A Life Sentence. Sergeant Adeline
ever revive in others' minds the memory of the Beechfield tragedy. He was not naturally callous, and he knew that concealment of the truth would be, as it had always been, an oppression, a weary weight upon him; but he had made up his mind that it must be so.
"Moralists tell us never to do evil that good may come," he murmured to himself, with head bowed upon his knees; "but surely in this case, when it is not—not altogether my own good that I seek, a little evil may be pardoned, a little wrong condoned! Heaven forgive me! If I have sinned, I think that I have suffered too!"
He lifted up his head at last, and saw the red light of sunset burning between the upright stems of the fir-trees, stealing with strange crimson tints amongst the yellowing bracken and umber drift of pine-needles, scarcely touching, however, the black shades of the foliage overhead. With a sudden shiver Hubert rose to his feet. It seemed to him that the red light looked like blood. He turned hastily to go; he had lingered too long, had excited his own emotions too keenly. He resolved that he would never visit the lonely fir-wood again. He wondered why it had stood so long. If he had been the General, he would have had the trees hewn down after the trial, and done away with every memento of the place.
When he escaped from the shadow of the wood, and saw the red sun setting behind the hills, sending long level beams over the tranquil meadows, and bathing field and grove and highway-road alike in ruddy golden light, he drew a long breath of relief. And yet he felt that he was not quite the same man that had entered the wood an hour before. The foundations of his soul had been shaken; he had made a resolve; he looked at life from a new standpoint. The half-defiant determination to make the best of the future which he had announced to his sister was purged of its defiance. He would make the best of his future—yes. But for this purpose he would injure no man or woman henceforward; he would work with less selfishness of aim—for the good of the world at large as well as for himself. Something seemed broken in him by that lonely hour in the wood—some hardness, some coldness of temper was swept away. To him perhaps Tennyson's words respecting Lancelot were applicable still—
"So groaned Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain,
Not knowing he should die a holy man."
Far enough from anything like holiness was Hubert Lepel, but a nobler life was possible to him yet.
Florence commented that evening on his pale and wearied countenance, but he smiled at her questions, and would not allow that anything ailed him. He sat by her side for the greater part of the evening. It was as well, he thought, to be chary of Enid's companionship. She was so sweet, so frank, that she beguiled him into imprudent frankness in return. He would not sit beside her at the piano therefore, or walk with her upon the terrace, although she looked prettier than ever, with a new wistful light in her blue eyes, a rose-flush upon her delicate cheeks. He knew that she was disappointed when he did not come; no matter—the child must not look on him as anything but a casual acquaintance who had spoken a few rash words of compliment which it were idle to take too seriously; and he would stay with Florence.
"Enid looks well to-night," said his sister, in her soft careless tones. "She is a pretty little thing when in good health."
"Is she delicate?" Hubert asked, in some surprise.
"She has nervous attacks; she has had them at intervals ever since she was nine years old." Nine years old—the date of her father's death!—as Hubert knew. "At first we thought they were of an epileptic kind; but the doctors say that they are purely nervous, and will cease when she is older and stronger."
Hubert inquired no further. The subject was disagreeable to him, inasmuch as it connected Enid's health with her parent's fate and his sister's disastrous influence upon the family. It was always a matter of keen regret to him that he had not been able to hinder Florence's marriage, which she had prudently made a matter of secrecy until it was too late for the General's friends to interfere. Her calm appropriation of the position which she had secured, and, above all, the pseudo-maternal way in which she spoke of Enid, irritated Hubert almost beyond endurance.
He went back to London on the following day, promising to return to Beechfield Hall before long. For some reason or other he felt eager to get away—the air of the place seemed to excite his sensibilities unduly, he told himself. It struck him afterwards that Enid looked very pale and downcast when she bade him good-bye. He took his leave of her hurriedly, feeling as if he did not like to look her full in the face. He was afraid, that if he looked, he would be only too sure of what he guessed—that her eyes were full of tears. He was almost glad that a speedy return to London was incumbent upon him. He had next day to superintend the rehearsal of his new play, which was shortly to be produced at one of the smaller theatres; and as soon as he reached his apartments he was immersed in business of every kind.
The next morning's rehearsal was followed by luncheon with friends, and attendance at a matinée given for the benefit of the widow and children of an actor—a performance at which Hubert thought it well to be present, although he invariably bemoaned the loss of time. The piece was not over until six o'clock, and he amused himself afterwards by going behind the scenes, and chatting with some of his acquaintances among actors, actresses, managers, and critics. Thus it was nearly seven before he issued from the theatre, in a street off the Strand, and the day was already drawing to a close. The lamps were lighted and a fog was gathering, through which their beams assumed a yellow and unnatural intensity. Hubert stood on the edge of the pavement, leisurely drawing on his gloves and looking out for a hansom, contrasting meanwhile the glories of the Strand with those of the autumn woods in Hampshire, when his attention was arrested by the sound of a woman's voice.
"If you please, Mr. Lepel, may I speak to you?"
He turned round hastily, and, after a moment's hesitation, recognised the girl who had addressed him as a young actress whom he had lately come to know. She had been playing a very small part in the comedy which he had just seen. He vaguely remembered having heard her name—she was known on the bills as Miss Cynthia West.
CHAPTER XIII.
Hubert raised his hat courteously.
"Good evening, Miss West. Of course you may speak to me!" he said. "Can I do anything for you?"
"Yes," answered the girl with a quickness which sounded abrupt, but which, as could easily be seen, was born of shyness and not of incivility. "You can get me an engagement if you like, Mr. Lepel; and I wish you would."
Hubert laughed, not thinking that she was in earnest, and surveyed her critically.
"You will not have much difficulty in getting one for yourself, I should think," he said.
Miss West colored and drew back rather haughtily. It was evident that she did not like remarks of a personal bearing, although Mr. Lepel had spoken only as he would have thought himself licensed to speak to girls of her profession, who are generally open to such compliments—and indeed she was not very likely to escape compliments. As he looked at her in the light of the gas-lamps before the theatre, Hubert Lepel became gradually aware that there stood before him one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
She was tall—nearly as tall as himself—but so finely proportioned that she gave the impression of less height than she really possessed. Every movement of her lithe limbs was full of grace; she was slender without being thin, and lissom as an untrained beautiful creature of the woods. In after-days, when Hubert knew her better, he used to compare her to a young panther for grace and freedom of motion. It was a pleasure to watch her walk, although her step was longer and freer than to Enid Vane's teachers would have seemed desirable. Her features were perfectly cut; the broad forehead, the straight nose, the curved lips and slightly-puckered chin were of the type recognised as purely Greek, and the complexion and eyes accompanying these features were rich in the coloring that glows upon the canvases of Murillo and Velasquez. The skin was of a creamy brown, heightened by a carmine tint in the oval cheeks; the eyes were large, dark, and lustrous, with long black lashes and well-defined black brows. It seemed somehow