Cinthia did not obey. She only clung closer to her sorrowing lover.
“Oh, Arthur, don’t leave me! Take me home with you to your sweet, kind
mother! I hate that man!” she sobbed in wild _abandon_.
Her father came down the walk toward them, and Arthur bent and
whispered rapidly in her ear:
“Go in with him now, my own sweet love, for we can not defy him openly,
we can only defeat him by strategy. Be brave, darling, for--I will come
for you and take you away to-night.”
He kissed her, in spite of Mr. Dawn’s great eyes, and pushed her from
him with gentle violence just as her father came out and took her hand.
“Come, Cinthia,” he said, with gentle firmness, and she followed,
though she shook off his touch as though it had been a viper.
“Don’t touch me! I hate you--hate you!” she cried, like a little fury,
her eyes flashing fire. “Do you think I will go with you to-morrow?
Never--never! You have made my life empty of joy, and now you envy
the sunshine that love has brought me! But you shall not part me from
Arthur--no, no, no!” and desperately sobbing, she flung herself face
downward on the floor.
He sought Mrs. Flint in terrible perturbation.
“Come, she is in hysterics!” he exclaimed, anxiously.
“I told you it would go hard with Cinthy,” she answered, curtly.
“Yes, I feared she would grieve; but, good Heaven! she is a little
fury--all rage and rebellion, swearing she will not go with me
to-morrow. She must be closely watched to-day, for there is no telling
what such a desperate girl may do,” he said in alarm mixed with anger.
“Pshaw! she will simmer down when her fit of crying is over. I’ll get
her upstairs and give her a soothing dose. Her temper-fits never last
long, for Cinthy is a good child, after all, and I am sorry over her
disappointment, she sets such store by love,” returned the old woman,
in real sympathy for the girl and secret disapproval of his cold
attitude to his neglected daughter.
He felt the implied reproach and answered, in weary self-excuse:
“Rebecca, I know you think me hard and cold, but my heart seems dead
within me.”
“That is no excuse for neglect of duty,” she answered with telling
effect as she went to the difficult task of soothing Cinthia and
getting her upstairs to her room.
“A bitter home-coming!” he muttered, as he went out into the bleak
morning air, with its scurrying flakes of threatening snow, to try to
walk off some of his perturbation.
Somehow the dreary day dragged through to the drearier late afternoon.
Upstairs, Cinthia lay still and exhausted upon the bed after such a day
of tears, and sobs, and passionate rebellion as Mrs. Flint hoped never
to go through again.
Everard Dawn took his hat and great-coat, and set out for another long
walk--this time in the direction of Arthur Varian’s home.
Had he repented his harshness? Was he going to recall Cinthia’s
banished lover?
The air was keen with a biting east wind, the sky was gray with
threatening clouds, and occasional light scurries of snow flew in his
face and flecked his thick brown beard as he stepped briskly along,
gazing over the low evergreen hedge at the beautiful grounds of the
fine old estate he had refused for his daughter.
As he almost paused in his walk to gaze with deep interest at the
picturesque old stone house, he saw a lady come out of a side-door and
turn into an avenue of tall dark cedars that made a pleasant promenade,
shutting off the rigorous wind very effectively.
He followed her progress with wistful eyes and tense lips.
It was indeed the stately mistress of the mansion. Wearying of its
warmth and luxury, she had come out, wrapped in sealskin, for her
favorite constitutional along the cedar avenue.
She walked slowly, with her hands behind her, and her large, flashing
dark eyes bent on the ground, as if in profound thought.
Everard Dawn gazed eagerly after Mrs. Varian till she was lost to view
among the cedars, then, searching for a gate in the hedge, he entered
and turned his steps toward the avenue, so as to meet her on her lonely
walk.
Slowly they came on toward each other, the echo of their footsteps
dulled by the carpet of dead leaves, dank and sodden with last night’s
rain, and the face of the man, with its gleaming eyes and deep pallor,
bore signs of unusual agitation.
