Nobody knew anything about them; and the police retired in an exceedingly bad humor, pouring anathemas upon Sabina's head. But Sabina did not care; she had received news which had stupefied her for a time and hindered her in the execution of her designs--little Dick Vane was dead.

The child had never rallied from the accident which had befallen him.

For several days and nights he had lain in a state of coma; and then, still unconscious, he had passed away. His watchers scarcely knew at what moment he ceased to breathe; even the General, who had seldom left his side, could not tell exactly when the child died. So peacefully the little life came to a close that it seemed only that his sleep was preternaturally long. And with him a long course of perplexity and deceit seemed likely also to have its end.

Mrs. Vane had disappointed and displeased the General during the boy's illness; she had steadily refused to nurse him--even to see him, towards the end. The General was an easy and indulgent husband, but he noticed that his wife seemed to have no love for the child who was all in all to him. The worst came when Flossy refused to look at the boy's dead face when he was gone. The General reproached her for her hardness of heart, and declared bitterly that the child had never known a mother's love.

And Flossy did not easily forgive the imputation, although she professed to accept it meekly, and to excuse herself by saying that her nerves were too delicate to bear the shock of seeing a dead child.

Troubles seemed to heap themselves upon the General's head. His boy had gone; Enid, whom he tenderly loved, had left his house; Hubert, to whom also he was much attached, lay ill again, and was scarcely expected to recover. By the time the funeral was over, the General had worked himself up to such a state of nervous anxiety, that it was felt by his friends that some immediate change must be made in his manner of life.

And here a suggestion of Flossy's became unexpectedly useful--she proposed that the General should go to his sister's for a time, and that she should stay at Hubert's lodging.

It was not that she cared very much for her brother, or that she was likely to prove a good nurse, but that she was afraid, from what Sabina said, that Hubert might be doing something rash--making confession perhaps, or taking Cynthia West into his confidence. If she were on the spot, she felt that she could hinder any such rash proceeding with Sabina's help.

But Sabina was not to the fore. When she heard that Mrs. Vane was coming to town, she threw up her engagement and went back to her aunt's at Camden Town. A trained nurse took her place, and Mrs. Vane lodged in the house.

Contrary to the doctor's expectations, Hubert survived the crisis of his fever, and passed at last into the convalescent stage; though very weak, he was pronounced to be out of danger, and he began to grow stronger every day. But, as every one who had known him in happier days had reason to remark, he bore himself like an utterly broken-hearted, broken-spirited man. It seemed as if he would never hold up his head again--all hope went from him when Cynthia left his side.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

Cynthia had, as Sabina suspected, gone straight to her father when she left Russell Square. Some time before he had let her know that he was still in England, and had sent her his address, warning her however not to visit him unless she was obliged to do so. On this occasion she had almost forgotten his warning; she went to him as a child often goes to its parents, more for comfort than for absolute protection; and he was astonished, as well as alarmed, when she flung herself into his arms and wept on his shoulder, calling him now and then by all sorts of endearing names, but refusing to explain to him the reason of her visit or of her grief.

"It's not that man that you're fond of, is it, my dearie? He hasn't played you false, has he?"

"No, father, no--not in the way you mean."

"He ain't worse--dying or anything?"

"Oh, no!"--with a sudden constriction of the heart, which might have told her how dear Hubert was to her still.

"Then you've quarrelled?"

"I suppose we have," said Cynthia, with an unnatural hysterical laugh.

"Oh, yes--we have quarrelled, and we shall never see each other any more!"

"In that case, my girl, you'd better cast in your lot with me. Shall we leave England to-morrow?"

Cynthia was silent for a moment.

"Is it safer for you to go or to stay, father?"

"Well, it's about equal," said Westwood cheerfully. "They're watching the ports, I understand; so maybe I should have a difficulty in getting off. On the other hand, I'm pretty certain that the landlady here suspects me; and I thought of making tracks early to-morrow morning, Cynthia, my dear, if you have no objection to an early start."

"Anything you please, dear father."

