“I thought of thee--I thought of thee,
On ocean many a weary night,
When heaved the long and sullen sea,
With only waves and stars in sight.
We stole along the isles of balm,
We furled before the coming gale,
We slept amid the breathless calm,
We flew before the straining sail;
But thou wert lost for years to me,
And day and night I thought of thee.”
One golden July day almost three years later than the events of our
last chapter, a little group of three persons stood on the deck of a
steamer homeward-bound, plowing her way through the blue waves toward
the harbor of New York.
They were Everard Dawn, his daughter, and her friend, Madame Ray,
the latter having joined them abroad three months ago, after a long
correspondence, dating from the time of their meeting in Washington on
the occasion of the frustrated elopement.
The actress had retired from the stage at last with a fair competency,
declaring that she was weary of the exciting life, and desired to spend
the rest of her days in quiet, away from the glare of the foot-lights.
At Cinthia’s wish, she had gone abroad in the spring, traveling
with her young friend for several months, while every day of their
companionship added to the strength of the bond of affection between
their responsive hearts.
“I love you more than any one else in the world,” Cinthia had said to
her ardently more than once.
And the actress had answered as ardently:
“And I you, my dear. I wish you were my daughter.”
The words put a new thought in Cinthia’s head.
Why couldn’t clear, beautiful Madame Ray become her mamma?
What was to hinder her father falling in love with the charming woman,
and making her Mrs. Dawn, and thereby her step-mamma?
Cinthia felt sure that she could love her as dearly as her own
mamma--much more dearly, in fact, than she did her father.
For, though she saw a hundred admirable things about him, and felt
rather proud of him than otherwise, Cinthia had never tried to overcome
her resentment of the past for those years of neglect, and the cruel
parting from her lover. She believed that Mr. Dawn and Mrs. Varian had
acted a wicked part in preventing her marriage, because of some old
family feud that would have been healed by her union with Arthur.
So she still preserved toward her father a certain amount of reserve,
like a thin crust of ice, and he, on his part, although admiring her
grace and beauty, and sedulously careful and attentive to all her
whims, still brooded over secret sorrows that made him half oblivious
to the present with the best of his heart buried in the dead past.
To Cinthia there came the sudden thought that to make a match between
this strange father of hers and lovely Madame Ray might be conducive
to the happiness of all three. Of herself she was sure that life would
be far brighter with this fair woman for a companion than spent alone
with Everard Dawn, who would always represent to her the blighting of
the fairest love-dream maiden ever cherished.
She became the most designing little match-maker in the world, but she
was so transparent that she could not hide her plans from the objects
of her care.
They detected her schemes with secret amusement, and pretended
unconsciousness, while inwardly rather amused at the little by-play.
That each admired the other was natural, but it was not the admiration
that deepens into love. Both had been deeply bereaved in a way that
left no room for the budding of a second passion.
As for Cinthia, those years abroad had been like the bursting of a
promising bud into a perfect flower.
In a few months she would be twenty years old, and the promise of
seventeen was more than fulfilled.
Her slight figure was somewhat taller and more rounded in its gracious
contour, and her lovely face and large, soft, dark eyes had gained a
depth of expression--spirit blended with pathos--almost irresistible.
The gold of her luxurious, curling hair had a deeper, richer sheen as
it rippled in a loose knot beneath the brim of her becoming little hat,
a Parisian affair that matched her stylish traveling gown, for Cinthia
had developed a perfect taste in dress that was very gratifying to her
father’s pride.
Wherever she moved, she was the cynosure of admiring eyes, and a score
of hearts had been laid at her feet--some of them most true and manly;
but she turned from them with indifference, saying to herself that her
life was spoiled by Arthur’s falsity, and she could never love again.
She called it Arthur’s falsity, always refusing to believe that there
existed any better reason than a former feud between their parents for
the breaking of their troth.
She believed that Arthur was a coward, that he had too easily given her
up; but for all that she had not ceased to love him, though she did not
acknowledge this to her own heart.
If you had asked her the question, she would have sworn to you that she
hated and despised Arthur Varian and would not have forgiven him the
slight he had put on her if he had implored her on bended knees, so
strong is woman’s pride.
Yet, so weak is woman’s heart that she shrined his image still in its
deepest depths, and could not bid memory down--memory of the brief,
blissful time of love when the world seemed to hold nothing for
either save the other, when they had tried to thrust aside, with the
passionate obstinacy of youth, every obstacle to their happiness.
“If Arthur had been as brave as I was, less under the control of his
mother, we might have been so happy!” she had said, regretfully, more
than once to Madame Ray, who agreed with her views, and always answered:
“You are right, dear. He was weak and cowardly, unworthy of such a
golden heart as yours. I would forget him!”
“Oh, I will forget him. I despise him now!” Cinthia answered out of her
wounded pride.
Yet, as the prow of their noble steamer cleaved the blue waves, and she
stood on deck under the blue sky and burning sun of July, her thoughts
went before to her native land and to her lost lover, so dearly loved,
so strangely lost.
She wondered where he was now, and if he was married yet, for Aunt
Flint, in one of her letters, had not failed to mention that there was
such a report in the town. She added that it would not be Mrs. Varian’s
fault if her son did not find a wife, for she kept Idlewild full of
visitors the year round, when she was at home, with pretty girls of all
complexions, from brunette to blonde.
