"I suppose I must," said Enid, in a scarcely audible tone. Then she turned away her face and said, "You can go now, Parker; 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 of 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 disgust crossed her face; but, as she hesitated, the bell rang again, more imperiously than ever. Parker dashed the tears 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 still in her dressing-gown--white, edged everywhere with costly lace--and her fair hair was hanging loose over her shoulders.

"Ill? 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 ransacking it diligently. From the momentary silence in the room she felt as if her shaft had gone home; but she dared 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 imagining that they must necessarily be true!"

"No, ma'am," said Parker submissively.

Evidently there was nothing more for her to say. Well, 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 enthusiasm. "I don't know as there's anything that she wants at present."

"Take the purse," said Flossy impatiently; "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 her tongue.

But after that interview she noticed that Enid seemed to recover tone and strength, that for a few 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 one 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 fortune, 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 question, who pulled off his hat to her politely, and asked her whether she could tell him if Mr. Lepel was likely to visit Beechfield 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."

"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 Beechfield Hall, or as good as engaged, I know; and they're to be married when she's out of her teens, because the General, 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!" 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!"

CHAPTER XXXI.

Hubert was sadly puzzled by Cynthia's manner to him at this time. She seemed to have lost her bright spirits; she was 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 very ceremonious 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 himself 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 engaged--to marry Enid Vane.

He came one evening in May, and found her on the point of starting for a _soiree_ where she was to sing. She was _en grande tenue_ for 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 in a jeweller's window. But for the rest of her dress she was in no wise indebted to him; she had been making 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 out 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, in the meantime, it is not yet nine o'clock, Cynthia; so, in spite of your impatience, you cannot start quite 'immediately.' What is there so attractive at the Gores' this evening that you wish to set off so early?"