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