"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 movement of her shoulders showed him that she was but vainly endeavoring to suppress a burst of agonising sobs.

"Cynthia," he said, "believe in my love, darling! If you believe in nothing else, you may be 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 let him go. When she grew calmer, he began to whisper tender words into her ear.

"Cynthia, I will give up all the world for your dear sake! Let us go away from England together, and live only for each other, darling! We could be happy somewhere, 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 this way, Cynthia? Be my wife, and let us forget all the world beside."

She shook her head. She had wept so violently that at first she could not speak.

"Why do you shake your head? You do not doubt my love? My darling, I count the world well lost for you. Do not distrust me again! Do you think I mind what the world says, or what my relatives say? You are Cynthia and my love to me, and whose daughter you are matters 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 for me."

"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 one 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 beautiful 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, Cynthia?"

"No," she said--"not unless my father is shown to be innocent to the world and the stain removed from his name--not unless we are sure--sure that Enid 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 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 whisper 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 uncommunicative "single gentleman" whom Mrs. Gunn, his landlady, 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 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 seen 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 dressed 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 afterwards, aunt Eliza; 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!" cried Mrs. Gunn, raising her hands in amazement.

"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?' 'Oh,' 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?"