood only once or twice in her life, and this apparently gentle old man with the silvery hair did not harmonise with Flossy's impressions of the Beechfield poacher. Nevertheless she was suspicious enough to remember that all things were possible ; and she made a mental note of his dark eyes and eyebrows, the latter being a little out of keeping with his very white hair. As a matter of fact, Westwood had gone too far in select- ing his disguise ; a more ordinary slightly-grizzled wig would have suited his general appearance better. The perruquier — an artist in his way — to whom he had applied considered picturesque effect an object not to be over- looked ; and Mr. Reuben Dare was accordingly a rather A LIFE SENTENCE, 349 too strikingly picturesque individual to be anything but theatrical in air. He showed Mrs. Vane the house, bowed politely, and then passed down the street. " She's come to enquire about me — I am sure of that," he said. ** I'd better change my lodgings as quick as possible. I'll leave them to-morrow — to-night would look suspicious, maybe : or should I leave them now, and never go back ? " He was half inclined to adopt this course ; but he was deterred by the remembrance of a pocket-book containing money which he had left locked up in his portmanteau. He could not well dispense with it ; and neither Mrs. Vane nor anybody else could do him any harm, he thought, if he stayed for twenty-four hours longer at Mrs. Gunn's. But he trusted a little too much '" the uncer- tainties of fate. "Well, Sabina," said Mrs. Vane coolly, as, with a general air of bewilderment, that young person appeared before her in Mrs. Gunn's best parlor, " I suppose that you hardly expected to see me here ? " " No, ma'am, I didn't. I thought you was quite too much of an invalid to leave home." " It is rather an effort," said Flossy drily, " especially considering the neighborhood in which you live." " It ain't country, certainly," returned Sabina ; " but it's respectable." ** Ah, like yourself ! " said Mrs. Vane. " That was the reason you came to it, I suppose. Don't look angry, Sabina — I was only meaning . to make a little joke. But jokes are a mistake with most people. I came to answer your letter in person and to have a talk with you." " Won't you have anything to eat, ma'am ? We've just finished dinner ; but, if there's anything we can get " — > Sabina was evidently inclined to be obsequious-—*' an egg, or a chop, or a cup of tea " " No, I don't want anything. Who is this Mr. Reuben Dare?" " That's what I want to know, ma'am ! " " And who is this Miss West ? " — Sabina shook her head. " She calls him her father — I'm sure of that." " Where does she come from ? Where was she brought up?" I t I H ill ^ ^i DP m\ M .'•fi 350 A LIFE SENTEN'CE. " Couldn't say, ma'am. Jenkins says that Miss West used to act at the Frivolity Theatre — he's seen her there about two years ago. Mr. Lepel took her up, as far as he ca.i make out, about a year and a half ago — soon after he settled in London again." ** Do you think that the man Dare has any connection with Beeohfield beside that of his recent visit? " *" Yes, I do. He caught himself up like once or twice when I began to talk of it ; and once he put me right— accidentallike — about the name of somebody at Beechfield." " Whose name ? " " I'm not sure as I can remember. Yes, I do, though ! It was Mr. Rumbold's first name. I called him * The Reverend Edward,* and he says * Alfred ' — quick, as if he wasn't thinking. So he must have known the place in years gone by." Flossy sat thinking. " Sabina," she said at length, in her smoothest tones, " i will take you into my confidence — I know you can be trusted. Of course it would be a great blow to me if my brother married an actress — a girl whom one knows nothing at all about ; besides, he is almost engaged to my husband's niece, Miss Vane." She did not add that she had been subtly opposing this engagement by all the means in her power for the last few weeks. " We must try to break off the connection as soon as we can. The more we know about this Miss West's past life the better. I will go to the Frivolity myself, and see whether I can learn anything about it there. And, Sabina " " Yes, ma'am," said the woman, as Mrs. Vane paused. " That mass of white hair, Sabina — do you think it looks quite natural ? " " Mr. Dare, you mean, ma'am? No, I don't; I believe it's a wig. I've seen it quite on one side." " Couldn't you find out, Sabina ? " " Well, I don't see how," said Sabina slowly. " I've never seen him without it. One night there was an alarm of fire, and everybody rushed to their doors, and Mr. Dare came too ; but his hair and his beard and everything was just the same as usual. Still I'm sure I've seen it a little on one side." " You provide his food here, do you not ? Do you ever help your 9,unt ? " A LIFE SENTENCE. 251 " Sometimes, ma'am. I take in his tea and all that, you know. We're by way of being very triendly, Mr. Dare and me." " Sabina, if you had the stuff, could you not quietly put something into his tea which would make him sleep for an hour or two ?. And, when he was asleep, could you not find out what I want to know? " Sabina was silent for a moment. " What should I get for it ? " she said at last. " It's always a risk to run." " Twenty pounds," said Flossy promptly. " There is very little risk." " And where should I get the stuff? " " I — I have it with me," said Mrs. Vane. Sabina, who had been standing, suddenly sat down and burst out laughing. " Well, you are a d^^p one/' she said, when her laugh- ter was ended, and she observed that Mrs. Vane was re- garding her rather angrily ; " if you'll excuse me fc saying so, ma'am, but you are the very deepest one I ever came across ! And you don't look it one bit ! " " I suppose you mean both of these assertions for com- pliments," caid Flossy. " If so you need not trouble to make them again. This is a business matter. Will you undertake it^ or will you not ? " " When ? " " To-night:" " To-night ! When he comes in to tea ? Well, is it safe?" " You mean the drug ? Perfectly safe. He will never know that be has had it. It will keep him sound asleep for a couple of hours at least. During that time I do not think that thunder itself would wake him." " You've tried it before, I'll warrant ? " said Sabina half questioningly, half admiringly. " Yes," said Flossy placidly, " I have tried it before." She. took a little bottle of greenish glass from the small morocco bag which she carried in her hand, and held it up to the light. " There are two doses in it," she said. " Don't use it all at once. A drop or two more or less does not matter; you need not be afraid of making it a little too strong. It is colorless and tasteless. Can you manage it ? " Sabind! considered. \ \ f She wrote it down in a little pock jt-book, and then rose A LIFE SENTENCE. Hi to take her leave. Sabina, who followed her to the cab, heard her tell the man to drive to the box-office of the Frivolity Theatre. It took Mrs. Vane three-quarters of an hour to reach the Frivolity. It was half-past three when she got there. She asked at once if it was possible to see the manager, Mr. Ferguson. A gold coin probably expedited her mes- senger and rendered her entrance to the great man possible ; for Mrs. Vane was a very handsome and well-dressed woman, and the " important business " on which she sent word that she had come had possibly less influence on the manager's mind than the glowing account given by the man despatched from the box-ofhce on her errand. Flossy was lucky. Mr. Ferguson was in the building — a rather unusual fact ; he was also willing to see her in his l)rivatc lOom — another concession ; and he received her with moderate civility — a variation from his usual manner, which Mrs. Vane must have owed to her own manner and appearance. " I shall not detain you for more than a very few minutes, Mr. Ferguson," said Flossy, with the air of a duchess, as she accepted the chair which the manager offered her ; " but I have a good reason for coming to you. I think that a young lady called Cynthia West was once acting at this theatre? To put my question in plain words — Do you know anything about her ? '* The manager sneered a little. " A good deal," he said. " Oh, yes — she was here ! I don't know that I have anything to tell, however. I should think that Mr. Hubert Lepel, if you know hin* could tell you more about her than any one." " I happen to be Mr. Lepel's sister," said Flossy, with dignity. " The deuce you are ! " remarKed the manager to him- self. "That explains " Aloud— " Well, madam, how can I assist you? Do you want to know Miss West's character? Well,- that was — if I may use the word — notorious." Flossy's eyes gleamed. '* So I expected to hear," she murmured. *' I am afraid that my poor brother has some thought of— of marrying her." " Oh, si; ely not ! " said Mr. Ferguson. " Surely he wouldn't be such a fool 1 " ^m"] m 454 A LIF^ SENTENCE, " Can you tell me anything definite about her ? " " Excuse me, madam, for asking ; but you — naturally — wish to prevent the marriage, if possible ? " " I certainly do not wish my brother to ruin himself for life, as he would do if she were such a — such a person as you imply." Mrs. Vane's lips were evidently much too delicate to s'-y in plain terms what she meant. " If she were as respectable as she seems to be talented, of course objec- tions about birth and station might be overlooked. But my brother has expectations from relatives who take the old-fashioned views about a woman's position ; and the mere fact of her being a singer or an actress might be against her in their eyes. It would be much better for him if the whole thing were broken off." She was purposely vague and diplomatic. *' Mr. Lepel's his own master, ^of course," said the manager ; " so perhaps he knows all we can tell him — and more. But you are welcome to use any information that I can give you." His little green eyes gleamed with malice, and a triumphant smile showed itself at the cor- ners of his thick hanging lips. " Miss West's career is well known. Lallij a member of our orchestra., picked her out of the streets when she was sixteen or seventeen, trained her a bit, and brought her here. We soon found out what sort of person she was, and I spoke my mind to Lalli about it ; for, though we're not particular as to a girl's character, still now and then Well, she was under his protection at the time, and there was nothing much to be done ; so we let her alone. He died suddenly about a couple of years a2;o ; and then, I believe, she accosted Mr. Lepel in the street, and went to his rooms and fastened herself upon him, as women of her sort sonetimes do. He took her up, sent her to Italy for a bit, put her under the jare of tha^ woman della Scala — as a blind to the paulic, I suppose — and got her brought out as a singer ; and she seems to have had a fair amount of success." Mr. Ferguson's account of Cynthia's career had an intermixture of fact, but it was so artfully combined with falsehood that it was difficult to disentangle one from the other. Flossy listened with keen attention; it struck her at once that Mr. Ferguson was blackening the girl's character out of spite. A LIFE SENTENCE, 255 "Do you know where she came from before your musician, Lalli, discovered her, Mr. Ferguson ? " " No, I do not, madam. But I have followed her course with interest ever since " — which was true. " And do you know where she resided before he died ? " " No, madam — I really do not " — which was utterly false. " Perhaps I could ascertain for you, and let you know." Flossy thanked him and rose. She had not attained her object precisely ; but she had received information that might prove extremely valuable. The manager bowed her out of his room politely, and called to one of his sub- ordinates to show her down-stairs. This was a little mistake on Mr. Ferguson's part ; he did not calculate on his visitor's questioning his subordi- nate, who happened to be a young man with a taste for the violin. " Did you know a Mr. Lalli who was once in the or- chestra here? " said Flossy graciously. " Oh, yes, ma'am ! He was here for a very long time." " Do you know where he used to live ? " " Yes, ma'am. No. — , Euston Road ; it's a boarding- house, kepi by a Mrs. Wadsley. He died there." Quite astonished by her own success, Flossy slipped a coin into his hand and made him call her a hansom cab. She was beginning to think of speed more than of the probability of being recognised in the London streets. To Mrs. Wadsley's then in all haste. The dingily respectable air of the house and of the proprietress herself at once impressed Mrs. Vane with the idea that Mr. Fer- guson had been largely drawing on his own imagination with respect to Cynthia West. Nothing certainly could be more idyllic than the story of Lalli's devotion to the girl, whom he had brought home one night with an assurance to Mrs. Wadsley that she was the daughter of an old friend, and that he would be responsible for the payment of her board and lodging until she began to earn her own living. '* He was just like a father to her," said Mrs. Wadsley confidentially ; " and teach her he would, and scold her sometimes by the hour together. I assure you, Mrs. Vane, it was wonderful to see the pains that he took with her. I see in the papers that she has been singing at concerts i» !