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 knew 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 of 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 disgrace, 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 imagination. 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 Cynthia 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 had done it elsewhere. She blackened Cynthia's name wherever she went. So, two days after the girl's departure from Norton Square, her boxes and all her belongings were sent to her from her former home without a word of apology or explanation. She felt that she was simply turned out of Madame's house--that she could never hope to go back to it again. She was now absolutely homeless; and she was also without employment; for she had withdrawn from several engagements to sing at concerts, and at more than one private house she had received an intimation that her services could be dispensed with. No reason in these cases was given; but it was plain that the world did not think Miss West a very reputable person, and that society had turned its back upon her. Cynthia had not leisure to think what this would mean for her in the future; at present she cared for nothing but her duties in Hubert Lepel's sick-room.

Her boxes were deposited at last in Mrs. Jenkins' little house at the back; and there a small room was appropriated to Cynthia's use. She was "supposed to be lodging at Mrs. Jenkins'," as Sabina told her mistress; but she practically lived in Hubert's rooms. Still it was a comfort to her to think that she had that little room to retire to when Hubert should recover consciousness; and till then she did not care where or how she lived.

Sabina found little to report to Mrs. Vane, who had now returned to Beechfield. Cynthia went nowhere, and received neither visitors nor letters. She had been interviewed by the police-officials; but they had not been able to get any information from her. As for Andrew Westwood, he seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth; and some of the authorities at Scotland Yard went so far as to say that the report made to them of his discovery must have been either an illusion of the fancy or pure invention on the part of Sabina Meldreth and Mrs. Vane.

CHAPTER XLII.

Enid's conscience was not at rest. During her interviews with Mr.

Evandale she was inclined to think that he knew everything, understood everything--even the difference between right and wrong--better than she herself knew and understood it; but when he was away her heart failed her. What if Hubert cared for her all the time? Would she not then be doing him a grievous wrong by forgetting that she had promised to marry him when she was twenty-one? The General's opposition to her engagement would probably vanish like a dream when she was a little older, if she and Hubert showed any inclination to each other. There was no real reason why they should not marry; and Hubert knew that. And what would he say when he heard that she had weakly fallen in love with another man, and wanted to break her word to himself?

Enid shrank back and blushed with shame at the prospect before her. It was all very well for Maurice to say that she must not sacrifice herself; but was it not a woman's duty to sacrifice herself for the good of others? She said so to Maurice; and his answer was very ready.

"For the good of others? But do you think it is for Hubert's good to marry a woman who does not love him, and especially if it is a woman whom he does not love?"

"Ah, if I could only be sure of that!" sighed Enid.

She was not long left in doubt. The General could not keep a secret; and, as soon as he and his wife returned to Beechfield, Enid felt that something was wrong--something which concerned herself. Flossy was very quiet; she eyed Enid strangely once or twice, but she did not tell her about the events of the past week. It was the General who sighed over her, petted her, kissed her at unusual times, and looked at her with an air of pity that the girl found almost intolerable. After three or four days of it, she broke through her usual rule of reserve, and asked Flossy what the General meant.

"You had better ask him," said Mrs. Vane, arching her delicate brows.

"I have asked him, and he will not tell me."

"I suppose it is simply that Hubert is ill. He thinks probably that you are distracted by anxiety about him."

Enid colored guiltily.

"But we have good accounts of him," she said, as if explaining away her own apparent indifference; "he is going on as well as we can expect. And I suppose you would be with him if he were dangerously ill?"

"I am not sure of that," said Flossy rather drily; but she would say no more.

It was after breakfast one morning that Enid insisted upon being satisfied. She and the General had, as usual, breakfasted together, and a letter had just been received from the Doctor in attendance on Hubert, over which the General coughed, fidgeted, sighed, and was evidently so much disturbed that Enid's attention was roused to the uttermost. For the earlier part of the meal she had been sitting with her hands clasped before her, not attempting to touch the food upon her plate. She had no appetite; she had passed a bad night, and was little inclined to talk.

But the General's movements and gestures excited her curiosity.

"Have you had bad news, uncle Richard?"

"No, no, my dear! He's going on very well--very well indeed."

"You mean Hubert?"

"Yes--yes, of course! Whom else should I mean? You needn't be alarmed about him at all; he'll soon be about again."

There was a tone of mingled vexation and perplexity in the General's voice.

"Is he conscious now?" Enid asked eagerly.

"Well, no--not exactly--light-headed a little, I suppose. At least----"

"Who has written, uncle Richard? Can I see the letter?"

"No, no, no! Not for you to read, my dear! It's from the doctor--nothing much--nothing for you to see."

Enid was silent for a few minutes; then she spoke with sudden determination.

"Uncle Richard, you are treating me like a child! There is something that you are hiding from me which I ought to know--I am sure of it! Will you not tell me what it is?"

"You are quite mistaken, my dear! There is nothing to tell--nothing, that is, in the least particular--nothing that you need trouble about at all."

"There is something! Oh, uncle Richard"--and she rose from her seat and knelt down beside him, putting one arm around his neck and fixing her wistful blue eyes upon his weather-beaten countenance--"you do not know how much anxiety you cause me by being silent, when I am sure that there is something in your mind which concerns me, and which I am not to know!

Even if it is a great misfortune--a great sorrow--I would rather know it than imagine all sorts of dreadful things, as I do now. Whatever it is, please tell me. It is cruel to keep me in ignorance!"

The General looked puzzled and troubled.

"You had better ask Flossy, dear," he said, pulling the ends of his long white moustache, and looking away from the pleading face before him. "If there's anything to tell, she could tell it better than I."

"I don't think so, uncle dear," said Enid softly. Her eyes filled with tears. "I would rather hear evil tidings from your lips than from those of any other person, because--because I know you love me and would not grieve me willingly. Is Hubert worse than I know? Is he--is he dead?"

"Bless my soul, no!" cried the General. "Why, what put that idea into your mind, child? No, no--he is going on as well as possible--upon my word, he is!"

"What is it then, dear uncle Richard?"

"It's his nurse," said the General desperately.

"His nurse?" Enid's eyes grew large with amazement.

"She isn't a proper, respectable, trained nurse at all. She is just an amateur--a young woman who has no business to be there at all--not much older than yourself, Enid, my dear. That is the reason that Flossy would not stay. We found this young person nursing him, and so we came away.

Flossy was very much shocked--very much annoyed about it, I can tell you. I wrote to ask if she was still there, and the doctor says she is."

Enid's white cheeks had turned crimson, but more with surprise than with anger. The General crossed one leg over the other, and carefully averted his eyes as he went on--

"I don't mean to say anything against her. Flossy says--but you and I have nothing to do with that--she's not a very nice girl; that is all.

These professional singers and actresses seldom are. You don't know anything about such people, my little girl, and it is all the better for you. But Hubert should not have friends among people of that kind. I am very much disappointed in Hubert--very much disappointed indeed!"

"This girl is a friend of Hubert's then?"

"I suppose so. Well--yes, of course."

"Who is she? What is her name?"

"She is a singer, my dear," said the General, putting his arm affectionately round the girl's shoulders, "and she is an uncommonly pretty girl--I don't deny that. Oh, of course there is nothing for you to be anxious about! Hubert befriended her, I believe; and she was grateful, and wanted to repay him--and--and all that, you know." The General was rather proud of having given this turn to the story.

"But I think that was very kind and good of her," said Enid, with kindling eyes. "Why are you so distressed about it, uncle Richard? I should like to have done the same for poor Hubert too. What is the girl's name?"