Hubert had risen to his feet. His face was ghastly pale; but there was a horror in it which even Cynthia could not interpret aright.
"You—you, Jane Wood!" he gasped. "Don't trifle with me, Cynthia! You are Cynthia West!"
"Cynthia Janet Westwood, known at St. Elizabeth's as Janie Wood."
"You—you are Westwood's child?"
She silently bowed her head.
"Oh, Cynthia, Cynthia, if you had but told me before!"
He sank down into his chair again, burying his face in his hands with his elbows on his knees. There was a look of self-abasement, of shame and sorrow in his attitude inexplicable to Cynthia. Finding that he did not speak, she took up her tale again in low, uneven tones.
"I knew that I ought to tell you. I said that I would tell you everything before—before we were married, if ever it came to that. I ought to have done so at once; but it was so difficult. They had changed my name when I went to school so that nobody should know; they told me that it would be a disgrace to have it known. I ran away from St. Elizabeth's because I had been fool enough to let it out. I could not face the girls when they knew that—that my father was called a murderer."
Hubert drew his breath hard. She tried to answer what she thought was the meaning of that strange sound, half moan, half sigh.
"I never called him so," she said. "You will not believe it, of course; but I know that my father would never have done the deed that you attribute to him. He was kind, good, tender-hearted, although he lived in rebellion against some of the ordinary laws of society. There was nothing base or mean about him. If he had killed a man, he would not have told lies about it; he would have said that he had done it and borne the punishment. He was a brave man; he was not a murderer."