> , r' l! : i! » I-. I ?v I i-\ ii 'fi) I : \ ' ll 2S6 A LIFE SENTENCE, 11 ' lately j and I said to my friend Mrs. Doldrum, ' How pleased poor dear old Mr. Lalli would have been if he had known ! ' " " He was quite an old man, I suppose ? " said Mrs. Vane. ** There was no talk of marriage between them — of an attachment of any kind ? '" Mrs. Wadsley drew herself up in rather an offended manner. " Certainly not, madam — save as father and daughter might be attached one to another. Mr. Lalli was old enoagh to be the girl's grandfather ; and Cynthia — oh, she was quite a child ! I hope you do not think that I should have chaperoned her if any such matter had seemed likely to occur; but there was nothing of the kind. Mr. Lalli was quite too serious-minded for anything of that sort — a deeply religious man, although an Italian, Mrs. Vane." ** Indeed, I am glad to hear it," said Flossy solemnly. " Miss West had no engagement — no love-affair, in short — going on when she was with you ? " ** Certainly not, Mrs. Vane." " Dii you ever hear her say where she had lived — where she had been educated — before she came to London ? ' " I did hear something of a school that she had been at," said Mrs. Wadsley, after a little reflection ; " but where it was I could not exactly tell you. They were Sisters, I believe, who taught her — Roman Catholics, very probably. * St. Elizabeth's ' — that was the name of the school ; but where it is to be found I am sure I cannot say." **At St. Elizabeth's, East Winstead?" said Mis. Vane quickly. She had heard the name from the Rumbolds. " I am sure I cannot say, Mrs. Vane." " Miss West was not a Roman Catholic, was she ? " " Not to my knowledge," said Mrs. Wadsley with great stiffness. Flossy's questions had not impressed her favorably ; but the words next uttered by her visitor did avay to some extent with the bad impression. " Thank you so much, Mrs. Wadsley, for your kind in- formation ! The fact is that a relative of mine his fallen in love with Miss West, and I was asked to find out who she was and all about her. Everything I have heard is so entirely charming and satisfactory, that I shall be able to set everything right, and assure my friends that we shall be A LIFE SENTENCE. 257 honored by an alliance with Miss West. I hope we shall see you at the wedding, Mrs. Wadsley, when it takes place." " When it takes place," Flossy repeated to herself, when she stood once more in the noisy London street ; " but I do not think it will ever take place. I wonder how far it is to East Winstead, and whether it is worth while going there or not ? '' CHAPTER XXXVI. It was not much after five, and the days were very long. Mrs. Vane found that she could reach East Winstead by seven, and, allowing for one hour at St. Elizabeth's, could be back in London by half-past nine. She, who was said to be an invalid, who never walked half a mile alone or exerted herself in any avoidable way, now showed herself as unwearied, as vigorous, as energetic as any able-bodied detective in the pursuit of his duty. She went first to the station where she had left Parker, and gave the maid her instructions. Parker was to go to the Grosvenor Hotel and engage rooms for the night for herself and her mistress, and to see that every requisite for comfort was provided for Mrs. Vane when she arrived. At half-past seven precisely she was to despatch a telegram which Flossy herself had written for the General's benefit, announcing her intention to stay the night in town. It was not to be sent earlier, as in that case the General would be rushing off to London to take care of his wife, and Flossy did not want him in the least. If he got the telegram between eight and nine, he would scarcely start that night, although she knew that she might fully expect to see him in the morning. He was a most affectionate husband, and never believed that his wife was capable of doing anything for herself. Parker was much amazed by Mrs. Vane's proceedings, and did not believe that the dentist was responsible for them, or Mr. Hubert Lepel either, although Flossy was careful to put the blame of her detention upon these innocent persons. She was not allowed to know what her mistress was going to do, but was sent away from the station to the hotel at once in a hansom-cab. Then Flossy calmly provided herself with sandwiches and a flask of 9 1^ i ■J j III ■ i I V. l\ ■:t If! kM ^ m 258 A LIFE SENTENCE, sherry, took a return-ticket for East Winstead and found her- self moving out of the station in a fr'st train at exactly five minutes to six. It was quick work ; bu<- she had accom- plished the task that she had set herself to do. Flossy had a genius for intrigue. She reached East Winstead at seven, and found a cab at the station. The drive to St. Elizabeth's occupied twenty minutes — longer than she had anticipated. She would have to do her work — make all her inquiries — in exactly one quarter of an hour if she meant to catch the next train to London. Well, a quarter of an hour ought to tell her all that she wished to know. She took little notice of the beauty of garden and archi- tecture at St. Elizabeth's ; these were not what she had gone to see. She asked at the door if she could see the Sister in charge of the girl's school. " Which — the orphanage or the ladies' school ? " " The orphanage," was Flossy's prompt reply , and accordingly she was shown into the presence of Sister Louisa. " I am afraid that I must appear very brusque and abrupt," said Mrs. Vane, with the soft graciousness of manner which proved so powerful a weapon in her armory ; " but I shall have to come to the point at once, as I have only a feV minutes to spare. Can you tell me whether you ever had a child in your orphanage Called Cynthia West ? " Sister Louisa considered, and then shook her head. " * Cynthia ' is an uncommon " name," she said. " I sure that we never had — at least, within the last years." ** It would not be so long ago," said Mrs. Vane, have reason, however, to think that 'Cynthia West' is not her real name. Would the name of ' Westwood ' -' Cynthia Janet Westwood ' — recall any child to your memory ? " Sister Louisa started, and a flush covered her mild thin face. " Is it possible," she said, " that you mean our lost child Jane Wood?" " She may have been known under that name," said Florence. " You had a girl here called ' Jane Wood/ then ? Why do you think that she has any connection with Cynthia West?" am ten ^l I A 1/F£ SkNTENC^. ^50 "You mentioned the name of ' Westwood,' " said Sister Louisa eagerly. " Jane Wood's name was really * West- wood ' ; but, as she was the daughter of a notorious criminal, Mrs. Rumbold of Beechfield, who placed her with us, asked that she should be called ' Wood.' She was the child of Westwood, who committed a • dreadful murder at Beechfield, in Hampshire — a gentleman called Vane " Here Sister Louisa glanced at the visitor's card. " You know perhaps," she went on in some con- fusion ; but Flossy interrupted her. " Mr. Vane, the murdered man, was my brother- in-law. I am the wife of General Vane of Beechfield. I had some notion that this girl Cynthia West was identical with Westwood's daughter, but I could not be sure of the fact. How long was she with you, may I ask? " Then she heard the whole story. She heard how the child had come to St. Elizabeth's, and been gradually tamed and civilised ; of her wonderful voice and talent for music ; of the generosity of certain persons unknown, sup- posed to be the Vanes ; of the outburst of passion when " Janey " heard the lay-sister's accusation of her father, and her subsequent disappearance ; then — not greatly to Flossy's surprise — of Mr. Lepel's visit, and his search for the girl, which — so far as the Sister knew — seemed to have ended in failure. " But you have fouiid her after all ! " cried the good Sister, when Flossy acknowledged that she was the sister of Hubert Lepel, and presumably interested in his charitable enterprises. " I am so glad ! And she is growing quite famous? Dear me, I wonder that Mr. Lepel did not let us know ! " " Possibly he thought that you would be more grieved than deHghted by the discovery of her present position," said Flossy, not sorry to aim an arrow at the unknown Cynthia behind her back, and perhaps deprive her of some very useful and affectionate friends. " Miss West, as she calls herself, does not bear a good character." She felt a malicious pleasure in bringing the color into the Sisters delicate cheeks, the moisture into those kindly, mild gray eyes. " She went upon the stage almost at once, and lived — well, I need not tell you how she Hved perhaps; you can imagine it no doubt for yourself. I am afraid she was a thoroughly bad girl from the first." ?. w •s ji! 'S !.l i !? 