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?"

"They call her," said the General, looking very much abashed—"they call her Cynthia West. But that isn't her real name."

"Cynthia West?" said Enid, in a low tone. Then she was silent. She was recalling the day when she had questioned Hubert about Cynthia West. He had said that he knew her—a little. And this girl whom he knew "a little" had gone to nurse him in his hour of need! Well, was there anything particularly wrong in that?

The General, having once begun the story, could not keep it to himself.

"It is a most extraordinary thing," he said, "how Hubert came to know her at all. I should have thought that he would steer clear of her—as clear as of poison—when he was engaged to you and all."

"Oh, he would not think of me!" said Enid quietly. "Why should he have avoided Cynthia West?"

"Why?" said the General, bringing his fist down on the table with a bang that made the dishes rattle, and caused Enid to give a nervous start. "Why, because she is not Cynthia West at all! She is the daughter of that ruffian—that murderer—to whom your desolate orphaned condition is due, my darling! She is Westwood's child, the man who killed your dear father and ought to have been hanged for it long ago!"

Enid's hand slipped from her uncle's neck. She knelt on, looking up at him with dazed incredulous eyes and quivering white lips. The communication had given a great shock to her trust in Hubert.

"Perhaps—perhaps," she said at last, "Hubert did not know."

"Oh, but he did—he did!" said her uncle, whose memory for dates and details was generally at fault. "If not at once, he knew before very long; and he ought never to have spoken to her again when once he knew. As for all that stuff about his not being quiet unless she was in the room—about her being the only person who could manage him when he was delirious, you know—why, that was stuff and nonsense! They ought to have got a strait-waistcoat and strapped him down to the bed; that would surely have kept him as quiet as any Miss Cynthia West!"

The General said the name with infinite scorn.

"Is that what they said—that he was quiet when she was there?" Enid inquired.

"So they said—so they said! I don't see the sense of it myself," replied the General, feeling that he had perhaps said a little too much.

"Then did he send for her?"

"No, my dear; he was unconscious when she came. I believe that his man Jenkins was at the bottom of it all. He went and told her that poor Hubert was ill."

"But I don't quite understand. If Hubert did not send for her, what right had she to come?"

"You may well ask that. What right indeed! An abominable thing, I call it, for Westwood's daughter to go and nurse one of our family! Don't grieve about it, my darling! If Hubert was led astray by her wiles for a little time, you may be sure that he will be ashamed of himself before very long. He has a good heart, and will not let you go; he loves you too sincerely for that, I am quite sure. So you must not fret."

"I don't; I shall not grieve—in that way, uncle," said Enid gravely, but with perfect calm. "You mean that Hubert cares for her, and that she loves him too?"

"I don't know what she does," said the General, with a rather ominous growl. "I only know that there were some entanglement—understanding between them—a flirtation I dare say—young men are not always so careful as they ought to be—and perhaps the girl has taken it seriously."

"Poor girl," said Enid softly—"I am very sorry for her!"

"Sorry? Sorry for Westwood's daughter? Enid, you forget what is due to yourself and to your father! Do not speak of her! Forget her; and rest assured that when Hubert is better he will dismiss her with thanks—if thanks are necessary—and that we shall soon see him here at Beechfield again. And, my dear, when he is better, I will put no further obstacle in your way, if you still desire the—the engagement to go on."

"You forget, uncle Richard," said Enid very quietly, "that there was no real engagement."

She had always maintained to herself before that there was one. He looked at her with wonder.

"But, my dear, there was a sort of an understanding, you know; and Flossy always said that you were so fond of each other."

"Flossy did not know," Enid answered coldly. Then she withdrew herself from the General's encircling arm and rose to her feet. "You have not told me yet, uncle," she went on, "what news you had from the doctor this morning."

"Oh, nothing fresh!" said the General, in rather a guilty tone; and then, as she pressed him, he explained further. "You see, my dear child, we thought that this Miss West ought to go away, because none of us can go to see Hubert while she is there—if for no other reason, because she is that man's daughter; and I wrote to the doctor to inquire whether Hubert could not do without her now; and he says, No—that there would be danger of a relapse if she should go."

"Then of course you will say that she must be asked to stay until Hubert is better, uncle."

"Certainly."

"Do you think so, my dear?"

"But it is naturally very painful to you, and to all of us, to think that Hubert's recovery is dependent on that girl. I call it positively degrading!" cried the General, crumpling up his papers, and rising from his seat in a sudden fury."It is painful—yes," said Enid, with a heavy sigh; "but I suppose that it cannot be helped;" and she turned away, so that he might not see the quivering of her lip or the tear that rolled down her pale cheeks as she said the words.

She went out into the conservatory and sat down amongst the flowers. She had been too proud to show the General how much she was hurt; but, as a matter of fact, she was very deeply wounded by what she heard. Her affections were not bruised—she had never cared for Hubert so little in her life; but her pride had received a tremendous blow. Even if he had only "flirted" with Cynthia West, as the General had suggested, the flirtation was an insult to the girl whom he had asked in marriage. Indeed it seemed worse to Enid than a grande passion would have seemed; for her readings in poetry and fiction had taught her that a genuine and passionate love sometimes caused people to forget the claims of duty and the bonds of a previous affection. But the General had not seemed to think that anything of this kind existed; although the fact that Hubert's delirium could not be quieted except in Cynthia's presence showed, even to Enid's innocent eyes, that some strong sympathy, some great mutual attraction, united them. If it were so, Enid asked herself, could she blame him? What had she herself done? Had she not given her heart away to Maurice Evandale, although her word was plighted to Hubert Lepel?

