CHAPTER XLIX.

The door had been opened to Cynthia by a strange servant. She asked if Mr. Lepel was at home--a conventionalism of which she immediately repented. Was he well enough to see anybody, at least? she asked.

The girl did not know, but asked her to walk inside. Mr. Lepel was better; he was dressed every day and sat in the drawing-room; but he had not seen any visitors as yet. He was in the drawing-room now, she thought, and he was alone.

"I will go up," said Cynthia decidedly. "You need not announce me. I will go myself; he knows me very well."

The girl fell back doubtfully; but Cynthia's tone was so resolute, her air so assured, that there was nothing for it but to give way. Besides Mrs. Vane was out, and nobody had said what was to be done in case of visitors.

Cynthia went in very quietly. Hubert was lying on a sofa in the darkest corner of the room. The blinds were partially closed; but she could see his face, and she thought at first that he was asleep. His eyes were closed, his hands were stretched at his sides; his attitude was expressive of the utmost langour and weariness. She came a little nearer and looked at him closely. His frame was sadly wasted, and there was an expression of suffering and melancholy upon his face that touched her deeply. She drew nearer and nearer to the sofa; but he did not look up until she was almost close to him. Then he opened his eyes. She cried "Hubert!" and dropped on her knees beside him, so as to bring her face upon a level with his own. She put her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

"Oh, Hubert," she said, "I could not stay away! I love you, my darling--I love you in spite of all! Will you forgive me for being so cruel when I saw you last?"

She felt him tremble a little.

"Cynthia!" he said; and then with a sudden gesture he threw his arm around her, rested his head upon her shoulder, and burst into tears--tears of weakness in part, but tears also of love, of penitence, of almost unbearable relief.

She held him close to her, kissing his dark head from time to time, and calling him by fond, caressing names. But for some minutes he did not seem to be able or to care to speak. She caught the word "Forgive!" once or twice between his gasps for breath; but she could distinguish nothing more.

"Darling," she said at last, "you will do yourself harm if this goes on.

Be calm, and let us talk together a little time. Yes, I forgive you, if I must say so before anything else. There, there! Ah, my own love, how could I have left you so long? I was cruel and unkind!"

"No, Cynthia--no! I never thought that I should see you again," he said brokenly. "Don't leave me again--just yet."

"I will never leave you, if you like," she murmured softly.

"Never, Cynthia?"

"So long as we both do live. You know what I mean?"

"I daren't think. You don't mean that you will now--now become----"

"Your wife? Yes, if you will have me, Hubert. There is no barrier between us now."

"Your father?" he murmured, looking at her with weary wistful eyes.

"My father sent me to you to-day. No, darling, I have not told him."

"I wish to Heaven you had, Cynthia!"

"What! I betray your confidence? No, I could not do that. But he had some notion already, Hubert. He told me that he suspected you--or your sister--some time ago; and he said to me to-day that he believed that you could have cleared him if you had liked."

"And what did you say? I wish that you had found it in your heart to tell him everything you knew."

"I could not do that. But I did not deny what he had said!" and then she told him all that she remembered of her father's words.

"His generosity crushes me to the earth!" said Hubert hoarsely. "I must tell him the whole story, and let him decide."

"He has decided."

"I cannot accept that decision. Since I have been lying here, Cynthia, and since you left me, I have seen it all as it appeared in your eyes. I have wondered at my own cowardice; and I hope--I trust that I have repented of it. It is time that I did, Cynthia, for I believe that I am a dying man."

"No, no!" she cried, clinging to him passionately. "You will get better now--you must get better--for my sake!"

"I wish I could, my darling--I wish I could!"

"Why have you such gloomy thoughts? You are depressed; you have wanted me. I shall soon make you well. I shall take you away from England to some warm bright country where you will have nothing to do but be happy and grow quite strong; and I will take care of you, and make up to you if I can for everything that you have lost."

"Yes, if one had not a conscience," said Hubert, with a faint sad smile, "one could be very happy, could one not? But you forget; you told me before that I must make amends. My darling, there is only one course open to me now."

"Hubert!" She knew by instinct what course he meant to take.

"We are going to have the whole truth told now," he went on softly. "And what a relief it will be! My God, I wonder that I could bear the burden so long! For I have suffered, Cynthia, though not as your father has. I am going now to tell the truth and bear the penalty; there is no other way."

"There cannot be much of a legal penalty," said Cynthia, trying to speak bravely. "It was a duel."

"Manslaughter, I suppose. It will depend a good deal on public feeling what the punishment will be; and public feeling will--very rightly--be against me. To let another man be condemned to death when I could have cleared him with a word! I think, Cynthia, that the mob will tear me to pieces if they can get hold of me!"

"They will not get hold of you. And if the public knows that it was all for your sister's sake----"

"I want to save Flossy, Cynthia. I think I can shield her still."

"I do not think that my father will shield her, Hubert. He knows."

"She must be shielded, if possible, dear, for the old General's sake.

What a fool I was not to prevent that marriage! Well, it can't be helped now. But one thing I can do--I can exonerate your father, and confess that I shot Sydney Vane, without a word about my sister. That must be so, Cynthia. And your father must be silent."

"You will deprive yourself of your one excuse," said Cynthia quietly.

"I know. I cannot help it. I must stand forth to the world as a brutal murderer--as once your father did, my Cynthia. It is only right and just. They must sentence me as they please. But it will not be for long; I shall probably not come out of prison. But, if I do----"

Cynthia burst into tears.

"I can't bear it--I can't bear it!" she cried. "My father is right--he has got over the worst of it and outlived all that was hard. It would be terrible for you! How could you bear it--and how could I?"

"You could bear it if you thought it brought me happiness, could you not? I know I am selfish, Cynthia."

"No, no--you are anything but selfish! Oh, darling, live for me a little if you will not for yourself! Father asks you to do that as well as I.

You will make us suffer if you suffer--and I cannot bear to part from you again! If you love me, Hubert, say nothing--for my father's sake and mine!"

It was a strange plea. And while Hubert listened and strove to calm her, there came a new and unwonted sound upon the stairs--the sound of a struggle, of trampling feet, of angry voices--of a woman's shriek and a man's stifled curse. Cynthia sprang to her feet.

"I hear my father's voice!" she said. "What can that mean?"