A Life Sentence. Sergeant Adeline
to Florence, and I honor you for it," said Miss Vane heartily.
"Don't say so, aunt Leo; I'm not worth it," said the young man, starting up and walking two or three paces from her, then returning to her side. "I only wish that I could do more for her—poor Florence!"
"Poor Florence indeed!" echoed Miss Vane, with tart significance. "But I must go, Hubert. See her again, and persuade her, if you can, to leave Beechfield. Don't tell her what I have said to you. She is suspicious already and will want to know. Did you notice the look she gave me when I said that I wished to talk to you? Be on your guard."
"I shall not have time to talk with her much. I must go back to London by the four o'clock train."
"Must you? Well, do your best. See—the blind is drawn up in Marion's dressing-room—a sign that I am wanted;" and Miss Vane turned towards the house.
Hubert's anticipations were verified. Florence was not to be persuaded by anything that he could say. And, when he begged her to tell him why she wanted so much to stay at Beechfield, and hinted at the reason that existed in Miss Leonora's mind, Florence only laughed him to scorn. He was obliged sorrowfully to confess to Miss Vane, when she walked with him that afternoon before he set out for London, that he had obtained no information concerning Flossy's plans, and that he could hope to have no influence over her movements.
He had five minutes to spare, and was urging her to walk with him a little way along the road that led to the nearest railway-station, when Miss Vane's attention was arrested by two little figures in the middle of the road. She stopped short, and pointed to them with her parasol.
"Hubert," she cried, in a voice that was hoarse with dismay, "do you see that?"
"I see Enid," said Hubert rather wonderingly. "I suppose she ought not to be here alone; she must have escaped from Florence. Why are you so alarmed? She is talking to a beggar-child—that is all."
Miss Vane pressed his arm with her hand.
"Are you blind?" she said. "Do you not know to whom she is talking? Can you bear to see it?"
"Upon my soul, aunt Leo," said the young man, "I don't know what you mean!"
He looked at the scene before him. The white country road stretched in an undulating line to right and left, its smooth surface mottled with patches of sunlight and tracts of refreshing shade. A broad margin of grass on either side, tall hedges of hawthorn and hazel, soothed the eye that might be wearied with the glare and whiteness of the road. On one of these grassy margins two children were standing face to face. Hubert recognised his little cousin Enid Vane, but the other—a sunburnt, gipsy-looking creature, with unkempt hair and ragged clothes—who could she be?
"You were at the trial," Miss Vane whispered to him, in dismayed, reproachful tones. "Do you not know her? it is no fault of hers, poor child, of course; and yet it does give me a shock to see poor little Enid talking in that friendly way with the daughter of her father's murderer."
For the child was no other than little Jenny Westwood, whom Hubert had seen for a few minutes only at her father's trial three weeks before.
CHAPTER VI.
Hubert stopped short. If Miss Vane had been looking at him, she would have seen that his face flushed deeply and then turned very pale. But she herself, with her gold eye-glasses fixed very firmly on the bridge of her high nose, was concentrating her whole attention upon the children.
"Enid," she called out rather sharply, "what are you doing there? Come to me."
Enid turned to her aunt. She was a singularly sensitive looking child, with lips that paled too rapidly and veins that showed with almost painful distinctness beneath the soft white skin. Her features were delicately cut, and gave promise of future beauty, when health should lend its vivifying touch to the white little face. Her eyes, of a tender violet-gray, were even now remarkable, and her hair was of rippling gold.
Her sombre black dress and the sunshine that poured down upon the spot where she was standing contributed to the dazzling effect produced by her golden hair and white skin. There could not have been a greater contrast than that between her and Andrew Westwood's daughter, upon whom at that moment Hubert Lepel's eyes were fixed.
Jenny Westwood, as she was generally called, although her father gave her a different name, was thinner, browner wilder-looking, than she had even been before. Miss Vane knew her by sight, but she had imagined that the child had been taken away from the village by friends, or sent to the workhouse by the authorities. It was a shock to her to find the little creature at the park gates of Beechfield Hall.
Enid did not seem to be embarrassed by her aunt's call. She ran up to her at once, dragging the ragged child with her by the hand. Her face was anxious and puzzled.
"Oh, aunt Leo," she said, "this little girl has nowhere to go to—no home—no anything!"
"Let her hand go, Enid!" said aunt Leo, with some severity. "You have no business to be out here in the road, talking to children whom you know nothing about."
Enid shrank a little, but she did not drop the child's hand.
"But, aunt Leo, she is hungry and——"
"Were you begging of this young lady?" Miss Vane said magisterially, her eyes bent full on the ragged girl's dark face.
But Andrew Westwood's daughter would not speak.
"I'll talk to her," said Hubert, in a low tone. "You take Enid back to the house, aunt Leo, and I'll send the child about her business."
"No, no; you'll miss your train. It is time for you to go. Enid can run back to the house by herself. Go, Enid!"
"Why may I not speak to the little girl too?" said Enid wistfully. It was not often that she was rebellious, but her face worked now as if she were going to cry.
"Never mind why—do as I tell you!" cried Miss Vane, who was growing exasperated by the pain and difficulty of the situation, "I will see what she wants."
Enid hesitated for a moment, then flung herself impetuously upon Hubert.
"Won't you help her?" she said, looking up into his face with sweet entreaty. "I am sure you will be kind. The poor little girl has had nothing to eat all day—I asked her. You will be kind to her, for you are always kind."
Hubert pressed her to him without speaking for a moment, then answered gently—
"Both your aunt and I will be kind to her and help her, Enid—you may be sure of that. Now run away home and leave us; we will do all we can."
For the first time, the little outcast who had excited Enid's pity broke the silence.
"I don't want nothing; I wasn't begging, nor meaning to beg. She found me asleep by the road and asked me if I was hungry—that was all."
"And she is hungry," said Enid, with passion, "and you don't want me to help her. You are unkind! Here, little girl—here is my shilling; it's the only one I've got, and it has a hole in it, but you may have it, and then you can get yourself something to eat in the village."
She dashed forward with the coin, eluding a movement of Miss Vane's hand designed to stop her in her course. The shilling lay in Jenny Westwood's grimy little hand before the lady could interfere.
"Don't take it away," Hubert whispered in his aunt's ear; "it will only make her remember the scene for a longer time."
"I know," Miss Vane answered grimly; and she stood still.
Enid turned sorrowfully, half ashamed of her momentary rebellion, towards the park gate. The other child seemed dazed by the excitement of the speakers, and only half understood what had been going on. She stood looking first at the coin in her hand and then at the donor, with a strange questioning expression