"I wouldn't come back--not if she paid me double!" cried Parker, honest tears starting to her beady eyes. "I don't care what she does; but I'll never work for her again--not after what I have heard and seen!"

"You must not speak either to me or any one else about what you have heard or seen," said Enid gravely, "particularly in the house to which we are going. Will you remember that?"

"Oh, yes, miss--I'll not say a single word! And you have settled where to go, miss, if I may make so bold as to ask?"

"I am going to my aunt--Miss Vane," said Enid briefly; and Parker retired, not daring to ask any more questions, being a little overawed by the growth of some new quality in the girl's nature--some novel development of strength and character which imposed silence on her companion in this self-enforced exile.

The dawn was breaking when Enid began to make her preparations for departure. The faint yellow light of day stole into the room when she drew back the window-curtains and stood looking--perhaps for the last time, she thought--upon the flower-gardens and the lawn, upon the sheet of water in the distance, the beech woods, and the distant hills--spots that she had known from childhood, and which were dearer to her than any new scenes could ever be. And yet she did not falter in her purpose.

Even to herself she did not seem the same gentle submissive maiden that she had hitherto been considered. Some new strength had passed into her veins; she was eager to act as became the woman who was one day to be the wife of Maurice Evandale.

She had one task to perform that was very hard to her. She could not go without writing a farewell letter to the General, who had always been so kind and good to her. She made it as short and simple as possible, and she explained nothing. Without consulting Mr. Evandale, and perhaps her aunt Leo, of whom she was genuinely fond, she felt that she was not free to speak.

"Dearest uncle Richard," she wrote--"I think it best to go to London to-day and see aunt Leo. I am taking Parker with me. Forgive me if I say that I do not think I can ever come back again. I hope you will not look on me as ungrateful for all your kindness to me.

I will write again, and shall hope to see you in London. Your loving niece, ENID."

She placed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and left it in a conspicuous position on the dressing-table. Then she put on her hat and cloak, and asked Parker whether she was ready to leave the house. The clock had struck five, and they had some distance to walk before they could reach a railway-station. Parker prevailed upon her to eat and drink before they started; but the girl's appetite was small, and she left her biscuits almost untouched upon the plate.

As the two stole silently down the corridor, Enid noticed that the door of Dick's night-nursery was half open. She hesitated, then with a mute sign to Parker to go on, she entered the room and made her way to the child's bedside. Parker lingered long enough to see her kneel down beside it, and lay her face for a few moments on the pillow beside the sleeping boy. She kissed him very gently; and when, with a sleepy movement, he turned and put his arm round her, as if to hold her there, the tears began to fall down her pale cheeks. But she dared not stay too long. She rose presently, put his hand back under the coverlet, and kissed him once again.

"Dear little Dick," she murmured sorrowfully, "will you some day think that I did not love you, when you know what I have done, and what I shall have to do?"

When Enid rejoined Parker she was pale, but calm; the tears lingered on her eyelashes, but had been carefully wiped away from her cheeks. They left the house in silence by a side-door which could be easily unbolted; and for some time Parker did not venture to open her lips. Her young mistress looked like a different being with that grave determination on her face, that steady serious light in her sad but serene blue eyes.

Just when they reached the point from which the Hall could last be seen, Enid turned and looked at it for a moment. It was her last farewell; and the yearning tenderness that stole into her face as she gazed and gazed again brought the tears to Parker's eyes. The maid had taken a strong liking to Miss Enid Vane, and was ready to devote her whole strength to her service. At the same time, the thought of the revenge that Mrs. Vane might wreak upon her for this desertion was misery to Parker; for what should she do if her mother learned that she had once been dismissed from a situation in disgrace, or if she could not earn enough to keep her mother in the comfort to which she had grown accustomed? She was quite ready and willing to leave Mrs. Vane; but she was afraid when she considered the future; and, as she walked along the road beside her young mistress, the tears now and then brimmed over, and had to be surreptitiously wiped away.

"If you are regretting what you have done, Parker," said Enid at length, "you are quite at liberty, you know, to go back to Beechfield Hall."

"Oh, no, miss--I wouldn't go back for anything! There's some things that even a servant can't bear to see going on. It's only my poor mother, miss, that I'm thinking about."

"Why?" said Enid gently--at that moment it was easy to her to sympathise with sorrow. "Is it your wages that you are thinking of? I am sure that you will not be a loser by coming with me."

"It's not the money, miss, thank you--it's--it's my character," said Parker, with a sudden gush of tears--"it's what my mother may hear of me that I care about! I wouldn't deceive you, miss, for the world! I'll tell you about it, if you'll kindly hear."

