“Oh, you two are here together!” There was a note of surprise in Miss Vane’s voice as she turned the corner of a great group of foliage-plants, and came upon brother and sister at the open library window. “I could not tell what had become of either of you. If you have finished your conversation” with a sharp glance from Florence’s wet eyelashes to Hubert’s pale agitated face “I have work for both of you. Florence, Enid has been alone all the morning; do take the child for a walk and let her have a little fresh air! And I want you to go for a stroll with me, Hubert; the General is sleeping quietly, and I have two or three things to consult you about before I go up to Marion.”

The sudden gleam in Florence’s eyes, quickly as it was concealed, did not escape Miss Leonora’s notice as she moved away.

“What’s the matter with Flossy?” she asked abruptly, stopping to throw over her head a black-lace scarf which she had been carrying on her arm. “She has been crying.”

“She feels the trouble that has come upon us all, I suppose,” said Hubert rather awkwardly. He pressed forward a little, so as to hold open the conservatory door for his aunt. He was glad of the opportunity of averting his face for a moment from the scrutiny of her keen eyes.

“That is not all,” said Miss Vane, as she quitted the great glass-house, with its wealth of bloom and perfume, for the freshness of the outer air. She struck straight across the sunny lawn, leaving the house behind. “That is not all. Come away from the house I don’t want what I have to say to you to be overheard, and walls have ears sometimes. Your sister Florence, Hubert, was never remarkable for a very feeling heart. She is, and always was, the most unsympathetic person I ever knew.”

“She has perhaps greater depth of feeling than we give her credit for,” said Hubert, thinking of certain words that had been said, of certain scenes on which his eyes had rested in by-gone days.

“Not she excuse me! Hubert, I know that she is your sister, and that men do not like to hear their sisters spoken against; but I must remind you that Florence lived ten years under my roof, and that a woman is more likely to understand a girl’s nature than a young man.”

“I never pretended to understand Florence,” said Hubert helplessly; “she got beyond me long ago.”

“She is a good deal older than you, my dear, and she has had more experiences than she would like to have known. How do I know? I only guess, but I am certain of what I say. She is nine-and-twenty, and she has been out in the world for the last eight years. There is no telling what she may not have gone through in that space of time.”

Hubert was dumb it was not in his power just then to contradict his aunt’s assertions.

“I would gladly have kept her under the shelter of my roof,” said Miss Vane, pursuing the tenor of her thoughts without much reference to her listener’s condition of mind; “but you know as well as I do that she refused to live with me after she was twenty-one would be a governess. Ugh! Wonder how she liked it?”

“She seemed to like it very well; she stayed four years in Russia.”

“Yes, and hoped to get married there, but failed. I know Flossy. She must have mismanaged matters frightfully, for she is an attractive girl. She went to Scotland then for a year or two, you know, and was engaged for a time to that young Scotch laird I never heard why the engagement was broken off.”

“Why are you deep in these reminiscences, aunt Leonora?” asked Hubert, with an uneasiness which he tried to conceal by a nervous little laugh. “I should have thought that you would be absorbed in anxiety for the General; and, as for me, I want to know what the doctor says about the dear old boy.”

“I am absorbed in anxiety for him,” said Miss Vane decisively; “and that is just why I am calling these little details of Florence’s history to your mind. As to the General’s health, the doctor says that we may be easier about it now than we have been for many a day. The crisis that we have been expecting has come and passed, and we may be thankful that he is no worse. If he keeps quiet, he will be about again in a few days, and may not have another attack for years.”

“And Marion?”

“Ah, poor Marion! She is not long for this world, Hubert. I must be back with her at twelve. Till then the nurse has possession and I am free. Poor soul! It is a dark ending to what seemed a bright enough life. Her mind has failed of late as much as her body.”

Hubert could not reply.

“Sit down here,” said Miss Vane, as they reached a rustic seat beneath a great copper-beech-tree on the farther side of the lawn. “Here we can see the house and be seen from it; if they want me, they will know where to find me. I am not speaking at random, Hubert; there is a thing that I want to say to you about your sister Florence.”

