Contrary to the doctor's expectations, Hubert survived the crisis of his fever, and passed at last into the convalescent stage; though very weak, he was pronounced to be out of danger, and he began to grow stronger every day. But, as every one who had known him in happier days had reason to remark, he bore himself like an utterly broken-hearted, broken-spirited man. It seemed as if he would never hold up his head again—all hope went from him when Cynthia left his side.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
Cynthia had, as Sabina suspected, gone straight to her father when she left Russell Square. Some time before he had let her know that he was still in England, and had sent her his address, warning her however not to visit him unless she was obliged to do so. On this occasion she had almost forgotten his warning; she went to him as a child often goes to its parents, more for comfort than for absolute protection; and he was astonished, as well as alarmed, when she flung herself into his arms and wept on his shoulder, calling him now and then by all sorts of endearing names, but refusing to explain to him the reason of her visit or of her grief.
"It's not that man that you're fond of, is it, my dearie? He hasn't played you false, has he?"
"No, father, no—not in the way you mean."
"He ain't worse—dying or anything?"
"Oh, no!"—with a sudden constriction of the heart, which might have told her how dear Hubert was to her still.
"Then you've quarrelled?"
"I suppose we have," said Cynthia, with an unnatural hysterical laugh. "Oh, yes—we have quarrelled, and we shall never see each other any more!"