The tears were rolling down her own cheeks as she spoke. Cynthia surrendered her hand to Enid's clasp, and listened as if she were in a dream—a pleasant beautiful dream, too good to last.
"We may perhaps be divided all our lives," said Enid, "because of things that happened when we were children—things that you cannot help any more than I. But, as far as it is possible, I want always to be your friend. Think of me as your friend—will you not, Cynthia?"
"If I may," said Cynthia.
"I shall always remember you," Enid went on. "And I do not think that it was wrong for you to love Hubert, or for him to love you—and he does love you, does he not? You need not be afraid to tell me, because I came here chiefly for one thing—to tell him that I cannot marry him, and to ask him to set me free."
"Not for my sake?" said Cynthia, trembling from head to foot.
"Not for your sake, dear, but for my own," said Enid, taking both her hands and looking straight into Cynthia's tear-filled eyes; "because I have been as unfaithful to him as I think that he has been to me—and I have given my heart away to some one else. I am going to marry Mr. Evandale, the Rector of Beechfield."
The two girls were standing thus, hand-in-hand, the eyes of each fixed on the other's face, when the door of communication with the next room was suddenly opened. Hubert stood there, leaning on Jenkins' arm—for he was still exceedingly weak—and the start of surprise which he gave when he saw Enid and Cynthia was uncontrollable. Cynthia dropped Enid's hand and turned away; there was something in her face which she could not bear to have seen. Enid advanced towards her cousin, and held out her hand in quiet friendly greeting.
CHAPTER XLVI.
"I have come to answer your note myself," said Enid to her cousin, as he made his way with faltering steps into the room. "I hope that you are better now?"