"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 not?"

"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 you 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 to 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 reason," said Miss Vane, with a series of mysterious nods. "I have sharp eyes, Hubert, and can see as far as most people. I repeat it--Florence wants to marry the General."

"She will not do that."

"I am not sure--if she is left here when I am gone. I must go back to London at some 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 unprincipled 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 are a good fellow, Hubert! You have always been a good brother to Florence, 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."

"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 stopped short, and pointed to them with her parasol.

"Hubert," she cried, in a voice that was hoarse with dismay, "do you see that?"

"I see Enid," said Hubert rather wonderingly. "I suppose she ought not 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 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 Westwood, whom Hubert had seen for a few minutes only at her father's trial three weeks before.

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, of a tender violet-gray, were even now remarkable, and her hair was of rippling gold.

Her sombre black dress and the sunshine that poured down upon the spot where she was standing contributed to the dazzling 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 Beechfield 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 puzzled.

"Oh, aunt Leo," she said, "this little girl has nowhere to go to--no home--no anything!"

"Let her hand go, Enid!" said aunt Leo, with some severity. "You have no business to be out here in the road, talking to children whom you know nothing about."

Enid 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!"