And then, as the two women walked along the lonely country road in the shining freshness of the early summer morning, Parker made her confession. She told the story of her disgrace and summary dismissal, of Mrs. Vane's apparent kindness to her, and of the way in which she had been used as a tool in the furtherance of Mrs. Vane's designs. Enid turned a shade paler as she heard of how she had been tracked, watched, spied upon; but there was no anger in her voice as she replied.

"I think we ought both to be thankful, Parker, to get away just now from Beechfield Hall. It will be better for us if we never see Mrs. Vane again. I do not think that she will hurt you however, or tell your story to your mother. She will have other things to think about just now."

Parker wondered vaguely what those other things were; but she did not say a word. For a minute or two Enid also was silent, and thought of Flossy. What was she doing? Of what was she thinking now?

As a matter of fact, Flossy was at that moment just awakening to a sick shuddering consciousness of what had happened. She had gone to her room and fallen to the floor in a death-like swoon. When she was able to move, she crept to the bell and rang again and again for Parker. But Parker of course did not come; and little by little Mrs. Vane became aware that she was deserted, that Enid and her maid had left the house, and that, for all she knew, instant ruin and disgrace hung like an inevitable fate above her head.

When Enid spoke, it was in kindly tones.

"You must forget the past and start afresh, Parker. We all have to do that, you know, Mr. Evandale says. We will make a new beginning."

"I have often thought, miss, that I should like to tell Mr. Evandale all about it, and hear what he would say."

"You shall do so, Parker. We shall see Mr. Evandale in London very likely." Enid paused a little, and then said, in her even, serious voice, "I will tell you what I have told to no one else, Parker, because you have trusted me--I am going to marry Mr. Evandale."

"Are you, miss? I'm sure I'm very glad to hear it! We all thought, miss, that it was Mr. Lepel."

"No; I shall never marry Mr. Lepel."

"Is it a secret, miss?" said Parker.

"Until Mr. Evandale comes back from Yorkshire--that is all. After that we will have no more concealments of any kind. I think," said Enid softly but seriously--"I think that perfect truth is the most beautiful thing in the whole world."

CHAPTER XLIV.

Miss Vane's welcome of her niece was dashed by amazement.

"Why, good gracious, child," she said, "what have you come at this hour of the day for? I'm delighted to see you; but I never heard of such a thing! Arriving at nine o'clock in the morning from Beechfield, especially after all the accounts I have heard of your health! You look fit to faint as it is!"

"I am tired," said Enid, with a little smile.

She sat down in Miss Vane's pretty dining-room, where her aunt was seated at breakfast, and began to take off her gloves. Parker had retired into the lower regions of the house, and the two ladies were alone.

"I won't hear anything until you have had some coffee," said Miss Vane, in her quick decisive way. "Get a little color into those pale cheeks, my dear, before you begin to talk! There--drink your coffee! Not a bad plan, after all, to start before the heat of the day comes on, only it is a wonderfully energetic proceeding! Have you come to shop, or are you anxious about Hubert? I went to his rooms the other day and saw him. He is weak; but he is quite sensible now, you know."

"Who was there?" said Enid, setting down her cup with a new color in her cheeks.

Miss Vane looked at her sharply.

"Oh, the nurse of course--a Beechfield woman, I believe, recommended by Florence! I saw no one else, not even the Jenkinses, who, I hear, have been most devoted to him in his illness."

Enid dropped her eyes. She did not care just then to ask any questions about Cynthia West. If Miss Vane knew the story, she evidently considered it unfit for Enid's ears.

"And now, my dear, what brings you to town," said aunt Leo briskly, when the meal was ended, and Enid had been installed on a comfortable sofa, where she was ordered to "lie still and rest;" "and how did you induce Richard and Flossy to let you come?"

"I ought perhaps to have told you as soon as I came in, aunt Leo," said Enid, sitting up, "that nobody knew--that, in fact, I have run away from Beechfield, and that I never, never can go back!"

"Oh," said Miss Vane, "that's rather sudden, is it not? But I suppose you have a reason?"

"Yes, aunt Leo, but one which--at present--I cannot tell."

"Cannot tell, Enid, my dear?"

"Not just yet--not until I have consulted some one else."

"Oh, Hubert, I suppose?"

"No," said Enid, blushing and holding down her head--"not Hubert."

Miss Vane put up her gold-rimmed eye-glasses, and inspected her for a minute or two.