260 A LIFE SENTENCE. (( Oh, no, no — I hope not 1 " exclaimed Sister Louisa, the tears flowing freely over her pale face. " Our poor Janie ! She was a dear child, generous and kind-hearted, although impetuous and wilful now and then. If you see her, Mrs. Vane, tell her that our arms are always open to her — that, if she will come back to us, we will give her pardon and care, and help her to lead a good and honest life." '' I am afraid she will never return to you — she would probably be ashamed," said Mrs. Vane, rather venomously, as she took her leave. " I am so sorry to hurry away, Sister, but I am afraid that I must catch my train. You are quite sure then that Jane or Janie Wood, who had such a beautiful voice, and ran away from you in July, 187-, was really the daughter of the convict Westwood, and that Mr. Lepel and Mrs. Rumbold placed her with you and sought for her afterwards ? " " Quite sure," said Sister Louisa. There was a vague trouble at her heart — an uneasiness for which she could not account. Soni'ithing in Mrs. Vane's manner — something in her tone, her smile, her eyes — was distasteful to the unerring instincts of the pure God- fearing woman, as it had been to the trained observation of Maurice Evandale. Flossy might do her best to be charming — she might disarm criticism by the sweetness of her manner ; but, in spite of her efforts, candid and unsullied natures were apt to discern in her a want of frankness — a little taint of something which they hardly liked to name. Sister Louisa grieved sorely over what she had heard of Cynthia ; but she was also disturbed by an unconquerable distrust of this fair fashionable woman of the world. '' I think there is scarcely any link wanting in the chain," said Mrs. Vane to herself, when, having just caught her train, she was being whirled back to the metropolis. " Jane Wood was Cynthia Janet Westwood. She had a fine voice, and was about sixteen years old when she left St. Elizabeth's, July, 187-. In July, 187-, the same year, Lalli appeared at Mrs. Wadsley's with a girl of sixteen, who also had a fine voice, who had been at St. Elizabeth's, and who called herself Cynthia West. Mr. Lepel had put Jane Wood at school ; Mr. Lepel turns up later on as the lover — protector — what not? — of Cynthia West. There is not the slightest reasonable doubt that Jane Wood and J LIFE SENTEl^CE. 2^f Cynthia West are one and the same person. That prosy- old Sister would prove it in a moment if we brought them face to face. And Jane Wood was Westwood's daughter. Cynthia West is Westwood's daughter. Very easily traced 1 What will the world say when it knows that the rising young soprano singer is the daughter of a murderer? It won't much care, I suppose. But Hubert will care lest the fact be known. He has been too careful in hiding it for that not to be the case. Let me see — Cynthia West — presumably Westwood's daughter — meets a mysterious stranger in Kensington Gardens and addresses him as her father. The mysterious stranger comes from America, and has white hair and a white beard — quite unlike Mr. Andrew Westwood, be it remarked. Westwood escaped from Portland some years ago, and is rumored to have settled in the backwoods of America. I think there is very good reason for supposing that the mysterious stranger is Westwood himself, returned to England in order to secure his daughter's aid and companionship. And, if so, what a fool the man must be, when once he had got safely away, to run his head into a nest of ene: lies ! He must be mad indeed ! And, if mad," sa" i Mrs. Vane, with a curiously cold and cruel smile, " the best thing for him will be incarceration at Portland prison once again." It was growing dark, and she was beginning to feel a little tired. She put her feet upon the seat and closed her eyes. Before long she had i^allen into a placid slumber, which lasted until she reached the London terminus. Then she drove straight to the Grosvcnor Hotel, where she found Parker waiting, and a dainty little supper prepj^red for her. Flossy did justice to her meal, and then went to bed, where she slept the sleep of the innocent and the righteous, until Parker appeared at her bedside the next morning with a breakfast-tray. " And there's Miss Meldreth in the sitting-room inquir- ing for you, ma'am. Is she to come in ? I wonder how she knew that you were here ? " " Oh, I saw her accidentally yesterday afternoon," said Mrs. Vane, "and told her to call ! I want to know what she is doing in London. Yes — she can come in." Parker accordingly summoned Miss Mtldreth, and then, in obedience to a sign from her mistress, retired rather sulkily. She was not very fond of Mrs. Vane ; but she 1; I •■; iik i62 A LIFE SENTENCE. resented any attempt on the part of a former servant to come between her and her mistress' confidences ; and she had an impression that there was something between Mrs. Vane and Sabina which she did not know. " Well, Sabina, how did the experiment succeed ? " said Mrs. Vane easily. In spite of her look of fatigue and her languid attitude amongst the pillows, she spoke as if she had not a care in the world. " It succeeded all right," answered Sabina, a little shortly. *' What did you find out ? " • " They're not real — his hair and beard, I mean. It's a ig. He's got grayish dark-brown hair, and very little of ic mderneath, and whiskers. He ain't nearly so old as we thought." " Tell me how you managed it," said Mrs. Vane — " from beginning to end." " Well, ma'am, he came in about five, as usual, to his tea ; and I says to aunt Eliza, ' I'll carry in the tray ' ; and I says, 'what a lot of milk you've given him ! I'll pour a little back.' And says she, ' you'd better not, for he likes his tea half milk, and he'll only ring for more.' ' Well, then, ' I says, * it'll give me a chance of going in a second time — and, you know, I like that.' So I emptied part of the milk away, and then I put half of the stuff that you gave me into his jug, and I took it into Mr. Dare's sitting- room. He looked at me very sharp when I went in, almost as if he suspected me of something ; but he didn't say nothing, and neither did I. I set down his tray before him, and he oours out the tea. Almost before I was out of the door, ' Miss Meldreth,' he says, * a little more milk, if you please.' * Oh, didn't I bring you enough, sir?' I says. * If you'll pour that into your cup then, I'll send out for some more, and it'll be here by the time you've done your first cup. The cat knocked a basin of milk over this afternoon,' says I, ' and so ther^ isn't as much as usual in the house.' " " All that was pure invention, I suppose ? " interrogated Mrs. Vane cynically. " One had to say something, ma'am. He looked a litlle put out, and hesitated for a minute or two ; then he took and emptied the milk-jug straight into his cup, and began to drink his tea ; and I went out and filled the jug again. I waited for a few minutes before I came back, and I found // LIFE SENTEiVCE, 263 him leaning back in his chair, with a sleepy look coming over him directly. ' Miss Meldreth,' he said, ' I'm sorry to have troubled you, for I really don't think I want any more tea' — and then he yawned fit to take his h- d off— 'and I'm going to lie down on the sofa to get a 1? i;le rest, for I am so uncommonly drowsy. ' " " That seems a little sudden," said Mrs. Vane thought- fully. '' Are you sure that he did not suspect anything? " "No, ma'am — I don't think so. Well, he laid down, and I went in and out taking away the things ; and, if you'll believe me, in ten minutes he was fast asleep and snoring like — like a grampus ! " "Well, Sabina?" " I let him stay so for nea 'y half an hour, so as to be sure that he was thoroughl) of na'am, and then I went up to him and touched his ^ lir. ''t was very nicely fitted on ; but it was a wig for al- \X\ t, and one could easily see the dark hair underneath. "'le beard was more difficult to move — there was som"' sticky stuff" to fasten it on as well as an elastic band b-. r j the ears ; but it was plainly a false one too. He's a dark-looking man, almost like a gipsy, I should say, with hair that's nearly black — some- thing like his eyebrows. Do you think he's the man you want, ma'am ? " - " I'm sure of it, Sabina. Do you want to earn three hundred pounds besides vour twenty?" "What, ma'am!" "Three hundred pounds, I remember, was offered for the arrest of Andrew Westwood, escaped prisoner from Portland prison, five years ago. This man is Andrew Westwood, Sabina, who murdered Sydney Vane. You shall have the money to keep as soon as it is paid." Sabina drew back aghast. " A murderer," she said — " and him such a nice quiet- looking old gentleman ! Why, aunt Eliza was always plan- ning a match between him and me ! It's awful ! " Flossy laughed grimly. " People don't carry their crimes in their face, Sabina," she said. " Now you can go away and wait in the sitting- room until Parker has dressed me. Then you will come with me to Scotland Yard — I believe that is the place to go to. I want that man arrested before nightfall. Her^ arc your ten poundSf" [;: t I i li li m ,1 i!' M:| .1- [''I' "^i-m ■i 264 A LIFE SENTENCE, " Oh," said Sabina— " I wish I'd known ! " ** Do you mean that you would not have helped mc? " " I'm not sure, ma'am ; I don't like the idea of shutting the poor man up for ever and ever in a gaol." " Perhaps you don't mind the idea of murder ? " said Mrs. Vane sarcastically. " Don't be a fool, Sabina ! Think of the three hundred pounds too 1 You shall have it all, I promise you ; and I will content myself with the satisfac tion of seeing him once more where he deserves to be. Now call Parker." Sabina went back to the sitting-room, not daring to dis- obey. Her reluctance, moreover, soon vanished as the thought of those three hundred pounds took possession of her. She was absorbed in golden dreams when Mrs. Vane rejoined her, and was quite prepared to do or say V'hatever she was told. CHAPTER XXXVII. Mrs. Vane left Parker at the hotel with a message for the General, should he appear, that she was going to her dentist's and thence to her brother's lodgings. But she and Sabina Meldreth went straight to Scotlajid Yard and had an interview with one of the police authorities. Mrs. Vane's statement was clear and concise. She was complimented on the cleverness that she had displayed ; and Sabina was shown a photograph of Andrew Westwocd taken while he was at Portland. She could not be quite so certain that it was Mr. Dare as Flossy would have desired her to be ; but the evidence was on the whole so far conclusive, that it was determined to arrest Mrs. Gunn's lodger on suspicion. If he could give a satisfactory account of himself, and if he could not be identified, he would of course have to be set free again ; but it seemed . possible, if not probable, that Reuben Dare was the very man for whom the police had searched so vainly and so long. A cab was summoned, and an inspector of police as well as a detective in plain clothes and a constable politely followed Sabina into it. Mrs. Vane thought it more becoming to her position not to assist at the arrest, r She therefore remained behind, unable to resist the temp- ^tion of awaiting their return with the prison^r^ A LIFE Sentence, i6i She waited for neai ly two hours. Then the cab came back again, ind out of it emerged two police-officers and Sabina ; but no detective, and no Reuben Dare. Flossy's heart beat quickly with a mixture of rage and fear. Had she taken all this trouble for nothing, and had Reuben Dare given a satisfactory account of himself after all ? " The bird has flown, ma'am," said the inspector, enter- ing the office where she sat, with a rather crestfallen air. ** He must have got some notion of what was in the wind ; for he went out this morning soon after Miss Meldreth left the house, and evidently does not intend to come back again. He has left his portmanteau ; but he has emptied it of everything that he could carry away, and left two sovereigns on the table in payment of his rent and other expenses for the week." " He has gone to his daughter ! " cried Flossy, starting up. "Why have you not been to her? I gave you her address." " No use, ma'am," said the inspector, shaking his head. •'We've been round there already, and left Mullins to watch the house. But I expect we are too late. We ought to have known last night. Amateurs in the detec- tive line are sometimes very clever; but they are not always sharp enough for our work. The young woman has also disappeared." Mrs. Vane's unusual absence from her home had not been without its results. Little Dick held high carnival all by himself in the drawing-room and the conservatory ; and Enid, feeling herself equally freed from the restraint usually put upon her, wandered out into the garden, and found a cool and shady spot where she could establish herself at ease in a comfortable basket-chair. She did not feel disposed for exertion ; all that she wished to do was to lie still and to keep silence. The old unpleasant feel- ing of illness had been growing upon her more and more during the last few days. She was seldom free from nausea, and suffered a great deal from faintness and palpi- tation of the heart. As she lay back in her cushioned chair, her face looked very small and white, the blue- veined eyelids singularly heavy. She was sorry to hear the footsteps of a passer-by resounding on a pathway not far from the spot which she had chosen ; but she hoped t <^W'■ i;-l ! i66 A LIFE SENTENCE, that the gardener or caller, or whoever it might chance to be, would go by without noticing her white dress between the branches of the tree. But she was doomed to be dis- appointed. The footsteps slackened, then turned aside. She was conscious that some one's hand parted the branches — that some one's eyes were regarding her; but she was too Lmguid to look up. Let the stranger think that she was asleep ; then surely he would go upon his way and leave her in peace. '* Miss Vane," said a deep manly voice that she did not expect to hear, " I beg your pardon — do I disturb you ? " Enid opened her heavy eyes. " Oh, Mr. Kvandale — not at all, thank you ! " " I was afraid that you were asleep," said the Rector, instantly coming to her side ; *'and in that case I should have taken the still greater liberty of awaking you, for there is a sharp east wind in spite of the hot sunshine, and to sleep in the shade, as I feared that you '.vera doing, would be dangerous." " Thank you," said Enid gently. She sat erect for a minute or two, then gradually sank back amongst her cushions, as if not equal to the task of maintaining herself upright. The Rector stood beside her, a look of trouble in his kind frank eyes. " Shall I give you my arm back to the house ? " he said, after a pause. " Oh, no, thank you — I am not ill, Mr. Evandale ! " " But you are not well — at least, not very strong? " " Well — no. No — I suppose that I am not very strong.'