CHAPTER X.
Eight years had passed away since the tragedy that brought the little village of Beechfield into luckless notoriety. During those eight years what changes had taken place! Even at quiet rustic Beechfield many things had come to pass. Old Mr. Rumbold had been gathered to his fathers, and Mrs. Rumbold had gone to live with friends in London. The new Rector was young, energetic, good-looking, and unmarried. At the Hall there were changes too. Enid Vane had grown from a delicate child into a lovely girl of seventeen. The house was no longer chill and desolate—brightness seemed to have come back to it with her growth—a brightness which even the General, saddened as he had been by his brother's death, could not resist. He had taken his own way of contributing to the cheerfulness of the Hall. Six months after Mrs. Sydney Vane's death he had married Florence Lepel, as Miss Vane had predicted that he would, and a little boy of five years old was now running about the Hall gardens and calling the General "father." The old man positively adored this little lad, and believed him to be perfection. He was fond of Enid and of his wife, but he doated on the child. He seemed indeed to love him more than did the mother of the boy. Florence Lepel was not perhaps of a very loving disposition, but it was remarkable that she apparently almost disliked little Dick. She never petted or fondled the child—sometimes she rebuked him very angrily. And yet he was docile, sweet-tempered, and quick-witted, though not particularly handsome; but Florence had never liked children, and she made her own son no exception to the rule.
Eight years had changed Florence very little in outward appearance. She was still pale, slender, graceful—languid in manner, slow in speech, and given to the reading of French novels. But there were dark shades beneath her velvety brown eyes, as if she suffered from ill-health. She had taken to lying on a sofa a great deal; she did not visit much, and she seldom allowed any festivity at the Hall. She remained in her boudoir for the greater part of the day, with the rose-colored blinds down, and the doors carefully closed and curtained to exclude any sound of the outer world; and while she was up-stairs the General and his niece Enid and the boy had the house to themselves, and enjoyed their liberty extremely. In the afternoon Mrs. Vane would be found in her drawing-room, ready for visitors; but she generally returned to her boudoir for a rest before dinner, and steadily see her face against late hours in the evening. Nobody knew what was the matter with her; some people spoke vaguely of her "nerves," of the extreme delicacy and sensitiveness of her organisation—some said that Beechfield did not suit her, and others whispered that she had never been "quite right" since her baby was born. At any rate, she was a semi-invalid; and she did not seem to know what was the matter with her any more than did other people. She sat in her luxurious lounging-chair, or lay on the softest of sofas, day after day without complaint, always pale, silent, graceful—an habitual smile, sweet and weary, upon her pinched lips, but no smile in her eyes, where a fire sometimes glowed which seemed to be burning her very life away.
One balmy September afternoon she had established herself rather earlier than usual in the drawing-room. A bright little fire burned in the polished steel grate—for Florence was always chilly—but the windows were open; a faint breeze from the terrace swept into the room and moved the lace curtains gently to and fro. The blinds were half drawn down, so that the room was not very light; the shadowed perfumed atmosphere was grateful after the brightness of the autumn afternoon.
Florence Vane sat in a low arm-chair near the fire. She had a small table beside her, on which stood her dainty work-basket, half full of colored silks, her embroidery patterns, a novel, a gold vinaigrette, and a French fan. She had cushions at her back, a footstool for her feet, a soft white shawl on her shoulders. It was very plain that she liked to make herself comfortable. She wore a gown of pale blue silk embroidered in silver—a most artistic garment, which suited her to perfection, and which was as soft and luxurious as the rest of her surroundings. The white cat which lay curled up on the rug at her feet could not have looked more at her ease.
In a chair opposite to her sat a man of rather more than thirty, who looked thirty-five or even forty when the little light from the curtained windows fell upon his dark face, and showed the gray threads that were beginning to appear in his moustache. If he had been a woman, he would have sat with his back to the window, as Florence was doing now. But Hubert Lepel was not at all the man to think about his appearance, or to regret the fact, if he did think about it, that he looked more than his age. He had found it rather an advantage to him during the last few years.
Florence had not seen him for some time, and she commented silently and acutely on the change in his appearance. He had a subtle face, she thought—keen, stern, sardonic—too deeply furrowed for a man of his years, too haggard to be exactly handsome, but certainly very interesting, especially to the mind of a woman who had seen little of the world. This was as it should be. She smiled to herself; she was a born plotter, and she had a scheme for Hubert's benefit now. It was only fair that he should partake of the good fortune that had fallen to her lot.
"It was kind of you to come," she was saying languidly, "for I know that you don't care for Beechfield."
"No," he said; "I prefer London on the whole."
"And foreign travel. It is quite extraordinary to think how little you have been in England for the last few years! I have not seen you for—how long, Hubert?"