“I dreamed that time, I dreamed that pride,
Had quenched at length my early flame,
Nor knew till seated by thy side,
My heart in all save hope the same.”
Cinthia had made a rash promise, and she realized it; but her pride
would not permit her to retract.
She knew well that Arthur Varian was still too fatally dear to her
heart for her to meet him daily on mere friendly grounds; that would
only augment her love and her despair, since neither pride nor reason
had sufficed to quench the smoldering flame.
Since Arthur was not conceited, and was unversed in the complex
windings of a woman’s nature, he was mystified, if not entirely
deceived, by the words in which she gave him to understand that she
loved him no longer, but was willing to let friendship take the place
of passion.
Although he did not quite understand her manner, he was more than glad
to find that her love had been more shallow than at first appeared and
more easily conquered. He had been in deep earnest when he told her he
hoped that the day might come when each of them, married to another,
might yet become dear friends.
His dearest hope now was to see her married to his cousin, or to any
man who could secure to her the happiness that had been so fatally
jeopardized by her broken betrothal with himself.
As for his own marriage, at which he had hinted, his mother was trying
to bring that about with all the _finesse_ of which she was capable.
She surrounded herself constantly with fair young girls, and went much
into society solely on Arthur’s account, but she could not see that she
was making any progress in her desires.
Arthur was equally courteous to all, but he never betrayed any
preference for any. There lingered about him a secret sadness that in
truth found no mitigation with time. There was a subtle change in him
only to be interpreted by the poet’s lines.
“I have a secret sorrow here,
A grief I’ll never impart;
It heaves no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart.”
In secret he deplored this meeting with Cinthia, that had so suddenly
reopened the seared wounds of the past, but her assumed indifference
gave him a new thought.
Perhaps if they were to meet daily on the new terms of friendship the
old bitterness might gradually be dispelled and better feelings result.
He might also in this way help his cousin to prosecute his suit with
Cinthia.
So Arthur fell into the net that Cinthia’s pride spread for his feet,
and it was written in the book of fate that he and Cinthia were to meet
daily for weeks, for with the arrival of winter guests at Weir Park
Hotel and vicinity, a little season of mild gayety set in, in which
every one in the neighborhood bore part. And as for Frederick Foster,
it seemed as if he could hardly exist away from Lodge Delight.
Not that Cinthia gave him any particular encouragement to come, beyond
simple courtesy; but he was vexed at himself for former rashness, and
determined to try the effect of patient devotion in besieging her
heart. Besides, there were other men now trying to rival him, and he
must spare no effort to distance these rivals.
Arthur did not always accompany his cousin on his visits; but he could
not avoid meeting Cinthia often in the social life at Weir Park, and
it seemed to him that she grew more bright and beautiful daily as the
unattainable always grows more lovely to our eyes.
Whether she appeared in silk and lace and nodding plumes at some
garden-party, or in yacht costume for a lake excursion, or in cycling
suit on her wheel, or in evening-dress at some gay reception, Cinthia
was always lovelier than before to his admiring eyes, and he thought,
generously:
“I thank Heaven that the dear girl has the means to gratify her
expensive tastes, for who knows how much it has helped in the cure of
her heart. Besides, she has now several lovers every way as desirable
as I ever was, and even if she refuses Fred she is sure to choose one
of the others.”
Why was she sure to do so? Had not his mother presented to him scores
of pretty girls without touching his heart? Why should Cinthia’s fancy
be turned aside more lightly than his own?
“The wind bloweth where it listeth,
And so with Love.”