* She turned away her head ; but, notwithstanding the movement, he saw that a great tear was gathering under- neath the veined eyelid, ready to drop as soon as ever it had a chance. "Miss Vane," said the rector suddenly, "are you in any trouble ? Excuse me for asking ; but your face tells its own story. You were happier a year ago than you are now." " Oh, yes," the girl sighed— "much happier I " and then the great tear fell. "Can I do nothing to help you? My mission is to those who are in any trouble ; and, apart from that, I thought once that you looked upon me as a friend." There was a touch of human emotion in the last words which ; said, g :e tells ou are d then is to that, I There which A IIFE SENTENCE. ^ seemed to bring him closer to Enid than the earlier sentence could have done. " But I know you have no need of me," the Rector added sorrowfully ; " you have so many friends/' " I have not a friend in the world 1 " the girl broke out ; and then she half hid her faco with her transparently thin fingers, and tried to conceal tne fac*^ that she was weeping. •'Not a friend. Miss Vane?" Mr. Evandale's tone betrayed complete bewilderment. "Whom would you call my friend?" said Enid, almost passionately. "Not a man like my poor uncle, duped, blinded, deceived by any one who chooses to cajole him? Not a woman like his wife, who hates me, and wants rne out of ..le way lest I should claim a share of the estate? Oh, I know what I am saying — I know too well ! I can trust neither of them — for he is weak and under her con- trol, and she has never been a friend to me or mine. I do not know what to do or where to go for counsel." " I heard a rumor that you were engaged to marry Mr. Hubert Lepel," said the Rector gravely. " If that be true, he surely should be counted amongst your friends." a A man," said Enid, with bitterness of which he would not have thought her capable, "who cares for me less than the lat:t new play or the latest debut a?ite at Her Majesty's ! Should I call him a friend ? " " It is not true then that you are engaged to him ? " " I thought that I was," said Enid, still very bitterly. " He asked me to marry him ; I thought that he loved me, and I — I consented. But my uncle has now withdrawn the half consent he gave. I am to be asked again, they tell me, when I am twenty. I am their chattel — a piece of goods to be given away and taken back. And then you ask me if I am happy, or if ^.. call the man who treats me so lightly a friend ! " " I see — I see. But matters may yet turn out better than you think. Mr. Lepel is probably only kept back by the General's uncertainty of action. I can quite conceive that it would put a man into a very awkward position." " I do not think that Hubert cares much," taid Enid, with a little sarcasm in her tone. " He must care !" said Evandak impetuously. " Why?" the girl asked, suddenly turning her innocent eyes upon him in some surprise, " Why should he care ? " The Rector's face glowed. 268 A LIFE SENTENCE, "Because he — he must care." The answer was ridicu- lously inadequate, he knew, but he had nothing else to say. " How can he help caring when he sees that you care ? — unless he has no more feeling than a log or a block of stone." He smote his hand angrily against the trunk of a tree beside him as he spoke. Still Enid looked at him with the same expression of amazement. But little by little his emotion seemed to affect her too — the blush to pass from his face to her pale cheeks. " But — but," she stammered, at length, " you are wrong . — in that way — in the way you think. I do not care." " You do not care ? For him do you not care ? " *'As a cousin," said Enid faintly — "yes." " Not as a lover ? " The Rector spoke so low she could hardly hear a word. "No." '' Not as a husband? " ''No." " Then why did you consent to marry him ? " One question had foP'^wed another so naturally that the strangeness of each had not been felt. But Enid's cheeks were crimson now. " Oh, I don't know — don't ask me ! I felt miserable, and I thought that he would be a help to me — and he isn't. I can't talk to him I can't trust him — I can't ask him what to do ! And we are both bound, and yet we are not bound ; and it is as wretched for him as it is for \Tie — and I don't know what to do." " Could you trust me better than you have trusted him ? " said the Rector hoarsely. He knew that he was not acting quite in accordance with what men usually termed the laws of honor ; but it seemed to him that the time had come for contempt of a merely conventional law. Was Perseus, arriving ere the sacrifice of Andromed" was completed, to hesitate in res- cuing her because the sea-monster had prior righcs, for- sooth ? Was he — Maurice Evandale — to stand aside while this gentle delicate .reature — the only woman that he had ever loved — was badgered into an early grave by cold- hearted kinsmen who wanted to sacrifice her to some ftimily whim? He would do what he could to save her ! There was something imperious in his heart which would not let him hold his tongue, A LIFE SENTENCE, 269 "Trust you? Oh, yes— I could trust you with any- thing ! " said Eiiid, half unconscious of the full meaning of her words. "Do you understand me?" said Mr. Evandale. He dropped upon one knee beside her chair, so as to bring his face to a level with hers, and gently took both her hands between his own as he spoke. " I want you to trust me with your life — with yourself! Make no mistake this time, Enid. Could you not only trust me, but care for me ? For, if you can, I will do my best to make you happy." " Oh, I don't know ! " said Enid. She looked at him as if frightened, then withdrew her hands from his clasp and put them before her face. "It is so sudden — I never thought " " You never thought that I loved you ? No ; I have kept silence because I thought that you loved another. But, if that is not true, and if you are only trying to uphold a family arrangement which is j^ainful perhaps to both of you, why, then, there is nothing to keep me silent ! I step in and offer you a way out of the difficulty. If you can love me, I am ready to give you my whole life, Enid. I have never in my life loved a woman as I love you. And I think that you could care for me a little ; I seem to read it in your eyes — your poor tired eyes ! Rest on me, my darling — trust to me — and we will fight through your difficulties together." He had drawn her gently towards him as he spoke. She did not resist ; her head rested on his shoulder, her slender fingers stole again into his hand ; she drew a sigh of perfect well-being and content. This man, at any rate, she could trust with all her heart. " Do you love me a little, Enid? " " I think so." " You are not yet sure ? " "I am not sure of anything; I about — so perplexed — so troubled, at rest with you — is that enough?" " For the present. We will wait ; and, if you feel more for me, or if you feel less — whatever happens — you must let me know, and I will be content." " You are very good ! But, oh " — with a sudden shrink- ing movement — '' I — I shall have broken my word 1 " have been so tossed I feel as if I could be 5, .1 270 A LIFE SENTENCE. « 1 41 " Yes ; I am soriy that you have to do it. But better break your word than marry a man you do not love." " And who does not love me," said Enid, in an exceed- ingly low tone. "Are you really sure of that, Enid?" " Indeed — indeed I think so ! He is so cold and indiffer- ent, and we never agree when we talk together — he seems impatient of my ideas. Our tastes are quite different ; I am sure "that I should not be happy with him, nor he with me. "You will be brave then, my love, and tell him so?" " Yes." But again she shrank from him. " Oh, what shall I do if she — if Flossy tells me that I must? " Mr. Evandale frowned. " Are you so much afraid of Mrs. Vane? " " Yes," she said timorously — " I am. She — she frightens me ! Oh, don't be angry ! I know I am very weak ; but indeed I cannot help it ! " — and she burst into despairing tears. " My darling, my poor little Enid, I am not angry at all ! We will brave her together, you and I. You shall not be afraid of her any longer ; you will know that I am always near you to protect you — to strengthen you. And you will trust to me ? " She tried to answer " Yes ; " but her strength suddenly seemed to die aAvay from her. She slipped from his arm and lay back upon the cushions ; a bluish tinge overspread her lips ; her face turned deathly white ; she seemed upon the verge of a swoon. Evandale, alarmed as he was, did not lose his presence of mind. P'ortunately he had in his pocket a flask of brandy which he had been abrmt to carry to a sick parish- ioner. In a moment he had it uncorked and was com- pelling her to swallow a mouthful or two ; then he fanned her with the great black fan which had lain upon her lap ; and finally he remembered that he had seen a great water- ing-can full of water standing in the garden path not far away, and found that it had not been removed. The cold water with which he moistened her lips and brow brought her to herself ; in a few minutes she was able to look up at him and smile, and presently declared herself quite well. But Evandale was very grave. " Are you often faint, Enid? " he asked. S! A LIFE SE]SffENCE, 471 >> — with a little tinge of color just a common kind of faint- '' Rather often ; but this in her pale cheeks — " this is ness — it is not like the other. " " I know ; but I do not like you to turn faint in this way. May I ask you a few questions. about yourself?" " Oh, yes — I know that you are quite a doctor ! " said Enid, smiling at him with perfect confidence. So the Rector put his questions — and very strange questions some of them were, thought Enid, though he was wonderfully correct in guessing what she felt. Yes, she was nearly always faint and sick ; she had a strange burning sensation sometimes in her chest ; she had violent palpitations, and odd feelings of a terrible fright and depres- sion. But the doctor had assured her that she had not the faintest trace of organic disease of the heart; and that these functional disturbances would speedily pass away. Mr. Ingledew had sounded her and told her that she need not be alarmed — and of course he was a very clever man. *' Enid," said the Rector at last, after a long pause, and rather as if he was trying to make a sort of joke which, after all, was not amusing, " I am going to ask you what you will think a very fooHsh question. Have you an enemy in the house — here, at Beechfield Hall ? " Enid's eyes dilated with a look of terror. '^ Why — why do you ask ? " " It is a ridiculous question, is it not? But I thought that perhaps somebody had been playing on your nerves, and wanting to frighten you about yourself. Is there any- body who might possibly do so? " Her lips parted twice before any articulate word issued from them. At last he caught the answer — " Only Flossy." He was silent for a moment. " Do you take any medicine ? " he asked, at length. *' Yes ; Mr. Ingledew sent me some." "What is it like?" " I don't know ; it is not disagreeable. Flossy looked at it, and said that it was a calming mixture " " I should like to see the prescription ; perhaps it does not quite suit you. And who gives it to you ? " " I take it myself ; it is kept in my led -room." " And what else do you drink and eat ? " said the Rector, smiling. " You see, I am quite a learned physician. I want to know ^i' about your habits." 