"We shall both have to go with you, I think," said Hubert firmly, glancing at Westwood as he rose. "I presume that you cannot liberate Mr.

Westwood at once."

"What--Westwood the convict? I should think not!" said the inspector briskly; and he made a sign to his men, who stepped forward with a pair of handcuffs.

"I shall come quietly enough," said Westwood, with a smile. "You needn't trouble yourself about the bracelets."

"Ah, I dare say!" said the inspector. "You've been rather a slippery customer hitherto, I believe. We'll make sure of you now."

But Hubert interfered.

"No, no," he said--"Westwood is innocent! It was I--I who committed the crime for which he was condemned. Put the handcuffs on me, if on any one, but not on that innocent man!"

"Well, this is a rum start!" said the inspector to himself. "You don't look very fit to run away, sir; we won't trouble you," he said to Hubert with a friendly smile. "Head wrong, I suppose?" he asked of Cynthia, in a stage-aside.

They had some trouble in convincing him that Hubert meant to be taken to the station with Westwood; and, even when he had heard the story, it was plain that he did not quite believe it. However, he consented to let Hubert accompany him and then he remarked that, as it was getting late, it would be better if his companions started at once.

"And the old gentleman?" he said, looking at the General with interest.

"Is he coming too?"

Hubert hesitated. Then he went up to the old man and touched him gently on the shoulder.

"Will you not look at me, sir?" he said. "Have you nothing to say to me before I go?"

No, he had nothing to say; he would never say anything again. The General was dead.

CHAPTER LI.

The proceedings relating to Westwood's trial and Hubert Lepel's confession naturally excited great interest. The whole matter had to be investigated once more; and it could not be denied that a howl of indignation at Hubert's conduct went up through the length and breadth of the land. Even Flossy's indiscretions--to call them by no harsher name--were not held to excuse him for suppressing the fact that he had taken Sydney Vane's life, and then allowed Andrew Westwood to suffer the penalty of a crime which he had not committed. The details that came out one after another whetted the public appetite to an incredible extent.

And in such a case it soon became evident that no details could be suppressed at all. Even the fact of the attachment between Hubert and Cynthia leaked out, although everybody tried hard to keep it a secret; and great was the wonder excited by Cynthia's steady refusal to give up the lover who had nearly caused her father's death.

"She must be a heartless creature indeed!" the busybodies said. "Who ever heard of such a revolting position? Has her father cast her off?

What a grief it must be to him! It is like a terrible old Greek tragedy!"

And, when the busybodies heard that Westwood had not objected to his child's marriage with Hubert Lepel, and had actually appeared to be friendly with him, they concluded that all parties concerned must be equally devoid of the finer qualities of human nature, and that a painful revelation of baseness and secret vice had just been made.

But, in spite of public indignation, it was not possible for Hubert Lepel to receive very severe punishment from the arm of the law. He had never been examined at Westwood's trial--and the law does not compel a man to inculpate himself. He was held to have committed manslaughter, and he was condemned to two years' imprisonment. And Westwood received a "free pardon" from the Queen--which Cynthia thought a very inadequate way of testifying to his innocence; and he walked through London streets a free man once more, and might have been made into a hero had he chosen, especially when it became known that he was very well off, and that he had a daughter so beautiful and gifted as the young lady who had previously been known to the general public as Cynthia West.

Cynthia was entreated to sing again and again, and was assured that people would flock to hear her and to see her more than ever. But she steadily refused to sing in any public place. She could not overcome the feeling that her audience only came to stare at her as Westwood's daughter, and not to hear her sing. She withdrew therefore from the musical profession, and lived a quiet life in London with her father, who had postponed his departure for a few weeks. He would not return to America until the close of Hubert Lepel's trial.

The General's sad death, caused chiefly by excitement, was felt, when the shock was passed, to be almost a relief for his friends. They all felt that it would have been sad indeed if the old man had lived to see himself desolate, his name dragged through the mud, his wife branded with shame, the boy that he had loved not only laid in the grave, but known to be no kin to him at all. He could not have borne it; his life would have been a misery to him; and it was perhaps well that he should die. His will had been unsigned, and the property therefore passed to Enid, with the usual "half" to his widow.

Flossy found herself better off than she had expected to be. She never seemed to regret her actions, not even the hysterical outburst which had caused her to confess her guilt and to hasten the General's end. She declared herself relieved that she had now nothing to conceal. As for the execration that she met with from all who knew her story, she cared very little indeed. She refused to see her old acquaintances, and went abroad as soon as possible. Her lawyer alone knew her address--for she did not correspond with her English friends; but she was occasionally heard of at a foreign watering-place, where she posed as an interesting widow completely misunderstood by a sadly prejudiced world. In time she married again, and it was said that her husband, a Russian nobleman, ill-treated-her; but Flossy was quite capable of holding her own against any number of Russia noblemen, and it was more likely that he suffered at her hands than she at his. In the wild Northern lands however she finally made her home; and she announced to her lawyer her determination never to set foot in England again. A traveller who afterwards came across her in Russian reported to her relatives that she was looking haggard and worn, that she was said to take chloral regularly, and that she suffered from some obscure disease of the nerves for which no doctor could find a cure. And thus she passed out of the lives of her English friends--unloved, unmourned, unhappy, and, in spite of wealth and title, unsuccessful in all that she tried to attain.

