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She wished, in her bitterness, that she were free to rise from her seat and cry aloud "Yes, look at me listen to me for I am Westwood's daughter! I am the child of a felon and escaped convict, a man whom you call a murderer and I am proud of my name!" Curiously enough, Miss Vane touched closely upon this subject before long.
Here, little girl here is my shilling; it's the only one I've got, and it has a hole in it, but you may have it, and then you can get yourself something to eat in the village." She dashed forward with the coin, eluding a movement of Miss Vane's hand designed to stop her in her course. The shilling lay in Jenny Westwood's grimy little hand before the lady could interfere.
Abstract justice would be done, no doubt, and Westwood's character would be cleared; but that was all. He ought to have spoken earlier if he meant to do good by speaking. Confession, he said to himself would be self-indulgence now. Hubert Lepel was wonderfully well versed, in subtle turns of argument in casuistry of the abstruser kind.
The one reservation made by the Rector's wife referred to the person or persons who were to pay the child's expenses. Their names, she said emphatically, were never to be mentioned. The good Sister smiled, and thought to herself that the very reservation told its own story. Of course it was the Vanes who were thus providing for Cynthia Westwood's continued absence from their village.
Her sombre black dress and the sunshine that poured down upon the spot where she was standing contributed to the dazzling effect produced by her golden hair and white skin. There could not have been a greater contrast than that between her and Andrew Westwood's daughter, upon whom at that moment Hubert Lepel's eyes were fixed.
"Are you so proud, Cynthia, that you cannot bear me to have helped you a little? My love, I did not know, I never guessed that you were Westwood's daughter. But can you never forgive me for having done my best for you. Do you think I love you one whit the less?" "Oh, I see you think that I am ungenerous," cried Cynthia, "and that it is my pride which stands in your way!
He was walking about the room, muttering to himself, his lips protruding, his brow wrinkled with anger and disgust. "Too bad too bad!" Cynthia heard him say. "Westwood's daughter nursing Hubert too! Tut, tut a bad business this!" Cynthia resolved upon a bold stroke she would address him. "Sir," she said, taking a step towards him, "will you listen to me for a moment?
And then she lapsed once more into her former state of silence and sullenness; and Hubert left her with a smile of farewell and a secret aspiration that he might not see her again; for it seemed to him that he could never look upon the face of Andrew Westwood's daughter without a pang. He decided to catch the seven o'clock train to London. "You'll be late for your engagement, I am afraid," Mrs.
Lepel, and very kind of Miss Vane too, to interest yourselves in the fate of Andrew Westwood's daughter very Christian, I am sure!" "I don't know that," said Hubert, somewhat awkwardly. "I fancy that my cousin simply wishes to get the child away from the place before the General is well enough to go out again I suppose he knows her by sight.
He haunted the doors of theatres, the courts and alleys of East London, looking sombrely for a face which he would not have known if he had seen it. He fancied that Andrew Westwood's daughter would bear her history in her eyes the great dark eyes that he remembered as her sole beauty when she was a child.
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