Hubert seated himself at her side with a thrill of positive fear. Had she some accusation to bring against his sister? He was miserably conscious that he was quite unprepared to defend her against any accusation whatsoever.

“What I mean first of all to say,” Miss Vane proceeded, looking straight before her at the house, “is that Florence is a girl of an unusual character. She looks very mild and meek, but she is not mild and meek at all. Most girls are, on the whole, affectionate and well-principled and timid; Flossy is not one of the three.”

“You are surely hard on her!”

“No, I am not. Long ago I made up my mind that she wanted to get married; that is nothing every girl of her disposition wants more or less to be married. But I came across a piece of information the other day which made me feel almost glad that poor Sydney’s life ended as it did. There was danger ahead.”

“It is all done with now,” said Hubert hurriedly; “why should you rake up the past? Cannot it be left alone?”

He was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his chin supported by his hands, a look of settled gloom upon his face. Miss Vane’s eyes flashed.

“You know what I mean then?” she said sharply.

Hubert started into an upright position, crossed his arms, and looked her imperturbably in the face.

“I have not the slightest idea of what you are going to say.”

“You know something, nevertheless,” said Miss Vane, with equal composure. “Well, I don’t ask you to betray your sister. I only wish to mention that, in looking over my brother Sydney’s papers the other day, I came across a letter from Florence which I consider extremely compromising. It was written from Scotland while she was still engaged to that young laird, but it showed plainly that some sort of understanding subsisted between her and Sydney Vane. They must have met several times without the knowledge of any other member of our family; and it seems that she proffered her services to Marion as Enid’s governess at his instigation. What do you think of that?”

“I think,” said Hubert deliberately, “that Florence has always proved herself something of a plotter, and that the letter shows that she was scheming to get a good situation. You can’t possibly make anything more out of it, aunt Leonora” with a stormy glance. “I think you had better not try.”

Miss Vane sat for a moment or two in deep meditation.

“Well,” she said at length, “that may be true, and I may be an old fool. Perhaps I ought not to betray the girl to her brother either; but

“Oh, say the worst and get it over, by all means!” said Hubert desperately, “Out with your accusation, if you have any to make!”

Leonora Vane studied his face for a minute or two before replying. She did not like the withered paleness about his mouth, the look of suffering that was so evident in his haggard eyes.

“It is hardly an accusation, Hubert,” she said, with sudden gentleness. “I mean that I believe that she was in love as far as a girl of her disposition can be in love with my brother Sydney. I need not tell you how I have come to think so. In the first hours of our great loss she betrayed herself. To me only you need not be afraid that she would ever wear her heart upon her sleeve, but to me she did betray her secret. Whether Sydney returned her affection or not I am not quite sure for his wife’s sake, I hope not.”

Again she looked keenly at her young kinsman; but he, with his eyes fixed upon the ground and his lips compressed, did not seem disposed to make any remark on what she had said.

“I felt sorry for the girl,” Miss Vane went on, “although I despised her weakness in yielding to an affection for a married man. Still I thought that her folly had brought its own punishment, and that I ought not to be hard on her. Otherwise I should have recommended her to leave Sydney’s daughter alone, and get a situation in another house. I wish I had. I cannot express too strongly to you, Hubert, how much I now wish I had!”

“Why?”

“I misunderstood her,” said his cousin slowly. “I thought that she had a heart, and that she was grieving innocently perhaps over Sydney’s death.”

“Well, was she not?”

“I don’t think so. If she ever cared for him at all, it was because she wanted the ease and luxury that he could give her. For, if she cared for him, Hubert I put it to you as a matter of probability could she immediately after his death begin to plan a marriage with somebody else?”

Hubert looked up at last, with a startled expression upon his face.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, my dear boy, that your sister Florence now wants to marry the General.”

In spite of his distress of mind, Hubert could not stifle a short laugh.

“Aunt Leonora, you are romancing! This is really too much!”