'I I r I ■Pi ' 272 A LIFE SENTENCE. \ f "Oh, I eat and drink just what other people do." " Are you thirsty at night ? " " Yes — very. How did you guess that ? I have orange ater or lemonade put beside me every night, so that I may drink it if I wake up." And then Evandale, who was watching her intently, saw that her face changed as if an unpleasant thought had suddenly recurred to her. "What is it, dear? " "It was only a dream I have had several times— it troubles me whenever I think of it ; but I know that it is only a dream." " Won't you tell me what it was ? I should like to hear ! Lay your head back on my shoulder again and tell me about it." Enid sigher' again, but it was with bliss. " Perhaps 1 shall not dream it if I tell it all to you," she murmured. "It seems to me sometimes as if — in th6 middle of the night — I wake up and see some one in the room — a white figure standing l^y my bed ; and she is always pouring something into my glass ; or sometimes she offers it to me and makes n«e drink ; and she looks at me as if she hated me ; and I — I a.n afraid." " But who is it, my darling ? ' "' I suppose it is nobody, because nobody else sees it but me. I made Parker Lkep witly ni° two or three times ; but she said that she saw nothing, and that she was certain that nobody h'd come into the room. I suppose it was a . — a ghost ! ' ' Nonsen ■ , Jearest ! " " Then it was an optical illusion, and I am going out of my mind," said Enid despairingly. " Was the figure like that of anyone you know ? " "Yes — Flossy." " Mrs. Vane ? And you think that she does not like you?" " I know that she hates me." "My darling, it is simply a nightmare — nothing more." But he felt her trembling in his arms. "It is more than a nightmare, I am sure. You know that people used to say that I might go out of my mind if th Jse terrible seizures attacked me ? I have not had so many of them lately j but I feel weaker than ever I did — • J LIFE SENTENCE. m I feel as if I were going to die. Perhaps it would be better if I were to die, and then I should not be a trouble and a care to anybody. And it would be better to die than to go mad, would it not ? " •' Enid," said the Rector very gravely, " I believe that your malady is entirely one of the nerves, and that it can be controlled. You must try to believe, my darling, that you could conquer it if you tried. When you feel the approach of one of these seizures, as you call them, resolve that you will not give way. By a determined effort I think that it is possible for you to ward them off. Will you try, for my sake ? " ' I will try," said Enid wearily ; '' but T am afraid that trying will be useless." " And another thing — I do not believe that Mr. Irigle- dew is giving you the right Isind of medicine. I want you quietly to stop taking it for a week, and to stop drinking lemonade or orange-water at night. In a week's time let us see how you feel. If you are no better, I will talk to Ingledew myself. Will you promise me that ? Say, * Yes, Maurice.* " " Yes, Maurice — I promise you." " And one more thing, my own dearest. When that nightmare attacks you again, try to conquer your fe;..r of it. Do not lie still ; rise up and see what it rerUy is. You may find that your dreamy state has misled yon, anr^ chat what you took for u threatening figure is merci^ that of a servant, who has had orders to come and sc-e v.'hether you were sleeping or not. Nightmares often reso?Ye them- selves into very harmless thir ^s. And of (he super- natural I do not think that yo leed be alarmed , C:od is always near you — He will not affer you to be frightened by phantoms of the night. Remember when you wake that I shall be thinking of y .»u — praying for you. I am often up very late, and I do not sleep heavily. I shall probably be awake thinking of you, or I may be praying for you, darling, in my very dreams. Will you think of that ^nd try to be brave ? " " I feel braver now," said the girl simply. " Yes, Maurice, I will do all vou ask. I do not think that I shall feel afraid again." He left her soon afterwards, ,nd returned on the follow- ing morning, to hear, not with surprise, that she had slept : I f i 1 1) \: i I ; ^,1 r;ll r I A LtFE SENTEMCE. better, that she had had no nightmare, and that she suffered less from nausea and faintness than usual Mrs, Vane was away for a second night, and he had time to see Enid again before her return. She had not touched her medicine-bottles, and there was again a slight but marked improvement in her condition. Mr. Evandale induced her to fetch one of the bottles of Mr. Ingledew's mixture, which he put into his pocket and conveyed it to his own home. Here he smelt, tasted, and to some extent analys- ed it. The result was such as to plunge him for a short time into deep and troubled thought. " I expected it," he said at last, with an impatient sigh. " The symptoms were those of digitalis-poisoning. There is not enough in this concoction to do her much harm however. It is given to her in some other form — in that lemonade at night perhaps. Well, I shall soon see whether my suspicions are correct when Mrs. Vane comes home." CHAPTER XXXVIII. Cynthia, unconscious of the plots of which she was at present the nmocent centre, was meanwhile contending with a sensation of profond 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 rould not love hiin 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 Carrier between him A LIFE SENTENCE. 27s and p:nid tnan 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 for- given. 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 iiim 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, .. t I \ •H: I'l 2^6 A LIFE SENTENCE. 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 I 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 knowjone who always used to bring it," said Madame, casting a sharp glance at the girl's paleface. " 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 7nia ? Where is Mr. Lepel — ce bel /lomme 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 A UlE SENTENCE, 277 ' fadame dclla Scala, who was a confirmed chatterer, that : le thought of going to America; and yet, knowing that licr departure would probably be sudden and secret, she (iid 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, cava mia 1 Is an elope- ment in store for us ? Dio mio^ there will be a fine fuss about it in the newspapers if you do anything extraor- dinary ! 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 toMadame'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 call, 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 tp go and dress for the party to which she was bound, saying to her- self 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 i \ \\ i>; \ -»: If 27$ A LIFE SENTENCE, saw the maid running up the stairs to overtake her before she reached her room. *' It's Jenkins — Mr. Lepel's man, rr-.ss," 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 admir- ation 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 her- self 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 A LIFE SENTENCE, ^n thought yon would like to know, ma'am. I've been talk- ing to the landlady, and slic's quite agreeable for my wife to come on for a bit and icli) 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. I.ei)el, you know. If you was good enough alway.s 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 gra- titude. " 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 Cyntliia'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 main 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 i; - ; :^ I- 11^ r (■ ^, IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) A 1.0 I.I Ui^ MIS ■tt lii 12.2 ^ m lU 2.0 1^ '/, oS. /. ^^'1^> ^^ %"'-=»* 1> V 7 ^ Hiotographic Sciences Cbrporation ^^ :1>' :\ \ ;\ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER. N.Y. 14SM (716) 873-4503 &§d A LIFE SENTENCE, 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 moming'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 hei 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 lovelinesss 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 bed- side at once. But — fortunately perhaps — she was bound, for many reasons, to sing at Lady Beauclerc's party. Madanie 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 j fa the the sudd( Sh< back the n not A LIFE SENTENCE. a£i :d 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 hei'. 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 ofrhis 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 ^ i I I ■•1 4 M I •8t A LIFE SENTENCE, crowd; people used to stop and gaze after Reuben Dare. " Oh, I am so thankful — so glad 1 " 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. CHAPTER XXXIX. Westwood was silent until he found himself with his daughter inside the cab. " Where did you tell him to go ? " he then asked of her. " To St. Pancras Station. I thought that we could more easily evade watchers at a big railway-station than any- where else." "They will watch the stations," said the man. "I may have 'got the start, and I may not. The stations arc hardly safe." " Let the man drive on for a few minutes while you tell me the reason why you think you are watched," said Cynthia, suspecting panic ; " he cannot be going far out of the way, and, if we change our minds we can tell him so presently." " Well," said Westwood, evidently recovering nerve and self-possession under the influence of his daughter's calmer manner and speaking in an easier tone, " it's that woman Meldreth — she is a spy. Who do you think came to her A LIFE SENTENCE, 283 house yesterday bat Mrs. Vane? The very woman who has most reason to dread me and to wish to get me shut up in prison, if my idea of her is true ! I think she wanted to see me with her own eyes. She looked at me as if she would read me through and through." " Where did you meet her, father? ' "In the street. I was asked to show her Mrs. Gunn's house. I,t was pure accident of course, but it gave us an opportunity of looking at each other." " Did you go back to the house after that ? " " Yes, I did, my girl, because I had left my portmanteau there with papers and money, without which I should soon be in * Queer Street.' Yes, I went back, and found Mrs. Vane gone. But the Meldreth woman had a queer look about her, and I suspected what she was about, though I don't know that I could have balked her but for my peculiar constitution. Sleeping-stuff don't have no effect on me, my dear — it never had. They tried it in the prison when I was there at first, and couldn't- sleep for thinking of the woods and the open fields and my own little girl — and it nearly drove me mad. Sabina Meldreth gave me some sleeping- stuff in my tea last night." ''What for, father?" " That's what I wanted to know. When I felt the old pricks and twitches beginning, I pretended to be very sleepy, and I lay down on the sofa and went off, as she thought, into a deep slumber. Presently she came in, and — what do you think, Cynthy ? — she began to examine my hair and beard ! Of course she soon saw that it would come off; and then she laughed a little to herself. ' Twenty pounds for this job,' she said — ' and more perhaps after- wards. I wonder what Mrs. Vane's up to now ? I'll be off to her first thing to-morrow morning It's somebody she's got a spite against, I'll be bound ! ' And then she went away and left me alone, having done her work." So 4hen you came away ? " Not immediate, my girl. I was off at five o'clock this morning. I got shaved at a little place in Gray's Inn Road — after disposing of my wig and beard elsewhere, you know ; and I bought this rig-out at two different places in Holborn. Then I breakfasted at a coffee-stall and came on here. They'll only just have found out that I've gone by now — if indeed so soon — unless they have found it out accidental-like." <( <( ! 