Suddenly the lowering clouds parted, and a dull sunset glow sent gleams
of light down through the cedar boughs upon the sodden path. The woman
lifted her large, passionate orbs to the sky.
Then she stopped short and uttered a startled cry.
She had caught sight of the advancing man, the intruder upon her
grounds.
He removed his hat and stood bowing before her in the dying sunset
glow, the light shining on his pallid face and the streaks of gray in
his thick locks.
“Mrs. Varian!” he exclaimed.
“Everard Dawn!” she answered, in a hollow voice, and her eyes glowed
like live coals among dead embers, so ashy-pale was her beautiful face.
Pressing her gloved hand upon her side, as if her heart’s wild
throbbings threatened to suffocate her, she called, hoarsely:
“Why are you here? How dare you face me, traitor?”
“I have not come to forgive you, Mrs. Varian, be sure of _that_!” he
answered, sternly.
“You do well to talk of forgiveness--_you_!” she sneered, stamping the
ground with her dainty foot.
“And--you--madame--would--do--well to crave it--not that it would ever
be granted you, remember. Only angels could forgive injuries like
mine!” the man answered, stormily, with upraised hand, as if longing to
strike her down in her defiant beauty.
She did not shrink nor blanch, but her face was a picture of emotional
rage, dead white against the setting of satin-black tresses and rich
seal fur, her eyes flashing as only great oriental black eyes can
flash, and her rare beauty of form showing to advantage as she drew
herself haughtily erect, hissing out:
“Go, Everard Dawn! Take your hated form from my sight ere I summon my
servants to drive you from the grounds!”
Turning, as if to put her threat into execution, she was arrested by a
stern voice that said significantly:
“It is more to your interest to listen to me one moment, Mrs. Varian.”
She whirled back toward him again, saying, imperiously:
“Be brief, then, Everard Dawn, for you should know that it suffocates
me to breathe the same air with such as you!”
Evidently there was some strange secret between this haughty pair, for
he flashed her a glance of kindling scorn, as he returned:
“What I have to say needs but one sentence to assure you of its
importance. Your son, Mrs. Varian, wishes to wed--_my daughter_!”
A hoarse, strangled cry, and she fell back against the trunk of a tree,
clasping its great bole, as if to prevent herself from falling. Her
face wore such a look of agony as if he had plunged a knife into her
heart.
Everard Dawn impetuously started forward, as if to catch her in his
arms--the natural impulse of manhood at seeing a woman suffer.
Then he suddenly remembered himself, and drew haughtily back, waiting
for her to speak again; but she was silent several moments, gazing at
him with the reproachful eyes of a wounded animal at bay.
Then she gasped, faintly:
“Is she--is she--that Cinthia Dawn?”
“Yes. Cinthia Dawn is my daughter,” finishing the unended sentence.
“She lives here with my sister, and I came home last night, after
being self-exiled for weary years, and found Arthur Varian and Cinthia
plighted lovers. I have forbidden their love, and sent him away; but
they are defiant and rebellious. I shall take her away to-morrow--but
in the meantime I came to you, for you must help me to keep them apart.”
“I--oh, Heaven! what is there I can do?” she moaned, in piteous
distress.
He looked at her in dead silence a moment, then answered, firmly:
“Cinthia is only a tender girl, and I will not have her young life
blasted with the hideous truth. Arthur is a man, and if the dark secret
that comes between their love must ever be divulged, it is to him alone
it need be revealed. Will you charge yourself with this duty should he
persist in his resolve to marry Cinthia?”
“If you asked me for all my fortune, I would rather give it you--but
you are right. The duty is mine. I will not shirk it, though it slay
me. Poor, poor Arthur!”
“That is well. I shall depend on you to curb his passion. Farewell,
Mrs. Varian;” and with a lingering glance, he turned away just as the
last sun-ray glimmered and faded in the west.