“I should not mention it to you if I had not good reason,” said Miss Vane, with a series of mysterious nods. “I have sharp eyes, Hubert, and can see as far as most people. I repeat it Florence wants to marry the General.”

“She will not do that.”

“I am not sure if she is left here when I am gone. I must go back to London at some time or other, I suppose. But it won’t do to leave Flossy in possession.”

“She would not think of staying, surely, if

“If poor Marion died? Yes, she would. Believe me, I know what I am saying. I have watched her manner to him for the last few weeks, and I feel sure of it. She has her own ends in view.”

“I have no doubt of that,” said Hubert, rather bitterly. “But what are we to do?”

“Let our wits work against hers,” replied Miss Vane briskly. “If poor Marion dies, we must suggest to the General that Enid should go to school. In that way we may get Florence out of the house without a scene. But mark my words, Hubert she will not go until she is forced. She is my second cousin once removed and your sister, but for all that she is a scheming unprincipled intriguer and adventuress, who has never brought and never will bring good to any house in which she lives. You may try to get her away to London if you like, but you’ll never succeed.”

“I have tried already; I thought that she would be better with me,” said Hubert. “But it was of no use.”

“You offered her a home? You are a good fellow, Hubert! You have always been a good brother to Florence, and I honor you for it,” said Miss Vane heartily.

“Don’t say so, aunt Leo; I’m not worth it,” said the young man, starting up and walking two or three paces from her, then returning to her side. “I only wish that I could do more for her poor Florence!”

“Poor Florence indeed!” echoed Miss Vane, with tart significance. “But I must go, Hubert. See her again, and persuade her, if you can, to leave Beechfield. Don’t tell her what I have said to you. She is suspicious already and will want to know. Did you notice the look she gave me when I said that I wished to talk to you? Be on your guard.”

“I shall not have time to talk with her much. I must go back to London by the four o’clock train.”

“Must you? Well, do your best. See the blind is drawn up in Marion’s dressing-room a sign that I am wanted;” and Miss Vane turned towards the house.

Hubert’s anticipations were verified. Florence was not to be persuaded by anything that he could say. And, when he begged her to tell him why she wanted so much to stay at Beechfield, and hinted at the reason that existed in Miss Leonora’s mind, Florence only laughed him to scorn. He was obliged sorrowfully to confess to Miss Vane, when she walked with him that afternoon before he set out for London, that he had obtained no information concerning Flossy’s plans, and that he could hope to have no influence over her movements.

He had five minutes to spare, and was urging her to walk with him a little way along the road that led to the nearest railway-station, when Miss Vane’s attention was arrested by two little figures in the middle of the road. She stopped short, and pointed to them with her parasol.

“Hubert,” she cried, in a voice that was hoarse with dismay, “do you see that?”

“I see Enid,” said Hubert rather wonderingly. “I suppose she ought not to be here alone; she must have escaped from Florence. Why are you so alarmed? She is talking to a beggar-child that is all.”

Miss Vane pressed his arm with her hand.

“Are you blind?” she said. “Do you not know to whom she is talking? Can you bear to see it?”

“Upon my soul, aunt Leo,” said the young man, “I don’t know what you mean!”

He looked at the scene before him. The white country road stretched in an undulating line to right and left, its smooth surface mottled with patches of sunlight and tracts of refreshing shade. A broad margin of grass on either side, tall hedges of hawthorn and hazel, soothed the eye that might be wearied with the glare and whiteness of the road. On one of these grassy margins two children were standing face to face. Hubert recognised his little cousin Enid Vane, but the other a sunburnt, gipsy-looking creature, with unkempt hair and ragged clothes who could she be?

“You were at the trial,” Miss Vane whispered to him, in dismayed, reproachful tones. “Do you not know her? it is no fault of hers, poor child, of course; and yet it does give me a shock to see poor little Enid talking in that friendly way with the daughter of her father’s murderer.”

For the child was no other than little Jenny Westwood, whom Hubert had seen for a few minutes only at her father’s trial three weeks before.