1 ' \ , 'M J ' ! i ; u iiU^ Mil: 2^4 A LiFE SENTENCE, ** The woman — Meldretli is her name ?— would not know what to do without consulting Mrs. Vane first, would she? " " No. But then we don't know where Mrs. Vane is— she may have been in the house all the time for aught wc know." ** I think not," said Cynthia decisively. " She would have come herself to look at you when Miss Meldfeth was examining your hair if she had been in the house." " Well, perhaps she would. You've got a head on your shoulders, Cynthia — that you have ! Miss Meldreth would have to get to Mrs. Vane and tell her this morning, as she said; then Mrs. Vane would let the poHce know. That gives us till about eleven or twelve o'clock." " Two hours' start. Is not that sufficient ? " Westwood shook his head. " The first thing they will do is to telegraph to all the ports." ** But you look so different now, father ! And I can make myself look quite different too." " You 1 Why, you don't suppose I am going to let you come with me ? " " Oh, yes, father dear, I cannot leave you now ! " ** It would be madness, Cynthia. You are well known, and you would be too easily recognised. Everybody turns to look at a handsome girl like you." " If you can disguise yourself, so can I." " We have not time for that. Besides, why do you want to leave England so soon and so suddenly ? " "Oh, I don't— I don't !" said Cynthia, suddenly trem- bling and clinging to him. " Only I can't bear the idea of your being without me now when you are in danger." " I can send for you, my lass, when I am safe. You will come then ? " " Yes, father." " You'll come straight, without waiting for any good byes or to tell any one where you are going ? " " Yes, father — unless " "Well? Unless what?" " Father, Mr. Lepel is very ill. They say that he has brain-fever. If he were dying, you would let me wait to say good-bye to him ? " She had put her hand through his arm, and was leaning against his shoulder. Her father looked at her sideways, with a rough pity mingled with admiration. A LIFE SENTENCE. Ai "Were you going to him no\v, Cynthia? " *• Yes, father." " I've interrupted you. It's hard on you to have a father like me although he is an innocent man.*' " I honor my father and I love him ? " was Cyn*hia's swift response. " My greatest grief is that he cannot be near me always." There was a silence ; the cab had quitted the smoother roads and entered on a course of rattling stones. It was difficult to speak so as to be heard ; but Westwood raised his voice. " Cynthia ! " " Yes, father." " It seems to me tnat you need watching over as much as ever you did when you was a little baby-girl. I don't see why you should be abandoned in your need any more than you're willing to abandon me. If I can be any sort of help to you, I won't iry to leave London at all. I can hide away somewhere no doubt as other folks have done. There are places at the East-end where no one would notice me. Shall I stay, Cynthia ? " " Dear father ! No, you will be no help to me — no comfort — if you are in danger ! " He put his arm round her and pressed her close to him ; but he did not speak again until they readied the station. The streets were noisy, and conversation was well- nigh impossible. When they got out, Cynthia paid the cabman and dismissed him. Her father walked forward, glancing round him suspiciously as he went. It was a quarter to eleven o'clock. Cynthia joined him in a dark corner of the great entrance-hall " I will take your ticket/' she said, '* where will you go?" Westwood hesitated for a moment. *' It's not safe, Cynthia. I will not go at all. I should only be arrested at the other end ; I am sure of it. I'll tell you what we will do. You may go and take a ticket for Liverpool and bring it to me — in full view of that policemafP there, who is eyeing us so suspiciously. Then you must say * good-bye ' and walk straight out of the station. I will mingle with the crowd on the platform ; but I will not go by train —I'll slip eastward and lose my- self in Whitechapel. I've made up my mind— I don't start for Liverpool to-day." H ■^ ¥ V Vi r J ? ili ^ .; I?i ii6 A LIFE SENTENCE, " Perhaps you are right," said Cynthia, in a faltering voice. " But how shall I know where you are ? " " Better for you not to know, my dear. I shall put them off the scent in this way, and you will have no idea of what has become of me. Now get my ticket and say good-bye — as affectionate and as public as you like. It will all tell in the long run ; that bobby has his eye on us. M Cynthia did as she was desired. Her father kissed her pale, agitated face several times, • and made his adieux rati'.er unnecessarily conspicuous. Then Cynthia left the station, and her father made his way to the platform, where he mingled with the crowd, and finally got away by another door, and turned his face towards the illimitable east of London. Cynthia did not take a cab again. It was a relief to her to walk, and she was in a neighborhood that she knew very well. She turned into Euston Square, then down Woburn Place, and through Tavistock Square to Russell Square. She could not stay away from Hubert any longer. She knew the house — it was the place to which she had come one autumn day when Mr. Lepel wanted to hear her sing. She had never been there since. The square looked strangely different to her ; the trees in the garden, in spite of their green livery, gave no beauty to the scene. It was as cheerless and as dark as it had been on the cold autumnal morning when she had gone to learn her fate from the critic's lips ; and yet the sun was shining now, and the sky overhead was blue. But Cynthia's heart was sadder than it had been in the days of her friendlessness and poverty. She rang the bell and asked for Mrs. Jenkins, who appeared almost at once and led the girl into Hubert's deserted sitting-room. " Oh, miss, I'm so glad you have come ! " she said. " For we can't get Mr. Lepel to be quiet at all, and we were just on the point of sending off for you, because he calls for you constant, and the doctor, he says, * could you get the lady that he tnlks about to come and sit beside him for a little time ? That might calm him,' he says ; * and if we calm him, we may save his life.' " " Oh, is he so ill as that ? " cried Cynthia. " He couldn't be much worse, miss, the doctor says. Can ] or tw( "I A TIFE SENTENCE, 28; Can you stay, miss, now you're here ? Just for an hour or two at any rate ! " ^ " I can stay as long as I can be of any use," said the girl desperately. "Nobody wants me — nobody will ask for me ; it is better for mc to be here." The words fell unheeded on Mrs. Jenkins' ears. All that she cared about was the welfare of her husband's employer. Both Jenkins and his wife adored Mr. Lcpel, and the thought that he might die in his illness had been agony to them — and not on their own account alone. They genuinely believed in Miss West's power of soothing and calming him, and Mrs. Jenkins could not do enough for the girl's comfort. ** You'll take off your things here, miss, will you not ? And then I'll take you to Mr. Lepel's own room. But wouldn't you like a glass of wine or a cup of tea or some- thing before you go in ? You look terrible tired and harassed like, miss ; and what you are going to see isn't exactly what will do you good. Poor Mr. Lepel he do look dreadful — and that's the long and the short o^ ^M " " I don't want anything, thank you, Mrs. Jenkins,' said Cynthia, faintly smiling ; " and I should like to go to Mr. Lepel at once." " Have you ever seen anything of sick people, miss, or done any nursing ? " " Never, Mrs. Jenkins." " Don't be too frightened then, miss, when you first see Mr. Lepel. People with fevers often look worse than they really are." Cynthia set her lips ; if she was frightened, she would not show it, she resolved. Then, after some slight delay, she was admitted to Hubert's room ; and there, in spite of her resolution, at first she stood aghast. It startled her to perceive that, although she knew his face so well, she might not have recognised it in an unac- customed place. It was discolored, and the eyes were bloodshot and wandering ; the hair had been partially cut away from his head, and the stubble of ai' unshaven beard showed itself on cheeks and chin. Any romance that might have existed in the mind of a girl of twenty concern- ing her lover's illness was struck dead at once and forever. He was ill — terribly ill and delirious; he looked at her » y \ I \ ? s f- <1J i ■;< Pi! IM a88 // LIFE SENTENCE, with a madman's eyes, and his face was utterly changed ; his voice too, as he raised it in the constant stream of in- coherent talk that escaped his lips, was hoarse and rasping and unnatural. Anything less interesting, less attractive to a weak soul than this delirious fever-stricken man could not well be imagined ; but Cynthia's soul was anything but weak. She was conscious that never in her life had she loved Hubert Lepel so intensely, so devotedly as she loved him now. Something of the maternal instinct awakened within her at the sight of his great need. He had no one to minister to his more subtle wants — no one to tend him out of pure love and sympathy. The man Jenkins, who sat beside the bed, ready to hold him down if in his delirium he should attempt to throw himself out of the window, was awkward and uncouth in a sick-room. Mrs. Jenkins, although ready and willing to help, was longing to steal away to her little children at home. The land- lady down-stairs had announced that she could not pos- sibly undertake to wait upon an invalid. All these facts became clear to Cynthia in a very little time. She saw, as soon as she entered the room, that the window-blind was awry and the curtains were wrongly hung, that the table and the chest of drawers were crowded with an untidy array of bottles, cups and glasses, and that the whole aspect of the place was desolate. This fact did not concern her at present however ; her attention was given wholly and at once to the sick man. She stood for a minute or two at the foot of the bed, realising with a pang the fact that he did not know her. His eyes rested upon her as he spoke ; but there was no recognition in them. She could not hear all he said ; but, between strings of incoherent words and unintelligible phrases, some sentences caught her ear. **She will not come," said the sick man — "she has given me up entirely ! Quite right too ! The world would say