Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
Loved You Better Than You Knew
_By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller_
HART SERIES NO. 59
COPYRIGHT 1897
BY GEO. MUNRO’S SONS
PUBLISHED BY
THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY
CLEVELAND, O., U. S. A.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Cupid in the Rain 5
II. One Golden Hour 13
III. The Sweet Old Story 21
IV. Breakers Ahead 25
V. Retrospection 29
VI. Rebellion 34
VII. “The Fates Forbid It” 40
VIII. A Dark Secret 45
IX. A Bunch of Roses 51
X. A Feminine Weakness 55
XI. Cinthia’s Elopement 63
XII. Outwitted 69
XIII. Oh, What a Night! 74
XIV. Parted at the Altar 79
XV. “An Eternal Farewell!” 85
XVI. “Oh, What a Time!” 90
XVII. A Deadly Feud 95
XVIII. “Remember That I Loved You Well” 103
XIX. A Tragic Past 109
XX. Love and Loss 113
XXI. A Quarrel with Fate 119
XXII. When Years Had Fled 127
XXIII. “I Can Not Love Again!” 137
XXIV. “The Pangs That Rend My Heart
in Twain!” 144
XXV. “Like an Angel” 147
XXVI. ’Neath Southern Skies 152
XXVII. “Where the Clematis Boughs Intwine” 156
XXVIII. Only Friends 161
XXIX. A Secret Sorrow 169
XXX. Mysteries 172
XXXI. Most Bitterly Bereaved 176
XXXII. “A Cold Gray Life” 181
XXXIII. Puppets of Fate 187
XXXIV. “The Weight of Cruel Years Piled
Into One Long Agony” 192
XXXV. Cinthia’s Betrothal 197
XXXVI. An Obstinate Woman 201
XXXVII. Beyond Forgiveness 208
XXXVIII. Her Side of the Story 214
XXXIX. A Mortal Wound 219
XL. A Late Repentance 224
XLI. “The Greed of Gold” 230
XLII. In the Sunshine 235
* * * * *
Loved You Better Than You Knew
CHAPTER I. CUPID IN THE RAIN.
“Love! It began with a glance,
Grew with the growing flowers,
Smiled in a dreamful trance,
Recked not the passage of hours.
“Grief! It began with a word,
Grew with the winds that raved,
A prayer for pardon unheard,
Pardon in turn uncraved.
The bridge so easy to sever,
The stream so swift to be free,
Till the brook became a river,
And the river became a sea.
“Life! It began with a sigh,
Grew with the leaves that are dead,
Its pleasures with wings to fly,
Its sorrows with wings of lead.”
Could one lift the impenetrable veil of mystery that hides the future
from our curious eyes, what secrets would often be revealed, what
shadows would fall upon hearts now light and thoughtless--shadows of
grief, of horror, and despair!
“It is better not to know,” agree both the poets and sages.
Beautiful Cinthia Dawn did not think of that as she drummed upon the
window-pane that rainy autumn day, exclaiming rebelliously:
“I wish something would happen to break up the dreadful monotony of my
life.”
Widow Flint, who was her aunt and guardian, and as crabbed and crusty
as her name, looked at her with dismay, and retorted:
“Some people don’t know when they’re well off. You have enough to eat,
to drink, and to wear, and a good home. What more do you want?”
The girl looked at the dingy sitting-room, her own shabby gray gown,
then out at the dismal landscape, blurred by the rain and low-hanging
clouds, with something like frank contempt, and answered, recklessly:
“I want pretty clothes and jewels, beautiful surroundings, gay times,
and lovers, such as other girls have instead of this humdrum, poky
existence--so there!”
“Humph!”
It was all Mrs. Flint said aloud, but to herself she added:
“Good land! I do wish my brother would come home from his eternal
wanderings and take charge of his rattled-brained daughter. She’s too
pretty and restless, and I don’t see how I’m going to hold her down
much longer.”
Cinthia Dawn was seventeen now, and ever since she had been given into
her aunt’s sole keeping at five years old, the strait-laced soul, who
was as prim and particular as an old maid, had been engaged in the
difficult task of “holding down” her spirited young niece. She had even
erred on the side of prudence, so great was her anxiety to bring her up
in the way she should go.
When the lovely child first came her aunt said frankly to all:
“I don’t want anybody ever to tell Cinthy that she is pretty.”
“She can find it out for herself by just looking in the glass,”
objected one of her cronies.
“I’ll tend to that,” said Mrs. Flint, crustily, and she furnished her
rooms with cracked and distorted mirrors, whose blurred surfaces gave
back indeed no fair reflection of the child’s beauty.
She carried out her programme further by dressing the child in the
plainest, commonest clothing, and plaiting all her wealth of golden
curls in a single tail down her back, though she could not prevent it
even then from breaking out on her brow and neck in enchanting little
ringlets that a ballroom belle might have envied.
To her dearest crony Mrs. Flint excused her course by saying,
confidentially:
“Cinthy’s mother, who is dead now, was the vainest and prettiest
creature on earth, and she did wicked work with her beauty. I don’t
want to say aught against her now that she is dead; but Cinthy must
have a different raising, that’s all. My brother said so when he put
her in my charge. ‘Bring her up good and simple in your old-fashion
way, Rebecca,’ was what he said.”
“That’s right. ‘Favor is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a woman that
feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.’ That’s Cinthy’s Bible verse,
and I hope she’ll live up to it,” returned the good crony, Deacon
Rood’s wife.