But then, she said to herself, she had never professed any great affection for Hubert; she had not taken the initiative in any way. He need not have asked her to marry him—he might have left her perfectly free. She felt indignantly that she had been trifled with—that he had asked her to be his wife without caring to make her so, and that he might perhaps have trifled in the same manner with Cynthia West. If that were the case, Enid Vane said to herself that she could never forgive him. He had profaned love itself—the holiest of earth's mysteries—and she resented the action, although she might gain by it her own freedom and happiness.

It was even possible that this gain might be denied to her. Suppose, when he was better, that he came back and claimed her promise, repudiated Cynthia's attempt to earn his gratitude, and explained his conduct in such a manner that no fair-minded person could refuse him credence? What then could she do? Enid felt that she might not have the strength to fight against him unless Maurice were at her side; and Maurice had, unfortunately for her, been suddenly summoned to the North of England to attend his father's death-bed. He had left Beechfield with many fears for Enid's welfare; but he was of course obliged to go, and had had no opportunity of declaring himself to the General as a suitor for Enid's hand before his departure. For the moment therefore Enid was quite alone; and, seeing the net in which she was caught—a net of fraud and trickery and lies—her heart failed her, and she felt herself helpless indeed.

She was in far more danger than she guessed; for Mrs. Vane looked upon her as a deadly enemy, and was resolved that she should never have the chance of confiding what she knew to another person. From what Hubert had said, the girl had made up her mind to tell him all she knew when once she was his wife. To tell Hubert was what Flossy was resolved that Enid should never do. She should never marry Hubert or any other man; sooner than betray Flossy's secrets, Enid Vane should die. The white still woman with the brown eyes and yellow hair was ready to face the chances of detection—ready to take life, if necessary, rather than see her plans defeated and herself disgraced. With Enid out of the way, she might not be safe; but she would be safer than she was now.

She took note however of the warning that Parker had given her. She had been going too fast; she must be more careful for the future. She must proceed by such slow degrees that Mr. Ingledew himself should be deceived. And she must change her plans also; for she found that Enid no longer touched the cooling drinks that were placed beside her every night—the girl said that she did not care for them, and sent them away untouched. But surely there were plenty of other ways!

Mr. Evandale had said a few guarded words to Mr. Ingledew about his treatment of Miss Vane, and his remarks had caused the surgeon to send a simple tonic mixture instead of the soothing draughts which had formerly excited some surprise and even some indignation in the Rector's mind. He did not much believe in soothing draughts, as he soon elicited from Mr. Ingledew that they had been made up in conformity with Mrs. Vane's views of the case rather than according to what Mr. Ingledew himself thought necessary; and a word from the Rector, whose medical knowledge was really considerable, caused Mr. Ingledew to change his opinions very speedily. At the same time, tonics, like other things, could be doctored; and, as Mr. Evandale was out of the way, Enid's welfare lay, for the time being, at Flossy's mercy.

She began to suffer in the old way—from dizziness and nausea and pains for which she could not account, with an utterly inexplicable weakness and languor, different from all her former symptoms. Perhaps Mrs. Vane had altered her treatment. At any rate, it was certain that some mysterious factor was at work stealing the girl's energy away from her, diminishing her vitality, bringing her, in short, to the very gates of death. And so insidiously did the work proceed that even Parker, who had had suspicions of her mistress, scarcely noticed the advance of Enid's malady. There were no more fainting-fits—nothing definitely alarming; but day by day the girl grew weaker, and no one noticed or guessed the reason why.

Enid's nights were restless; but she had not been disturbed since Flossy's return from London by the white figure which she had seen at her bedside. She told herself that Maurice was right—that her nerves had played her false, and that the appearances had been a mere phantasm of her imagination. She quite lost her fear of seeing it again; and, although she had held no further conversation with the Rector after Mrs. Vane's arrival in the house, she was reassured and strengthened by the remembrance of his words. When she awoke in the night-time now, she knew no fear.

And yet—it was about three weeks after the beginning of Hubert Lepel's illness—her heart gave a wild leap when she opened her eyes one night, and saw in her room, by the faint light of a glimmering taper, the ghostly figure of a woman clothed from head to foot in white. She stood, not by the bedside, but by the mantelpiece, with something—was it a medicine-phial?—in her hand. What the visitant was doing Enid could not exactly see; but she started up, and at the movement the white woman turned and showed her face.Enid uttered an exclamation—a sort of gasp of terror—for her worst fears were realised. The phantom which she had dreaded had come to her again in spite of Maurice's promises of aid. He had forgotten to pray for her perhaps—a childish notion crossed her mind that perhaps because of his forgetfulness the ghost was there.

But was it a ghost—a phantom of the senses, and not a living woman after all? For the face which met the girl's eyes was not one that she could easily mistake—it was the face of Florence Vane.