Meanwhile, Everard Dawn flung himself into a cab and hurried to the
theater, his mind divided between thoughts of his daughter and the
magnificent woman he had left behind him.
Arrived at the theater, he purchased a ticket, and entered just as
the last act was being performed; but without glancing at the stage,
he threw a hurried, anxious glance around the glittering horseshoe in
search of Cinthia’s face.
To his surprise and unutterable relief, he presently beheld her fair
face and shining hair half hidden behind the sweeping curtain in a
private box, from which she watched the stage with kindling eyes of
delight.
Quickly he made his way to her side, and she glanced around at him with
suddenly gloomy eyes of fear and dislike.
Bending over her, he whispered, agitatedly:
“Cinthia, do not look at me so coldly and angrily. I am your father.”
“You do well to remind me of your claim,” she answered, bitterly,
turning her glance back to the stage.
The keen reproach cut deep, and for a moment he found no words
for reply, only followed her eyes to the scene where Madame Ray,
magnificently beautiful in white brocade and diamonds, was the center
of an emotional scene.
“What a fascinating woman! It is the star, of course?” he exclaimed.
“Yes; it is Madame Ray. She is more than fascinating. She is an angel,”
his daughter returned, warmly.
“May I ask how long you have known the lady?”
Cinthia looked around at him, and answered, perversely:
“Long enough to love her better than any one else that I know.”
“Is she so charming?”
“Adorable!”
“And Mrs. Varian?” anxiously.
“I hate her!” Cinthia answered, frankly, with a flash of the eyes.
“Because she parted you from Arthur?” he asked, anxiously.
“Yes,” mutinously.
“Ah, Cinthia, in that act she only showed you truest kindness.”
“She hated my mother!”
“And with good reason!” he replied, with a transient flash in his dark
blue eyes.
Cinthia looked suddenly curious.
“I should like to hear all about it!” she exclaimed.
“Ah, my child, it is too sad a story for your ears, that old feud. I
pray Heaven you need never hear it all. We will go away to-morrow, and
bury the dead past forever,” he answered, earnestly, while he wondered
over and over how she had formed Madame Ray’s acquaintance, though he
saw that in her present perverse mood she would disclose nothing.
They both watched the stage in silence for some moments, then she
startled him by saying:
“I believe my kind friend Madame Ray would help me to become an actress
if I insist upon it. Would you consent?”
“Certainly not. I have other plans for you,” he answered, with instant
decision.
“But, I can not bear the idea of that boarding-school! I give you fair
notice that I am likely to run away from it and drown myself.”
“Poor Cinthia, poor unhappy child!” and his voice grew suddenly deep
and tender, while he gazed with dim eyes at her flushed, defiant face.
A great pity and sympathy rose in his heart for the hapless girl whose
life was blighted in its dawning by a hopeless love.
He said to himself that he must rise superior to the self-absorption of
years and give time and thought to brightening his daughter’s life.
Perhaps she might turn out more lovable than he had ever dared hope;
but even if not, there was his neglected duty staring him in the face.
He could not shirk it any longer, now that Cinthia had cut adrift from
the old life, and had no one to depend on but him. He must win her
from the despair and desperation of her present mood to contentment
with life.
Speaking very gently and kindly, he said:
“If you think you can not endure the school, I must make other plans
for you. How would you like to travel awhile?”
Her dark eyes gleamed with sudden interest, and she cried, quickly:
“It would please me more than anything else you can offer. I tell you
frankly that I am wretched, and that change of scene and constant
excitement offer the only panacea for my troubles.”
“You shall have it; and I pray Heaven it may effect a cure. Listen,
Cinthia, I have very agreeable news for you.”
She looked at him with a slightly incredulous air, and he continued:
“A relative of ours has recently left you a small fortune, that will
enable you to lead a very pleasant future life according to your own
wishes. I am appointed your guardian, and you will have an income of
ten thousand a year.”
“Ten thousand a year!” gasped Cinthia, in surprise and delight at her
good luck, for it seemed a great fortune to one who had been reared so
plainly and frugally.
She was young and beautiful and always longed for the pleasures that
money could buy, and the sudden news that she was to realize her dream
did indeed dazzle her so that a smile came to her sad lips and a flash
of pleasure to her eyes.
Her father thought, cynically:
“Her sorrow did not lie so deep after all, and it will easily be
soothed by the gewgaws foolish women prize. Well, I am glad that it is
so.”
He resumed, cordially:
“I am glad of this good luck for you, Cinthia, for I have never been
rich myself, and my income has never been more than half what yours
is now, and that was earned by diligent practice at the law. I had
intended to do my best toward brightening your sad young life, but this
legacy comes most opportunely to enable you to gratify your desires.”
“Yes, I am very grateful for it. Now I can seek constant diversion to
drown memory,” she answered, with a long-drawn sigh that showed him she
would not forget so easily as he had hoped.
It did not occur to her to ask the name of the relative who had left
her so handsome a legacy, or to notice that her father had not spoken
of any one’s death. In her eagerness she accepted her good fortune
without curiosity, and clasping her little hands in growing excitement,
cried:
“Papa, I have always wished to cross the sea. Will you take me?”
“Yes, Cinthia; but should you not see something of your own land
first?”
“That can wait, papa. My first wish is to put the whole breadth of the
world between me and Arthur Varian.”
“Perhaps that will be best,” he assented; for her words touched an
aching chord in his own heart.
Who could know better the aching pangs of love and loss than Everard
Dawn, who had tasted both to the bitter dregs?
And how could he blame any one for the mad instinct of flight from
memory when he had been a restless exile weary years for no better
reason?
“And I have wandered far away to quell my spirit’s wild unrest,
From place to place a lonely one,
And rocked on ocean’s heaving breast.
“But in the sound of winds and waves
For evermore I heard thy tone,
Gazed down the mountain’s verdant slope,
And thought of thee, and thee alone.
“The eyes whose sparkling light I loved
Shone on me from the midnight stars,
The crimson of the lips once kissed
Glowed in the sunset’s rosy bars.”
The curtain fell to the crash of orchestra music and the crowded
building began to be emptied and the lights turned low.
Both rose, and Cinthia’s father said, abruptly:
“Shall we return to the hotel? Or would you like to go on to New York
to-night to get ready for sailing on the first steamer?”
“We will go to New York to-night, but first let me go and say farewell
to my dear friend Madame Ray,” she said, hurrying to the greenroom.
Everard Dawn went out and sent a note to Mrs. Varian, while he waited
for his daughter.
It ran simply:
“I found Cinthia at the theater, and we go on at once to New York, to
sail this week for Europe, by her earnestly expressed wish. In change
of scene and the rush of excitement she will seek oblivion of this
painful episode in her life.
“E. D.”
Presently Cinthia came to him from Madame Ray’s dressing-room, where
she had spent a long half hour, and her father saw that the dew of
tears hung heavily on the thick fringe of her dark lashes. Wondering
greatly at this mysterious friendship, he drew her hand through his arm
and led her away to the new life that lay before her in the untried
future.