"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 London 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."

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, unwomanly, 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 excitement fading out of her face, and the perfect mouth beginning to quiver as she spoke. "It was only a fancy of mine that, as you had seemed to understand 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 can 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!"

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 the parish gave them enough to do. But under the new Rector's rule a new 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 Beechfield in the days before Sydney Vane's death, he would never have let poor Andrew Westwood 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 up 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--not altogether a favorable sensation either; for the villagers, who had gone on so long in quiet, comfortable, self-complacent ways, did not regard with a favorable 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, of saying what he meant and expecting other people to do the same, that he inspired something like fear in the shiftier and less trustworthy part of the community. On the other hand, the 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 repentance, an act that showed a yearning after better things, 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 way which was unprecedented indeed 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 have heard him praised on all sides for his distinguished 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 husband.

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 would have disconcerted some men, but which did not disconcert the unsuspicious old General. He was delighted 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 afternoon. 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 Whitminster, 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.

Evandale--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 eating, sleeping, driving, and dressing, was able to mould the 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 was 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 too 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 because 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--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, on 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 into the habit of preaching to that fair young face. But, strangely enough, he did not preach as men usually preach to the young and innocent--his words were often of consolation 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 Enid Vane. It was as if he were trying to strengthen her for some dread conflict, 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, however, took place on a certain afternoon in November, a few weeks after Hubert Lepel's visit to Beechwood.

Mr. Evandale had on that day received information that one of his parishioners--a Mrs. Meldreth--was seriously ill and would like to see him. The informant added that she brought the Rector word of this, because Mrs. Meldreth's daughter Sabina was now at home, and seemed anxious to keep the clergyman away. The Rector's fighting 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 occasionally 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 dishonored her Creator.

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 his nature to love the administration of rebuke, although he held it to be one of his essential duties, when occasion required.

Mrs. Meldreth was a respectable elderly woman, who kept a small shop for cheap groceries and haberdashery in the village. She did not do much business, but she lived in apparent comfort--probably, the neighbors said, because she was helped 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 neighbors, but to Mrs. Meldreth she certainly showed peculiar favor. Many a gift of food and wine went from the Hall across Mrs. Meldreth'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 Beechfield Hall herself. But those who commented wonderingly on that fact were reminded that Mrs. Meldreth added to her occupations that of sick-nurse, and that she had been in attendance on Mrs. Vane at the time of the young Squire'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 off 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 the stupidest in the whole of the village school.

"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,'

remember! 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. "I'll go up."

He passed through the shop and ascended the stairs, with every step of which 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! He's only the parson, after all."