that she was perfectly right. And I am in the wrong — always — I have always been wrong ; and there is no way out of it. Some one said that to me once — no way out of it — no way out of it — no way out of it — oh. Heaven ! " The sentence ended with a moan of agony which made Cynthia writhe with pain. ** He's always saying that," Jenkins whispered to her — A LIFE SENTENCE, 289 " * No way out of it ! ' He keeps coming back to that as if — as if there was something on his mind." Cynthia raised her hand to silence him. The torrent of words broke out again. " It was not all my fault. It was Flossy's fault ; but one cannot betray a woman, one's sister — can one ? Even she would say that. But she has gone away, and she will never come back again. Cynthia — Cynthia ! I might call as long as I pleased — she would never come. Why don't you fetch her, some of you? So many people here, and nobody will bring Cynthia to me ! Cynthia, Cynthia, my love ! " " I am here, .dear — I am here, beside you," said Cynthia, But he did not seem to understand. She touched his hot hand with her own, and smoothed his fevered brow. The restless tongue went on. " She has given me up, and I shall never see her any more ! She ga.e me too hard a task ; I could not do it — not all at once. It is done now. Yes, I have done it, and it has divided us for ever. Why did you make me speak, Cynthia ? He was not miserable — he was happy. But I am to be miserable for ever and ever now. There is no way out of the misery — no way out of it — darkness and loneliness all my life, and worse afterwards. Cynthia, Cynthia, you are sending me to perdition 1 " He half rose from his bed, and made as if he would struggle with her. Jenkins came to the rescue ; but Cynthia would not move aside. " Lie down, dearest," she was saying — " lie down and rest. Cynthia is here — Cynthia is with you; she will never leave you any more unless you send her away. Lie down, my darling, and try to rest." He did not understand the words ; but the sweet rhythm of her voice caught his ear. He fell back upon the pillows, staring, helpless, subdued. She k^t her cool hand upon his brow. " Is that Cynthia ? " he said suddenly. " Yes, dearest, it is Cynthia." •' How kind of her to come ! " said Hubert, looking away from the girl as if Cynthia were on the other side of the room. " But she should not look so angrily at me. I have done what I could, you know. It is all right now, Cynthia, I have done what I could— I have saved f' P i! r. I ;. i 1 Hi 390 A LIFE SENTENCE, him — indeed I have ! Til take the punishment — no way out of it but that ! A life sentence — a life sentence for me I" The words died away upon his lips in a confused babble that they could not understand. He murmured inarticu- lately for a time, but there came long pauses between the words, his eyelids drooped a little, and he grew perceptibly less flushed. In about half an hour the doctor came into the room. He cast a swift look at Cynthia, and another at his patient ; then he nodded sagaciously. ** Better," he said curtly. *' I thought so. Some more ice, Jenkins. He has been quieter since you came, I con- clude, madam ? " Cynthia bowed her head. " You are the lady for whom he has been asking so often? I know your face — Miss Cynthia West, I believe? Can you stay ? " " Yes," said Cynthia, without hesitation. " If you keep him as quiet as that, you will save his life," said the doctor ; and then he beckoned Jenkins out of the sick-room, and gave him various stringent orders and recommendations — to all which Jenkins lent an attentive if a somewhat puzzled ear. The doctor looked in again before he went away. Mr. Lepel was lying back on his pillows, perfectly motionless and silent ; Miss West, kneeling beside the bed, still kept one hand on his, while with the other she put cooling applications to his head or merely laid her hand upon liis forehead. As long as she was touching him the patient seemed perfectly content. And again the doctor nodded ind this time he also smiled. So passed the hours of that long summer day. CHAPTER XL. 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 UFK SKNTEXCR. <^9l way e for i\ fresh outburst of ilcliriiim war. of all things fo 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 Fouqu6'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 1 " she said quietly. " He is not to be disturb- ed." "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. » L i A \ \ '• ' r f^gi A LIFE SENTENCE. 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 rooqj, 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 quali- fied 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 arrange- ments. We will go back to the hotel and inquire again in the morning." " Go back to the hotel, and leave that person in posses- sion ? " 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. A LIFE SENTEMCE, *95 and gray bled, He drew an to ind to Vane, quiet. I want young , quali- rn Mr. e to go rt, and seemed of the d. er into lyet for |e doing as we ral, ''I [rrange- ^gain in posses- " Are a thing lefore I simply Id have roouis 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 begin- ning 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, aiid 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 West- wood 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 owh absence of self-conscious- ness, 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 it M !l^ll ':».* i^ % m A UPE ^ENTEbrCE. exquisite colors and textures, her whole appearance in- describably 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 stra^nge 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 i but I cannot leave Mr. Lepel for long." " I have no wish to speak — necessity alone compeU 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 c^uiet 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 -;cry 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 Iiere is a scandal to all propriety." Cyndiia 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 v;ill go." ** Spare you 1 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 w'ant to know " — the insinua- tion conveyed by her tone and manner was felt by Cynthia to be in itself an insult ; '^ but this I am fully A LIFE SENTENCE, m in- are 1 a lely t in leed ere; ipela from fear, rse is id one ?" lottily. ^nthia, :om an 1 ai Id. "I by his len Mr. you 1 ^nection nsinua- felt by im fully convinced of, that my poor brother could not possibly have known that you were the daughtei 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 1 What busi- ness 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 ndagnificent dark eyes. '' My presence insults you less than the words Mrs. Vane has spoken insult me ! " she cried, tossing back her h ad with the proud stag-like gesture which Hubert had learned to know so we?'. " 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 — pu er, ifall 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 West- wood'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 '■emain ! " "I appeal to the doctor!" said Cynthia, suddenly turning as white as Florence herself had done. " If he supports me, you will yield to hi§ decision? If he says ■«\ 1-i :; l! S96 A LIFE SENTENCE, that I am not necessary here, I will go. I have no wish to inflict my presence on those to whom it is unwel- come." 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. " West- wood'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 hiad 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 detesta- tion. 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 yi the truth of all Flossy's malignant hints and inuendoes. 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 ? " /i LIFE SENTENCE, a^i " 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 Gould 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 *o avoid the sight of Cynthia, who meanwhile stood upon the hearthrug, head bent and hands folded, waiting gra\ely 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. " '^hat 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 j \ H\r- igi A LIFE SENTENCE, Liverpool — there you said good-bye. Why did you nbt 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. Vai^e 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 c^ agony. " I would rather face all the police and the magistrates of London than you I 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 j 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.'' -* — A LIFE SENTENCE, 299 " I do not think they can do that. No, I shall not hide myself." " It would be safer for yoiir 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 solemn- ly. She looked straight into the white, subtle face — straight into the velvet-brown languorous eyes, full now of a secrjet 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." " Youi- father will be hanged yet," said Flossy, turning away restlessly. It was her only answer to the girl's courageous words. CHAPTER XLI. I 1' . to A LITTLE bustle was heard outside the door ; and then the doctor came in. He was a middle-aged man, tall, spare, thoughtful-looking, a little abrupt in manner, but with a kindly face. He had not advanced two steps into the room before he stopped short, held up his hand, and said — " Hallo— what's that ? " It was the patient's voice again uplifted in snatches of delirious talk. " Cynthia ! " they distinctly heard him calling. " Where's Cynthia ? Tell Cynthia that she must come ! " " And why are you not there ? " said Doctor Middlemass, darting his finger in Cynthia's direction. " Why don't you go to him at once ? It's madness to let him cry out like that ! " Cynthia's look was piteous ; but for the moment she did not move. "Would it not be better for a qualified nurse to be obtained for my brother ? " said Mrs. Vane. " This young — lady" — a perceptible pause occurred before the word — " has had no experience in nursing ) and it is surely not necessary- »» ,3!' \ i ■u \ i \\ . 0. 300 A LIFE SENTENCE, * Oh, doctor," the girl burst out, " must I hot stay ? I cannot go away when he calls for me like that ! '' Her hands were strained on her bosom ; her eyes had the hungry look of a mother who hears her child cry aloud and cannot go to him. The doctor shot a look at her pale tortured face, and observed the cold composure of the finely-dressed lady in the arm-chair, and the subdued uneasiness of the old gentleman in the background. He began to suspect a tragedy — at any rate, a romance. " Go to him at once," he said to Cynthia, pointing to the bed-room door, " and keep him quiet at any cost. A trained nurse would not do him half the good that you can do him, if you choose. And now, madam," he continued rather sternly, as Cynthia disappeared with a joyful face into the other room, " may I ask what this interference with my orders may mean ? " " I am Mr. Lepel's sister," said Flossy coldly, " and it was I who sent for you. Doctor Middlemass. I think I have some right to take an interest in my brother's condi- tion." " Certainly, madam " — the doctor spoke with portentous grimness and formality — " but — excuse me — no right to tamper with any of my prescriptions. I prescribed Miss West to my patient ; and she was doing him all the good in the world when I went away. He has got another fever- fit upon him now, a little higher temperature, and we shall not be able to do anything more for him at all. If you do not wish my orders to be followed, madam, have the good- ness to send for another doctor and I will throw up the case." "You misunderstand, sir — ^you misunderstand ! " said the General fussily, coming forward with his most impos- ing air. " My wife and I, sir, have not the slightest desire to interfere. We only wish to know what your prescrip- tions are. That young woman, sir, has no right to be here at all." " From what I have been told," said the doctor drily, " I should have said that she had the greatest possible right to be here ; but, however, that is no business of mine. She has a wonderfully soothing effect on Mr. Lepel's condition, and, as long as she is here, he is quiet and manageable. Listen ! He is scarcely speaking at all now ; her presence and her touch have calmed him at once. It would be positive madness to take her away ! " (< A LIFE SENTENCE. 