"I have come, you see, father."
"I hardly thought you'd get here so soon after your party-going last night," said her father. "You look pretty tired too. Well, my girl, I told you I'd been staying down at Beechfield."
"Yes; and I was terribly anxious about you all the time, father. It was such a daring thing to do! Suppose any one had suspected you?"
"Not much fear o' that!" said Westwood, a little scornfully. "Why, look at me! Am I like the man I was at Beechfield ten years ago? I was a sort of outcast then, having sunk from bad to worse through my despair when I lost your mother, Cynthia; but, now that I have a new coat on my back and money in my pocket, all through my luck in the States, not to speak of this white hair, which I shall keep to until I'm back in the West again, I'm a different man, and nobody ever thinks of suspecting me."
He was different, Cynthia noticed, in more than one respect—he was far less silent and morose than he used to be. Life in the West had brought out some unexpected reserves of decision and readiness of speech, and his success—his luck, as he sometimes called it—had cheered his spirits. He was defiant and he was often bitter still; but he was no longer downcast.
"They'd not have much chance if they did suspect me," he said, after a little pause; "if they thought that they'd got me again, they'd find their mistake. I'd put a bullet through my head afore ever I went back to Portland!"
"Oh, father, don't speak so!"
"Come, Cynthy, don't you pretend! You're a brave girl and a spirited one. Now wouldn't you yourself sooner die than be cooped up in a gaol, or set to work in a quarry with an armed warder watching you all day long—wouldn't you put an end to it, I ask you—being a brave girl and not a namby-pamby creature as hasn't got a will of her own, and don't know better than to stay where she's put—eh, Cynthia?"
"Don't speak quite so loud, father dear," said Cynthia—"there are people turning round to look at us. I don't know what I should do in those circumstances; perhaps, as you say, I should think it better to end it all." She looked aside as she spoke, for her dark eyes had filled with heavy tears. How she wished at that moment that she could "end it all" as easily as she said the words! "Sit down for a little time, will you, father?" she asked. "It is a warm morning, and I am rather tired."
She had another reason for wishing to sit down. She had observed that for some time a tall woman in black had been apparently regarding them with interest, following them at a little distance, slackening and quickening her pace in accordance with their own. The stranger was thickly veiled; and, when she saw that Cynthia and her father were walking towards a vacant seat, she turned in the same direction. There was nothing to prevent her from sitting down on the same bench, and either putting a stop to all private conversation or listening to what they had to say; but Cynthia was equal to the emergency. She turned her head and gave the woman a long look, half of inquiry, half of disdain, which seemed to overawe the intruder, who stood by the bench for a moment rather uncertainly. Then Cynthia touched her father's arm.