So Cinthia Dawn was reared simply and plainly almost to severity. She
received her education at the public school, and at home helped her
aunt with the house-work. Surreptitiously she read poetry and novels.
Such a simple, quiet life--just like thousands and thousands of
others--but Cinthia was outgrowing it now. She was seventeen--the most
romantic age in the world--and she chafed at the dreariness of her life.
School-days were ended now, and her merry mates had their new gowns,
their dances, and their lovers. There were none of these for Cinthia
Dawn.
Mrs. Flint said her niece was nothing but a child yet, so she was not
permitted to attend parties, and she vowed she had no money to spend on
finery. As for lovers, if she had any, the bravest would not have dared
present himself at Mrs. Flint’s door. She would have said to him as to
the veriest tramp:
“Be off!”
It was just the life to drive a pretty, spirited girl frantic with
impatience of the present, and longings for something better than she
had known--the longing that found impatient expression that afternoon
when she watched the dead leaves flying in sodden drifts beneath the
chill November rain.
After Mrs. Flint’s curt rejoinder to her complaints she remained silent
several minutes drumming impatiently on the pane, then burst out:
“Oh, Aunt Beck, don’t you want me to run down to the post-office for
your _Christian Advocate_?”
“In all this storm?”
“Oh, I won’t mind it a bit! I’m in a mood for fighting the elements!”
“Then take your umbrella and overshoes, and hurry back.”
“Yes, aunt.”
Glad to escape from the monotony of the little brown house, she hurried
out into the teeth of the storm, and made her way through the village
streets to the little post-office. The rain blew in her face, and the
wind crimsoned her cheeks and made her dark eyes flash like stars.
Cinthia did not care. In her splendor of youth and health she found it
exhilarating.
But going back, the storm, that had been gathering its forces for a
fiercer onslaught, increased in angry violence.
She had left the paved main street, too, now, and was emerging into the
thinly populated suburbs where her home was situated.
A great gust of wind met her at the corner of a street, taking her
breath with its fierce onslaught, wrapping her damp skirts about her
ankles, and whisking her umbrella from her grasp. She chased it wildly
almost a block, only to see it whirled into the middle of the street
and crushed under the wheels of a heavily loaded farm wagon lumbering
into the little town. Meanwhile, the vagrant wind pelted her with
drifts of dead leaves, and the flood-gates of heaven opened and poured
down torrents of water.
“Take my umbrella, Miss Dawn!” cried the gay musical voice of a young
man who had been chasing her as fast as she flew after the umbrella.
Turning with a quick start, she looked into the face of Arthur
Varian, a new comer in the town, with whom she had recently formed an
acquaintance. His laughing blue eyes were irresistible, and she cried
merrily as she took shelter under the umbrella:
“Didn’t I look comical chasing the parachute? I was hoping no one saw
me. Thank you, but I can not deprive you of it.”
“Then you will let me hold it over you? It is large enough for both,”
stepping along by her side, and giving her the best half of it as
they struggled along against the high wind. “I saw you coming out of
the post-office and have been trying to overtake you ever since. I
thought perhaps you would allow me the pleasure of walking home with
you,” continued Arthur Varian, bending his admiring blue eyes on the
beautiful face by his side--the bright, arch face with its large, soft
dark eyes set off by that aureole of curly golden hair, now blown into
the most enchanting spiral rings by the wind and rain.
He had met her several times before, and he knew enough of her lonely
life to make him sympathize with her forlornness, even if her beauty
had not already charmed him with its girlish perfection.
Cinthia met that glance and looked down with a kindling blush and a
wildly beating heart, for--it was of him she had been thinking when
she uttered her complaints to Mrs. Flint, longing for the privileges
of other young girls of her class that she might have opportunities of
meeting him and winning his heart.
Who could blame her? for Arthur Varian was very winning and
handsome--tall, with wavy brown hair, regular features, a slight
brown mustache, a beautiful mouth--“just made for kissing,” vowed all
the girls--well dressed, and having that indefinable air of ease and
elegance that betokens good breeding joined to prosperity.
Perhaps the fates had heard Cinthia’s longing for something to happen,
for the storm now gathered fresh force, and the darkening earth was
irradiated by a vivid and brilliant flash of lightning, followed by a
terrific thunder peal.
The rain poured out of heaven like a waterfall, and the fierce driving
gale caught the frightened girl up like a feather and tossed her
against the young man’s breast and into his arms, that clasped and held
her protectingly, while all about them the air was darkened with flying
_débris_ and broken branches of trees that swayed, and creaked, and
bent, and crashed in agony beneath the cyclonic force of the elements.
Cinthia was not a coward, but the situation was enough to strike
terror to the bravest heart. The edge of a cyclone had indeed struck
the village, and in almost an instant of time dozens of trees had been
uprooted, several houses unroofed, and the air filled with flying
projectiles, one of which suddenly struck Arthur Varian with such
force that both he and his companion were hurled to the ground. It was
a portion of a tin roof, and cut a gash on the young man’s hand from
which the blood began to stream in a ruddy tide.
In another minute the wind began to abate, and they struggled up to
their feet.
“Oh, you are cut, you are bleeding! and you did it to save me! I saw
you ward off that horrible missile from me with your hand. It must
have killed me had I received the blow, for, as it was, it grazed my
head. Oh, what can I do? Let me bind your hand to stop the blood,”
sobbed Cinthia, unwinding the silk scarf from her neck and wrapping it
tightly, with untaught skill, about his wrist above the wound to stop
the spurting blood.