Cinthia would have slept later than usual that morning but for her
aunt’s hand gently shaking her as she said:
“Get up, Cinthy. Breakfast is almost ready. Put on your Sunday gown,
and try to look your best when you come down-stairs.”
“Is--is--Arthur here--already?” cried the girl, a beautiful flash of
joy illuminating her face.
“Never mind about that; only come down as soon as you can, or the
biscuit will be soggy,” returned the old lady, hurrying out in
trepidation. The sight of the beautiful, happy face made her nervous.
Cinthia hurried her toilet, not taking time to plait her hair, but
letting the bright mass fall in careless waves over the brown cloth
gown--her “Sunday best.”
“How ugly it is!” she cried, with an envious glance at Mrs. Varian’s
finery spread over a chair; then she sped down-stairs, wondering
happily if Arthur had indeed arrived so soon to ask her aunt’s consent.
But a strange man, tall, grave, brown-bearded, stood with his back to
the fire, scanning her with moody blue eyes as she fluttered in, and
Aunt Beck said in nervous tones:
“Your _father_, Cinthy.”
“Oh!” she faltered, in more surprise than joy, and paused, irresolute.
“What a pretty girl you have grown, my dear!” said Everard Dawn,
coming forward and giving her a careless kiss. Then he took her hand
and seated her at the table, saying laughingly that her aunt had been
fretting about the biscuits.
No emotion had been shown on either side. The man seemed indifferent,
with an under-current of repressed agitation; the girl was secretly
wounded and indignant. Her own father! yet he had never shown her a
sign of real love. Between this pair her poor heart had been starved
for tenderness.
A little triumphant thought thrilled her through and through:
“What do I care for his coming or going now? I shall soon be happy with
my darling!”
She was wondrously beautiful this morning, even in the plain dark gown
that simply served as a foil to her fairness. Everard Dawn could not
help from seeing it, and saying to himself:
“What peerless beauty! No wonder Arthur Varian lost his head!”
He felt like groaning aloud, his sudden home-coming had precipitated
him into such a tragic plight, for the task that lay before him was
most bitter.
He could not help from seeing the pride and resentment in her eyes, and
something moved him to say, apologetically:
“I dare say you have been vexed with me for staying away so long,
Cinthia; but I have been working for you, trying to lay aside a little
pile, so that you could enjoy your young ladyhood. You shall have
pretty gowns and pleasures henceforth. Are you not glad?”
It cost him effort to say so much, but there was no gratitude in his
daughter’s proud face, only a mutinous flash of the great dark eyes as
she answered:
“I shall not need your belated kindness now.”
“What do you mean?” impatiently.
“Haven’t you told him, Aunt Beck, about--about--Arthur?” blushing
vividly.
“Yes--yes, dear.”
Cinthia nodded her head at him with a mixture of childish triumph and
womanliness.
“You see,” she said, proudly, “I am going to be married soon. I shall
have a husband who will give me all I want--even,” bitterly, “the love
I have missed all my life!” tears sparkling into her eyes under the
curling lashes.
He felt the keen reproach deeply, and exclaimed, gently and sadly:
“Poor little Cinthia.”
“Not poor now,” she answered, quickly. “It is _rich_ Cinthia now--rich
in Arthur’s love and the certainty of a happy future.”
She meant to be scathing, poor, neglected, wounded Cinthia, but she
could never guess how the words cut into his heart and tortured him
with secret agony--he who meant to lay her love and hopes in ruins, to
blight all the joys of her life by the exercise of a father’s privilege
of breaking her will.
But no shadow crossed his face, no trouble was apparent in his manner
as he laughed easily, and answered:
“Nonsense! you are scarcely more than a child yet--too young to be
dreaming of marriage. I shall send you to school to complete your
education before you can begin to think of lovers.”
“I will not go!” she said rebelliously, with startled eyes upon his
inscrutable face.
“Cinthy!” reproved her aunt.
“I will _not_ go!” the girl repeated, defiantly. “I shall marry Arthur,
as I promised, before Christmas!”
She sprung from her seat and rushed to the window, drumming
tempestuously upon the pane, her habit when greatly excited.
Outside the prospect was dreary. The _débris_ of yesterday’s storm
littered the ground, the limbs of some of the trees hung broken, the
sun was hidden under clouds that hinted at snow.
Mrs. Flint whispered to her brother, apprehensively:
“I told you so. She has a rebellious will, and she thinks you have no
authority over her now, because you stayed away so long.”
“She will find out better about that before long,” he answered,
decisively, though the curious paleness of last night settled again
upon his handsome face.
He went over and stood by Cinthia’s side.
“It will snow before to-morrow,” he said, quietly.
“Yes;” and she looked around at him with a flushed face, crying: “Oh,
papa, you were jesting?”
“No. I can not give you to Arthur Varian, Cinthia. You must forget him,
my dear child.”
“I can not, will not! I should die without him!” passionately.
“No, no, you will soon get over this fancy, for you have known Mr.
Varian but a little time, and to-morrow I shall take you away from this
place, and amid new surroundings you will forget the face that dazzled
you here.”
“I will never forget Arthur, nor will I go away!” she protested.
“You can not set at naught a father’s authority, Cinthia.”
“I disclaim it, I defy it! You have given me neither love nor care,
so you forfeit every right! Oh, I am sorry you ever came back here!”
stormed the angry girl.
“Cinthy, Cinthy, come and help me with the work!” her aunt called,
sharply; and she left him with the mien of an offended princess.
He took refuge in a cigar, and smoked moodily, till the click of the
gate-latch made him look up, with a face working with emotion, at a
handsome, elegantly clad young man walking up to the door.
Cinthia had gone upstairs to make the beds, and her aunt went to admit
the caller.
In a minute she ushered him into the little sitting-room, saying
nervously:
“Mr. Varian--my brother, Mr. Dawn.”