Uncle Rube had rambled on heedlessly as though he loved his subject
while his hearers listened in painful wonder; but now Madame Ray
brought him up suddenly by saying, nervously:
“That is enough, Uncle Rube. Drive on a few miles further and we will
return.”
A strange terror was stirring in her breast--terror of some startling
revelation that might shock Cinthia in the old man’s rambling talk.
She dared not let him utter another word; but strange suspicions were
awakened in her breast, and she resolved to have a private conversation
with Uncle Rube to solve her doubts.
One of his statements had struck her with peculiar force.
He had spoken of Captain Varian’s youngest daughter’s marriage and
divorce from her husband.
In the next breath he had called her Mrs. Varian, Varian being her
maiden name.
Why did the divorced woman and her son both bear the family name? And
who was the divorced husband? Of his name Madame Ray began to have a
secret prescient dread.
Was she about to stumble on the mystery that had sundered Arthur’s and
Cinthia’s lives?
She glanced nervously at Cinthia, but beyond a deep pallor saw no sign
of shock such as she had secretly experienced. Feeling thankful that it
was so, she exclaimed:
“Uncle Rube’s story has given me the horrors! How sad to think of such
a happy family so broken up by the cruel, desolating war! But there
were many such. One could almost fancy the ghost of the past haunting
that desolate ruin!”
They looked back with troubled eyes at the wrecked home that had
sheltered Arthur Varian’s forefathers and his own saddened youth. How
strange that he should thus be recalled to memory again when Cinthia
was just getting over their last ill-fated meeting.
She read Madame Ray’s perturbed thoughts and feigned indifference,
saying:
“It certainly gives one a sort of ghostly chill to gaze on the ruins of
such a home. Do you remember Byron’s lines on his old home?” repeating
softly:
“‘Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle,
Thou, the halls of my fathers have gone to decay,
In thy once smiling garden the hemlock and thistle
Have choked up the rose which late bloomed in the way.’”
They rode on along the broad, level road, finding always something new
to admire, but they did not talk so much or so brightly as before.
Their faces were pale and thoughtful, and a shadow had fallen on their
spirits--the shadow that always fell when they were reminded of the
Varians.
Memory was poison to their hearts.
“My heart hath but one passion
To forget.
Ah, is there nothing in the world then
To take away the soul’s divine regret?”
But when they were returning along the same road, both craned their
necks eagerly toward the ruined home which had aroused in them so much
painful interest.
They looked half questioningly toward each other, and Cinthia murmured:
“I--I--should like to walk among the ruins--should you?”
“I am always walking among ruins--the ruins of a life’s happiness,” the
actress answered, sadly enough; then added: “But yes, we can easily
spare time to go through the place. Uncle Rube, are strangers permitted
to enter Love’s Retreat?”
“Oh, sartainly, mistis. De big gates ain’t never locked. Anybody is
free to go in and gather all de flowers dey want. It seem to me like I
seen some folkses dodgin’ ’bout de trees when we went pas’, but guess
dey’s all gone now. Shall I drive you in at the kerridge road?”
“No; you may wait for us here in the shade of these trees while we
walk. We will return in fifteen minutes.”
They pushed open the wrought iron front gates that clanged heavily to
behind them, and turning from the broad graveled walk, plunged into the
miniature thickets of blossoming shrubbery, shaking out odors of rose
and jasmine with the slightest touches as they walked along toward a
graceful little summer-house, heavily matted with rich purple clematis
bells starring the dark green of the leaves.
“Let us go in,” said Madame Ray, stepping over the threshold closely
followed by Cinthia.
Then both recoiled with a startled cry.
Two young men in cycling suits were in the summer-house.
They had slipped in there to hide when they saw a carriage stop at the
gate and two ladies entering the grounds.
“Sight-seers whom we do not know, I suppose, so let us hide in here
and finish our talk and our cigars till they leave. I care no more for
womankind, be she never so fair, since I have lost the lovely queen of
my heart,” one said to the other; so they fled the scene till it should
be safe to venture out.
He was dark and striking in appearance, the other was fairer and
younger than his companion by several years. His clustering locks were
light golden brown, and the beauty of his face was enhanced by the
expressive dark-blue eyes, where shadows of secret sorrow seemed to
lurk in half-discovered ambush.
“Fred they are coming this way by their voices. Let us turn our backs
to the door, so that they will see we are not anxious to be disturbed,”
he said, presently.
“A good idea, Arthur,” and suiting the action to the word, they
presented two broad backs toward the new-comers, who had barely stepped
across the threshold ere they recoiled, each with a stifled cry of
surprise.
The Mother Eve that is in all men just as much as in all women made the
two smokers spring up and look around at the intruders.
Then there were more startled exclamations all around.
For the fate that seemed to pursue Cinthia Dawn with its cruelest irony
had followed her even here.
She had fled from the far North to the far South to escape Arthur
Varian, and she had hoped never to gaze again in life on his too
fatally fascinating beauty--the manly beauty that had lured the girlish
heart from her breast only to toss it back to her at the command of
cruel parents, who seemed to have forgotten the fervor of youthful
love, or they never could have been so harsh to their tortured children.
Yet, here stood Arthur Varian before her again--Arthur Varian pale to
the very lips, Arthur Varian with unmasked despair in his beautiful,
dark-blue eyes.