"You were right to come to me," he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said as he gazed into the depths of the lustrous dark eyes. "You need have no fear--you will succeed."
Cynthia drew a long breath. Her attitude changed a little; limbs and features seemed to relax, the color died slowly out of her flushed cheeks.
"You mean," she said, in a lower voice, "that you do not think, after all, that I was very wrong--bold, unwomanly, I mean--to speak to you, when I did not know you, in the street last night?"
"I had no claim on you, I know," proceeded the girl, the light of excitement fading out of her face, and the perfect mouth beginning to quiver as she spoke. "It was only a fancy of mine that, as you had seemed to understand so well how dreadful it was to be alone--alone in this great terrible London--you would hold out a helping hand to a girl who only wanted work--just enough to gain her daily bread." She sobbed a little, and put her hand over her eyes.
"Miss West," said Hubert seriously, with a desperate effort to retain a composure which was very hard to keep, "I can only assure you that I shall consider it an honor to be allowed to help in bringing you to the notice of men, who will do far more for you than I can hope to do."
She withdrew her hand from her eyes and looked at him with a brilliant smile, though the tears were still wet on her eyelashes.
"You think I am worth helping?" she said. "And you will help me--you yourself?"
"I will not rest," answered Hubert. "I will work night and day, and give body and soul, and I'll see you a _prima donna_ yet!"
They both laughed, and then, obeying an impulse which stirred their hearts alike, held out their hands to each other and exchanged a friendly grasp.
The little village of Beechfield, like all other villages, had its dark corners where vice and misery reigned supreme. In old times Mr. and Mrs. Rumbold--good people as they were in their own fashion--had been content to leave these darker places to themselves; the decent religious poor of the parish gave them enough to do. But under the new Rector's rule a new system had begun. The Reverend Maurice Evandale thought that his duty lay amongst the lost sheep as well as amongst those already in the fold. If he had been at Beechfield in the days before Sydney Vane's death, he would never have let poor Andrew Westwood and his child remain outcasts from the interests of religious life. He would have visited them, talked to them, persuaded the child to go to school, perhaps even induced the poacher to give up his vagrant ways; at any rate, he would not have let them alone, but would have grappled fearlessly with the difficulties of their position, and with that hostility which seemed to exist between Westwood and the rest of the village. Whether he would have been successful or not it were indeed hard to say, but that he would have made a great effort to be so there can be no manner of doubt.