Arthur Varian gave a slight start of surprise as he was presented to
Mr. Dawn, but the latter, more prepared for the encounter, bowed with
gracious courtesy, frankly shook hands with the visitor, and pushed
forward a chair.
Then they looked at each other silently a moment, and that glance
prepossessed each in favor of the other--a natural sequence for Arthur,
since he guessed that his new acquaintance must be Cinthia’s father.
They conversed several moments on indifferent subjects, both rather
grave and constrained, with a feeling of something serious in the air,
then Arthur came to the point with manly frankness:
“I have found you here most opportunely this morning, Mr. Dawn. I came
to see Mrs. Flint on a particular subject, but of course you are the
proper person to consult,” ingratiatingly.
“Cinthia has already told me of your suit for her hand, Mr. Varian,”
gently helping him out, as if anxious for it to be over.
“You know, then, that I love your daughter--that she has promised me
her hand. I can give you every assurance, sir, of my possession of
those requisites every good man wishes to find in a suitor for his
daughter. I am rich, of the best blood of the South, my character
irreproachable. May I hope to have your approval?”
He spoke diffidently, yet eagerly and with superb manliness, his
dark-blue eyes shining with hope, his cheek glowing with honest pride
that he had so much to offer to the lady of his choice. Without vanity,
he knew that he was, in worldly parlance, an eligible _parti_. No
thought of refusal crossed his mind.
Yet Everard Dawn was slow in replying to what many might have
considered a compliment.
His eyes rested steadily and gravely on Cinthia’s lover, while his
cheek paled to an ashen hue, and the hand that rested on his knee
trembled as with an ague chill.
Arthur Varian noticed these signs of deep agitation, and attributed
them to parental love. He added, gently:
“It seems cruel to harass you, almost in the first moment of your
return, with this matter; but it is not as if I proposed taking Cinthia
away from you immediately. We had planned for a Christmas wedding.”
“This is the first of November, Mr. Varian,” he reminded him, coldly.
“Yes, sir; so it would be almost two months before I took Cinthia
away,” smilingly.
“My daughter is too young to marry yet. I came home to place her at
a convent school in Canada for two years, not dreaming that she had
notions of lovers in her childish head,” Everard Dawn continued,
gravely.
“You see, sir, we have made other plans,” said Arthur, lightly, not
taking him _au serieux_.
To his surprise, Mr. Dawn answered, frigidly:
“Of course, those plans made without my consent do not carry.”
Arthur began to grow excited by the portentous gravity of the other. He
exclaimed, almost pleadingly:
“Mr. Dawn, you do not surely mean that you will make me wait two years
for Cinthia?”
And to his utter horror and despair, the gentleman replied slowly,
sadly, and gravely, as if every word cost him a pang:
“No, I do not wish you to wait for Cinthia, Arthur Varian, for the
truth may as well be known to you first as last, cruel as it must seem
at first. Believe me, I am sorry for your disappointment, and I hope
your fancy for Cinthia has not taken very deep root, for--she can never
be your wife.”
“Mr. Dawn!”
Arthur Varian sprung to his feet, and faced the speaker, with such
a grief and amazement on his handsome face as might have melted the
sternest heart.
“Mr. Dawn, you can not surely mean this refusal! What reasons could
exist for deliberately wrecking two fond, loving hearts?”
“Unfortunately, the reasons exist; but such as they are, I can not
explain them, Mr. Varian.”
Arthur cried out, eagerly:
“If you are offended at my impatience to claim Cinthia for my own, I
will agree to wait the two years you mentioned, or even more. Nay, so
deep and constant is my love, that I would rather serve seven years
for her, as Jacob did for Rachel, than lose the dear hope of winning
her at last for my own.”
Everard Dawn rose from his chair, and grasping the back, to still the
great trembling of his frame, answered, with passionate energy:
“Arthur Varian, there can never be a marriage between you and my
daughter. The fates forbid it, the unknown forces that control your
life and hers cry out upon it. You must forget each other, for your
love is the most ill-fated and hopeless the world ever knew. Arguments
and entreaties are alike useless. You will believe that I am in
terrible earnest when I tell you that I would sooner see my daughter
dead than give her to you as a bride.”
“This is strange--passing strange, Mr. Dawn,” the young man uttered,
indignantly, yet still not as angrily as might have been expected.
A subtle something about the man, with his grave, sad, handsome visage,
claimed his respectful admiration, in spite of the mystery that
surrounded his rejection of his daughter’s suitor.
“It is strange, but true,” answered Everard Dawn, wearily; and he
added: “Do not let us prolong this most painful conversation. Nothing
can change the decrees of relentless fate.”
Arthur felt himself politely dismissed, and turned toward the door.
“You will at least permit me a parting interview with Cinthia?” he
murmured.
“You must forego it. It is better so. To-morrow she leaves this place
with me forever. Your two lives must never cross again!”
With a heart full of pain, and anger, and silent rebellion, the young
man bowed, and walked out of the house; but ere he reached the gate,
he heard flying footsteps behind him, and turned to greet Cinthia,
bareheaded and breathless, her cheeks pale, the tears hanging on the
curly fringe of her dark lashes.
She clasped her tiny hands around his arm, reckless of her father’s
eyes watching disapprovingly from the window, and murmured:
“Well?”
“He refuses his consent, Cinthia, and says he will take you away
to-morrow where we shall never meet again.”
“Arthur, you will never let him do it; you will not forsake me if you
love me!” wildly, passionately.
“My darling, you know I can not live without you! Would you elope with
me?”
“Yes, yes!” she began, eagerly; but just then her father appeared at
the door.
“Cinthia, you must come in out of the cold!” he called, sternly; and
Arthur said:
“Go, my darling!”