Her father sat looking at her with a troubled face.
"If your mother hadn't forgiven me many and many a time, Cynthia," he said at last, "I should have gone to destruction long before she died. But as long as ever she lived she kept me straight."
"She was your wife," said Cynthia, in a choked voice. "I am not Hubert's wife—and I never shall be now. Never mind, father; we were right to separate, and I am glad that we have done it. Now will you tell me where you are thinking of going, or if you have made any plans?"
Westwood shook his head.
"I've got no plans, my dear—except to slip out at the door, early to-morrow morning. Where I go next I am sure I do not know."
Cynthia resolutely banished the thought of her own affairs, and set herself to consider possibilities. Her mind reverted again and again to the Jenkins family. Their connection with Hubert made it seem a little dangerous to have anything to do with them at present; and yet Cynthia was inclined to trust Tom Jenkins very far. He was thoroughly honest and true, and he was devoted to her service; but, after some reflection, she abandoned this idea. If she and her father were to be together, she had better seek some place where her own face was unknown and her father's history forgotten. After a little consideration, she remembered some people whom she had heard of in the days of her engagement at the Frivolity. They let lodgings in an obscure street in Clerkenwell; and, as they were quiet inoffensive folk, Cynthia thought that she and her father might be as safe with them as elsewhere. She did not urge her father to leave England at present; for she had a vague feeling that she ought not to cut him off from the chance—a feeble chance, but still a chance—of being cleared by Hubert Lepel's confession. She had not much hope; and yet it seemed to her possible that Hubert might choose to tell the truth at last, and that she could but hope that, having confessed to her, he might also confess to the world at large, and show that Westwood was an innocent and deeply injured man.
She stayed the night, sleeping on a little sofa in the sitting-room; but early the next day they went out together, making one of the early morning "flittings" to which Westwood was accustomed; and Cynthia took her father to his new lodgings in Clerkenwell.
For some days she did not go out again. Excitement and the shock of Hubert's confession had for once disorganised her splendid health. She felt strangely weak and ill, and lay in her bed without eating or speaking, her face turned to the wall, her head throbbing, her hands and feet deathly cold. Westwood watched her anxiously and wanted her to have a doctor; but Cynthia refused all medical advice. She was only worn out with nursing, she said, and needed a long rest; she would be better soon.
One day when she had got up, but had not yet ventured out of doors, her father came into her room with a bunch of black grapes which he had brought for her to eat.
"How good you are, father!" Cynthia said gratefully.