"Yes, Maurice—I promise you."
"And one more thing, my own dearest. When that nightmare attacks you again, try to conquer your fear of it. Do not lie still; rise up and see what it really is. You may find that your dreamy state has misled you, and that what you took for a threatening figure is merely that of a servant, who has had orders to come and see whether you were sleeping or not. Nightmares often resolve themselves into very harmless things. And of the supernatural I do not think that you need be alarmed; God is always near you—He will not suffer you to be frightened by phantoms of the night. Remember when you wake that I shall be thinking of you—praying for you. I am often up very late, and I do not sleep heavily. I shall probably be awake thinking of you, or I may be praying for you, darling, in my very dreams. Will you think of that and try to be brave?"
"I feel braver now," said the girl simply. "Yes, Maurice, I will do all you ask. I do not think that I shall feel afraid again."
He left her soon afterwards, and returned on the following morning, to hear, not with surprise, that she had slept better, that she had had no nightmare, and that she suffered less from nausea and faintness than usual. Mrs. Vane was away for a second night, and he had time to see Enid again before her return. She had not touched her medicine-bottles, and there was again a slight but marked improvement in her condition. Mr. Evandale induced her to fetch one of the bottles of Mr. Ingledew's mixture, which he put into his pocket and conveyed it to his own home. Here he smelt, tasted, and to some extent analysed it. The result was such as to plunge him for a short time into deep and troubled thought.
"I expected it," he said at last, with an impatient sigh. "The symptoms were those of digitalis-poisoning. There is not enough in this concoction to do her much harm however. It is given to her in some other form—in that lemonade at night perhaps. Well, I shall soon see whether my suspicions are correct when Mrs. Vane comes home."
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Cynthia, unconscious of the plots of which she was at present the innocent centre, was meanwhile contending with a sensation of profound discouragement, mental and physical. She had a severe headache, and was deeply depressed in spirits. She had lain awake almost entirely for two nights trying to reconcile her ideal of Hubert with the few words that had escaped him—words which surely pointed to a darker knowledge, a deadlier guilt than any which her love could of itself have attributed to him. Had he known then all the time that her father was not a murderer? Was her father's theory correct? Had he been screening his sister at the poor working-man's expense? Cynthia's blood ran cold at the thought, for, in that case, what side was she to take? She could not abandon her father—she might abandon Hubert; but, strange mystery of a woman's heart, she could not love him less. What she could do she knew not. For Enid's sake indeed she had set him free; but in the hour of her anguish she questioned her right to do so; for surely, if he knew more of the manner of Sydney Vane's death than the world knew, there was even a greater barrier between him and Enid than between him and Cynthia herself. Enid would give him up—Cynthia felt sure of that; and, if she gave him up too, he would be indeed alone. The world might say that he deserved his loneliness; but she could not take the world's view. To her the man that she loved was sacred; his faults were to be screened, his crimes forgiven. Whatever he did, she could never cease to love him. So she said to herself; but, after all, her hour of trial had not come; she did not know as yet all that Hubert Lepel had done.
She had seen Hubert leave her with a sensation of the deepest dismay. She felt that a crisis had come and gone, and that in some way she had failed to turn it to the best account. In spite of her expressed resolve to see Hubert no more, she was disappointed that he did not return to her. She expected to see him on the following day—to remark his face at a concert where she was to sing on the Wednesday evening. He had left her on a Tuesday; she was sure that she would get a letter from him on Thursday. But Thursday was almost over, and she had neither seen nor heard from him. Had he resolved to give her up? Was he ill? Why had she not heard a word from him since Tuesday? She racked her brain to discover a cause for his silence other than her own wild appeal to him; for she did not believe that that alone would suffice to keep him away. But it was all of no avail.
Another source of anxiety for her lay in the fact that she had also not heard from her father since Tuesday morning. She did not know whether he had left Mrs. Gunn's house or not, and did not like to risk the sending of a letter. That he trusted far too much to his disguise Cynthia was well aware. His rashness made her sometimes quiver all over with positive fright when she thought of it. He was running a terrible risk—and for what cause? At first, simply because he wanted to see his daughter; now because he fancied that he had found a clue to the murderer of Sydney Vane—a slight, faint, elusive clue, but one which seemed to him worth following up. And Cynthia, who at first had hesitated to leave England, would now have been glad to start with him at once, if only she could get him away. She began to fear that he would stay at any risk.