Enid, the owner of Beechfield Hall, took a dislike to the place, and would not live in it for many a long day. She remained with Miss Vane until a year had passed after the General's death, and then she married Mr. Evandale and took up her abode at the Rectory. She made an ideal parson's wife. Her health had grown stronger in the quiet atmosphere of Miss Vane's home; and, curiously enough, she never had another of her strange "seizures" after her departure from Beechfield Hall. She herself always believed that she had conquered them by an effort of will; but Mr. Evandale was disposed to think that she had been occasionally put under the influence of some drug by Mrs. Vane, and that Mrs. Vane had either wished to remove her altogether from her path or undermine her health and intellect completely. At a later date she had grown tired of this method, and tried to take a quicker way; but in this attempt she had been foiled. Parker remained in Enid's service, and made a faithful nurse, devoted to her mistress and her mistress's children, and above all devoted to her master, who had spoken to her gently of her past, and given her new hope for the future.

And, when the little Evandales began to overflow the Rectory nurseries, Enid managed to conquer her distaste for the stately old Hall that had stood empty for so many years, and came thither with her family to fill the vacant rooms with merry faces, and to chase away all ghosts of a tragic past by the sound of eager voices, of laughter, and of pattering feet. And then a deeper love for the old home, now grown so beautiful and dear, stirred within her; and in time she even marvelled at herself that she had stayed away so long from Beechfield Hall.

Sabina Meldreth developed in a curious direction. The Rector "got hold of her," as he expressed it, and managed to lay his finger on the soft spot in her heart. It proved to be a remorseful love for delicate children; and this trait of character became her salvation. She never talked of the past or said that she repented; but she gave herself little by little, with strange steadfastness and thoroughness, to the service of sick children in hospitals. She went through a nurse's training, and got an engagement as nurse in the Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children. Here she seemed happy; and the children loved her--which some people thought odd, because she preserved a good deal of her roughness of manner and abruptness of speech in ordinary life. But she was made of finer fibre than one would have imagined, and children never found her harsh or unkind or unsympathetic. The memory of little Dick remained with her perhaps, but she never spoke of him.

During the months of Hubert's imprisonment Cynthia did not correspond with him. He had asked her not to do so. Her letters would of course have been overlooked. All that she could do until the trial was over was to send him flowers, which he was permitted to receive; and very dear those boxes of rare blossoms soon became to him. He spent a great part of his time in the infirmary; for his strength had been very much tried during the time of his convalescence, and it often seemed as if his anticipations were to be realised, and as if his term of punishment would not last very long. Cynthia had made him promise that she should be summoned to his side if he were absolutely in danger. For many a week she used to be half afraid to look at her letters in the morning, lest the dread summons should be amongst them; but, after a time, her courage began to revive, and she dared--yes, she actually dared--to hope for a brighter future. But, when the term of his imprisonment began, she knew that she must wait patiently for its end before the cloud of darkness was lifted from her life.

"It's about time we was getting back to the States, I reckon," her father said to her one day.

"So soon, father?"

"What should we stay in England for?" he asked, without glancing at her.

"I want to get back to my work; and I want to show you the place, and see about the new house."

For at times he drew glowing pictures of the house that he intended to build for Cynthia some day. Cynthia used to smile and listen very sweetly. She never contradicted him; she only grew a little abstracted now and then when he waxed very eloquent, and drew the needle a little faster through the work that she now affected. He did not usually seem to notice her silence; but on this occasion he broke out rather petulantly.

"One would think you took no interest in it at all! You might sometimes remember that it's all for you."

"I do remember it, father dear--and I am very grateful."

"Well, then," said Westwood, at once restored to cheerfulness, "just you look here at these plans. I've been talking to an architect, and this is the drawing he's made for me. Nice mansion that, isn't it? You see, there's the ground-floor--a study for me, and a drawing-room and a morning-room, and all sorts of things for you; and here's a wing which can be added on or not, as is required. Because," he went on rather quickly and nervously, "if you was to marry out there, you could set up house-keeping with him, you know; and, when the family grew too large for the house, we could just add room after room--here, you see--until we had enough."

"Yes, father." And then Cynthia added with simplicity, which was perhaps a little assumed. "Miss Enid Vane says that Hubert will be ordered to the Riviera for the winter when--when he is free."

"What has that to do with it?" said Westwood, rolling up his plans and moving a few steps away from her.

"Only that perhaps we had better not think too much about the house, father. We might not be able to come to it."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" her father said slowly. "You're still thinking of Mr. Lepel, Cynthia?"

"Yes, father dear."

"You mean to marry the man that would have seen me hang and never said a word to save me?"

"He would not have done that, you know, father. He spoke out at last, in order to save you from being rearrested. And you gave me your consent before----"

"Ay, before I knew that he had done the deed! I thought that his sister had done it, and that he was keeping her secret, when I gave my consent, my girl. It makes a deal of difference."

"Not to me," said Cynthia quietly. "He did wrong; but I learned to love him before I knew the story; and I can't leave off loving him now."

Westwood sat down and began rapping the table with his roll of plans in a meditative manner.

"Women are curious folk," he said at last. "When a man's prosperous, they nag at him and make his life a weariness to him; but, when he's in trouble, they can't be too faithful nor too fond. It's awkward sometimes."

"But it's their nature, you see, father," said Cynthia, smiling a little as she folded up her work.

"I suppose it is. And I suppose--being one of them--it's nothing to you that this man's name has been cried high and low throughout the British Empire as a monster of iniquity, a base cowardly villain, so afraid of being found out that he nearly let another man swing for him--that's nothing to you, eh?"

Cynthia's cheeks burned.