"We're safest in London, I think," said Westwood thoughtfully; "but I think that I shall try to get out of the country as soon as I can. I am afraid it is no good to follow up my clue, Cynthia; I can't find out anything more about Mrs. Vane."

Cynthia gave a little shiver, and then clung to him helplessly; she could not speak.

"I've sometimes thought," her father continued, "that your young man--Mr. Lepel--knew more than he chose to say. I've sometimes wondered whether--knowing me to be your father and all that, Cynthia--there might not be a chance of getting him to tell all the truth, supposing that I went to him and threw myself on his--his generosity, so to speak? Do you think he'd give me up, Cynthy?"

"No, father--I don't think he would."

"It might be worth trying. A bold stroke succeeds sometimes where a timid one might fail. He's ill, you say, still, isn't he?"

Cynthia thought of the fall that she had heard as she left the room.

"Yes," she answered almost inaudibly; "he has been very ill, and he is not strong yet."

"And you've left him all the same?" said her father, regarding her curiously. "There must have been something serious--eh, my lass?"

"Oh, father, don't ask me!"

"Don't you care for him now then, my girl?" said Westwood, with more tenderness than he usually showed.

"I don't know--I don't know! I think I--I hate him; but I cannot be sure."

"It's his fault then? He's done something bad?"

"Very bad!" cried poor Cynthia, hiding her face.

"And you can't forgive him?"

"Not--not till he has made amends!" said the girl, with a passionate sob.

Her father sat looking at her with a troubled face.

"If your mother hadn't forgiven me many and many a time, Cynthia," he said at last, "I should have gone to destruction long before she died.

But as long as ever she lived she kept me straight."

"She was your wife," said Cynthia, in a choked voice. "I am not Hubert's wife--and I never shall be now. Never mind, father; we were right to separate, and I am glad that we have done it. Now will you tell me where you are thinking of going, or if you have made any plans?"

Westwood shook his head.

"I've got no plans, my dear--except to slip out at the door, early to-morrow morning. Where I go next I am sure I do not know."

Cynthia resolutely banished the thought of her own affairs, and set herself to consider possibilities. Her mind reverted again and again to the Jenkins family. Their connection with Hubert made it seem a little dangerous to have anything to do with them at present; and yet Cynthia was inclined to trust Tom Jenkins very far. He was thoroughly honest and true, and he was devoted to her service; but, after some reflection, she abandoned this idea. If she and her father were to be together, she had better seek some place where her own face was unknown and her father's history forgotten. After a little consideration, she remembered some people whom she had heard of in the days of her engagement at the Frivolity. They let lodgings in an obscure street in Clerkenwell; and, as they were quiet inoffensive folk, Cynthia thought that she and her father might be as safe with them as elsewhere. She did not urge her father to leave England at present; for she had a vague feeling that she ought not to cut him off from the chance--a feeble chance, but still a chance--of being cleared by Hubert Lepel's confession. She had not much hope; and yet it seemed to her possible that Hubert might choose to tell the truth at last, and that she could but hope that, having confessed to her, he might also confess to the world at large, and show that Westwood was an innocent and deeply injured man.

She stayed the night, sleeping on a little sofa in the sitting-room; but early the next day they went out together, making one of the early morning "flittings" to which Westwood was accustomed; and Cynthia took her father to his new lodgings in Clerkenwell.

For some days she did not go out again. Excitement and the shock of Hubert's confession had for once disorganised her splendid health. She felt strangely weak and ill, and lay in her bed without eating or speaking, her face turned to the wall, her head throbbing, her hands and feet deathly cold. Westwood watched her anxiously and wanted her to have a doctor; but Cynthia refused all medical advice. She was only worn out with nursing, she said, and needed a long rest; she would be better soon.

One day when she had got up, but had not yet ventured out of doors, her father came into her room with a bunch of black grapes which he had brought for her to eat.

"How good you are, father!" Cynthia said gratefully.

She took one to please him but she did not seem inclined to eat. She was sitting in a wooden chair by the window, looking pale and listless.