Cinthia’s thoughts often wandered to Idlewild, wondering what was
transpiring there, and trying to picture to herself the beauty of the
gay young girls with whom Mrs. Varian surrounded her son, trying to win
his love from Cinthia. It filled the girl’s heart with secret, jealous
agony that brought shadows of pain into her large, soft eyes as she
leaned against the rail and watched the dancing waves.
“How grave you look, Miss Dawn, while every one else is rejoicing at
the home-coming. One would think you had left your heart behind you
on foreign shores!” gayly exclaimed a young man, approaching her and
gazing at her with admiring eyes.
He was a young New Yorker--one of the _jeunesse dorée_--returning home
after three months’ absence. On the first day out he had fallen a
victim to Cinthia’s charms, and gladly renewed a former acquaintance
with Madame Ray, in order to secure an introduction to the beauty.
As the actress knew him to be in every respect a most desirable
_parti_, she was very glad to present him to Cinthia, secretly hoping
that he might manage to supplant Arthur Varian in her tender heart.
Cinthia certainly found him interesting, he was so good-looking,
with his six feet of athletic manhood, flashing dark eyes, and jetty
hair and mustache, while with his ready flow of small-talk he was
very amusing. She accepted his patent admiration and his respectful
attentions with the coolness of a belle accustomed to adulation,
letting him entertain her when she chose, and carelessly dismissing him
when not in the mood.
Her mood was not very propitious now, and it was a very cold smile she
gave in answer to his remark that she must have left her heart behind
on foreign shores.
“All the heart I have I brought back with me, although I must confess
to a fondness for the Old World,” she answered; adding: “I am not
enthusiastic over my return, because I have really no near relatives
in America, and papa and I intend to resume our wanderings in our own
country after a short rest.”
Frederick Foster exclaimed, eagerly:
“May I be permitted to know where the foot of the dove will first rest?”
“I think we shall probably spend a few days at Newport while maturing
our plans,” Cinthia answered, carelessly.
Foster’s handsome countenance beamed with frank delight.
He cried, joyously:
“To Newport? How glad I am! Why, that is where I am going.”
“Indeed?” smiled Cinthia.
“Yes, if you do not forbid my following you there, which I should
certainly do, even if I had not already made my plans. Oh, please don’t
frown upon me so, for, indeed I have promised my aunt and cousin--who
are there from the South--that I will stay there with them a while. In
fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if Arthur came to New York just to meet
me.”
Arthur--Arthur! The name struck her sharply, like a blow. She shut her
lips tightly, and turned her head aside, lest he should see the mortal
paleness that she felt overspreading it, while she chided herself for
her weakness.
“Archie Dean, Archie Dean!--’tis the sweetest name I know,
’Tis writ on my heart; but o’er it now is drifting the cold,
cold snow.”
Suddenly a great shout arose from the crowd on deck.
They were steaming majestically into port, and on the shore they saw
eager throngs of friends waiting to welcome their loved ones home.
Answering shouts came back from the pier, and handkerchiefs were waved
while glad tears started into many eyes, it was such a glorious thing
to be safe in port, having weathered all the dangers of the sea.
“Home again! Home again!
From a foreign shore.
And, oh! it makes my heart rejoice
To meet old friends once more!”
“Do you see any familiar faces on the pier, Miss Dawn?” queried
Frederick Foster, wondering why Cinthia had turned her lovely face away
so abruptly.
She looked back at him, pale, but composed.
“No, there is no one that I know,” she answered; and in spite of her
pride, her lip quivered.
It was such a dreary home-coming, after all, with no one to welcome her
and smile a glad welcome. She felt a keen pang of envy of the happier
ones by whom she was surrounded.
Madame Ray and Mr. Dawn came up to them, and the actress said with a
little smothered sigh:
“What a scene of joyous excitement and confusion! Parents waiting to
greet sons and daughters, lovers to greet sweethearts! I am almost sad
that there is no one to welcome us, Cinthia!”
“Madame, you are mistaken on your part,” laughed Foster. “I see a group
of reporters with their eyes fixed on you already, and only waiting
till the gang-plank is thrown out to rush upon you, demanding to know
if it is not likely you will return to the stage again. To-morrow
morning they will report in their papers that you have returned from
Europe more beautiful than ever from your long rest, and with a new
play that will charm the theater-going public this winter.”
Madame Ray darted behind him, exclaiming:
“Do help me to escape them. I do not wish to be interviewed. I belong
to private life now.”
“Mr. Dawn, will you kindly help the madame to escape the newspaper
men, and I will lead Miss Dawn ashore,” exclaimed Frederick Foster,
coolly drawing Cinthia’s arm through his, and rushing forward with the
tumultuous throng as the gang-plank was thrown out.
Oh, what a Babel of noise and confusion! but through it all Cinthia
could hear the young man whispering ardent words to her, vowing that
the past week had been the happiest of his life, that he adored her,
and would ask no greater joy than to walk with her through life arm in
arm as now, heedless of the rushing, jostling throng.
Would she give him one little word of hope to live on till they met
again at Newport? He knew he was presumptuous, but love was his excuse.
“Oh, you must not talk to me any more like this. I--I----” began
Cinthia in confusion; but just at that moment they stepped on
_terra-firma_, and came face to face with a young man waiting there
with a lady on his arm, at sight of whom Foster whispered to his
companion:
“My aunt and cousin, the Varians!”
Sky and earth, and sea seemed to jumble and blend together in Cinthia’s
confused consciousness as her startled eyes met the equally surprised
ones of Arthur Varian.