30X "Would It not be well," said Mrs. Vane quietly, " to send a trained nurse here too ? There is a woman whom I know ; she would be very glad to come, and she would relieve that young lady of the more painful atid onerous portions of her task. I mean, dear," she said, looking towards her husband. J* old Mrs. Meldreth's daughter— Sabina. She is an efficient nurse, and she has nothing to do just now." o " Has she had experience in cases of brain-disease ? " said Doctor Middlemass snappishly. "I really do not know." She knew perfectly well that Sabina's ' lowledge of nursing was of the most perfunctory kind. **She has had experience of all kinds of illness, I believe, and she is thoroughly trustworthy. She could be installed here as an attendant on Miss — Miss West." Attendant 1 '* As spy " she meant, on all poor Cynthia's movements. " I should like to see the woman first," said the doctor bluntly. He was not easy to manage, as Flossy swiftly perceived. " If she is competent for the task, I have no objection — Miss West must not be allowed to overdo her- self; but I myself should prefer to send a person who is accustomed to deal with illnesses of this kind." " As you please, of course," said Flossy. She saw that it would be of no use to press Sabina Meldreth upon him, much as she would have liked to secure the services of a spy and an informer in the house. As she paused, the General came forward. ** I should like to know, sir," he said, bristling with indignation, " what you mean by saying that that young lady — that girl — has a right to be here ? I do not under- stand such language ? " " Why, of course she has a right to be here," said the doctor, staring at him in a purposely matter-of-fact way, " since she is the lady that he is engaged to marry." ** Marry ! Bless my soul — no such thing ! " roared the General, utterly forgetting that there was an invalid in the adjoining room. " Why, he's going to marry my -" " Dear Richard, hush, hush ! " said his wife, laying her hand entreatingly upon his arm. " Don't make such a noise — think of poor Hubert ! " " Kindly moderate your voice, sir," was the doctor's dry remark. " My patient will hear you if you don't take care." \ i i !! J 1: I ^1 ^ 1^ I i. I iv 303 A LIFE SENTENCE, " It does not matter to me whether he hears me or not," the General began ; but Flossy's hand tightened its grasp upon his arm in a way which he knew that he must obey. The General was a docile husband, and his protest died away in inarticulate angry murmurs. " Don't trouble about it, General — I will arrange every- thing," said his wife caressingly. " Go over to the window again and leave me to speak to Doctor Middlemass for a moment ; " and, as the General retired, still growling, she half smiled, and raised her eyes to the doctor's face as if she invited sympathy. But Doctor Middlemass looked as unresponsive as a block of wood. " I must go to my patient," he said, " It was to see him, I presume, that I was summoned ? " " Not entirely," said Flossy very sweetly. ** We wanted to know whether it was absolutely necessary that Miss West should stay with my brother." " Absolutely necessary, madam ! " *' Then of course we should not think of objecting to her presence, which, I must tell you, is painful to us, because " " Excuse me, madam," said the doctor, who was certainly a very uncivil person, " if I say that these family-matters are of no interest to me, save as they affect my patient." " But they do affect your patient, doctor. I think it was the worry of the affair that brought on this illness. We have found out that this Miss West's name is really * Westwood,' and that she is the daughter of the dreadful man who shot my husband's brother at Beechiield some years ago. Perhaps you remember the case ? " " Oh, yes — I remember it ! " said the doctor shortly. " That's the daughter ? Poor girl ! " ** It is naturally unpleasant to think that my brother — a cousin also of the General's — should be contemplating a marriage with her," said Mrs. Vane. " Ah, well — perhaps so ! We are all under the dominion of personal and selfish prejudice," said Doctor Middle- mass. " I hoped that this illness might break the tie between them," sighed Flossy pensively. "So it may, madam — by killing him. Do you wish to break it in that way ? " . (( A LIFE SENTENCE, ^% *' This doctor is a perfect brute ! " thought Mrs. Vane to herself ; but she only looked in a reproachful manner at the " brute," and ai)plit'd her handkerchief delicately to lier eyes. " I trust that there is no likelihood that it may end in that way. My poor dear Hubert," she sighed, " if only you had been warned in time ! " Perhaps this display of emotion softened Doctor Middle- mass' heart, or perhaps he was not so insensible to Mrs. Vane's charms as he tried to appear ; at any rate, when he spoke again it was in a qualified tone. " I trust that he will get over this attack. He is cer- tainly a little better than I expected to find him ; but I Sannot impress your mind too strongly with the necessity for care and watchfulness. Anything that tends to tran- quilise the mind of a person in his condition must be procured for him at almost any risk. When the delirium has passed, an ordinary nurse may be of greater use than Miss West ; but at present we really cannot do without her. You heard for yourself how he called her when she went out of the room ? " " Yes, I heard. Then shall I send the woman of whom J spoke, doctor? She might be a help to Miss West, whose work I of course would rather assist than retard in any way." ** You can thoroughly rely upon her ? " said the doctor dubiously. " Thoroughly. She is a most valuable person." " She might come for a day or two, and we shall see whether she is of any use or not. Will you send for her ? " Yes, Mrs. Vane would send. And then the doctor went to look once more at Hubert, of whose condition he again seemed somewhat doubtful ; and afterwards he took his leaVe. When he had gone, Mrs. Vane also departed, taking her docile husband back with her to the Grosvenor Hotel. She had gained her point and was secretly triumph- ant ; for she had secured the presence of a spy upon Cyn- thia, and could depend upon Sabina Meldreth to give a full account of Miss West's habits and visitors. Flossy had great faith in her system of espionage. She sent Parker at once with a note summoning Sabina to the hotel, and there she laid her plans. Sabina was to go that very night to Mr. Lepel's rooms, and was to make herself as useful as she could. It was presumed that Cyn- 1 s I' I JA4 A LIFE SENTENCE. thia had not seen with sufficient clearness for the encounter to be a source of danger the woman in black who had followed Westwood to Kensington Gardens. Sabina was told to keep herself in the background as much as possible — to be silent and serviceable, but, above all, to be ob- servant; for it was likely that Westwood would try to communicate with his daughter, and, if he did so, Sabina would perhaps be able to track him down. ^ Flossy had completely lost all fear for herself in the excitement of her discoveries. It seemed to her that she and her secret were entirely safe. Nr body, she thought, had ever known of her understanding with Sydney Vane in days gone by ; nobody had any clue to the secret of his death ; so long as Hubert was silent, she had nothing at all to fear j and Hubert had succumbed to her for so long that she did not dread him now. Nothing seemed to her more unlikely than that after so many years he should deliberately divest himself of name and fame, clear West- wood's reputation at the cost of his own, and sacrifice his freedom for the sake of a scruple of conscience. Flossy did not believe him foolish enough or self-denying enough *o do all that — and in her estimate of her brother's char- acter perhaps, after all, Flossy was very nearly right. Sabina Meldreth presented herself to Cynthia and Mrs. Jenkins that evening, and was not very graciously received. However, she proved herself both capable and willing, and was speedily acknowledged — by Mrs. Jenkins, at least — to be "a great help in the house." Cynthia said nothing; she hardly seemed to know that a stranger was present. Her whole soul was absorbed in the task of nursing Hu- bert. When he slept, she did not leave the house ; she lay on a sofa in another room. She could not bear to be far away from Hubert ; and more and more, as the days went on and the delirium was not subdued, did she shrink from the knowledge that any other ears beside her own should hear the ravings of the patient — should marvel at the extraordinary things he said, and wonder whether or no there was any truth in them. " He talked in this way because he has brooded over my poor father's fate 1 " Cynthia said to herself, with piteous insistence. " He must have been so much distressed at finding that I was the daughter of Andrew Westwood that his mind dwelt on all the details of the trial ; and now he A LU'E SENTENCE, M fancies almost that he did the deed himself. I have read of such strange delusions in books. When he is better, no doubt the delusion will die away. It shows how power- fully his mind was affected by what I told him— the constant cry that he sees no way out of it shows how he must have brooded over the matter. No way out of it indeed, my darling, until the person who murdered Mr. Vane is discovered and brought to justice ! And I almost believe that my father is right, and that the murderer, directly or indirectly, was Mrs. Vane." To Cynthia, Hubert's ravings were the more painful, because they bore almost entirely upon what had been the great grief— the tragedy— of her life. He spoke much of Sydney Vane, of Florence, and of Cynthia herself, but in such strange connection that at times she hardly knevir what was his meaning, or whether he had any definite meaning. Presently, however, it appeared to her as if one or two ideas ran through the whole warp and woof C"f his imaginings. One was the conviction that in some way or another he must take Westwood's place — give himself up to justice and set Westwood free. Another was the belief that it was utterly impossible for Cynthia ever to forgive him for what he had done, and that the person chiefly responsible for all the misery and shame and dis- grace, which had fallen so unequally on the heads of those concerned in " the Beechfield tragedy," was no other than Florence Vane. Farther than these vague statements he did not go. He never said in so many words that he was guilty of Sydney Vane's death, and that he, and not Westwood, ought to have borne the punishment. Yet he said enough to give Cynthia cause for great unhappiness. She tried not to believe that there was any foundation of truth for his words ; but she could not succeed. The ideas were too persistent, too logical, to be altogether the fruit of imagin- ation. More and more she clung to the belief that Flossy was responsible for Mr. Vane's sudden death, that Hubert knew it, and that for his sister's sake he had concealed the truth. If this were so, it would be terrible indeed ; and yet Cyn thia had a soft corner in her heart for the man who had sacrificed his own honor to conceal his sister's sin. Cynthia did not go back to Madame della Scala's house. Flossy had done her work with the singing*mistress as she \ ' i; ■! i ^v liiiif-' I- ^