Arthur Varian and his mother were the closest and dearest friends, and
since his elopement, that had ended so unhappily, he had never kept a
secret from her, believing that she was his best adviser.
So he had written to her frankly of all that had happened since he came
to Florida.
He knew how sorry she would be that he had chanced upon Cinthia Dawn
again, but he knew also that the sorrow would be offset by the
knowledge that the young girl had overcome her unhappy love, and would
in all probability be won by Frederick Foster.
He wrote of their pledge of friendship, their frequent meetings, her
apparent indifference to himself, and her preference for Fred’s society.
Although the proud mother was pleased to know all these things, yet she
railed in secret at Cinthia’s indifference.
“Fickle and unstable, like her father! Who could expect anything else
of such a parentage?” she thought, bitterly, the somber dark eyes
flashing with passion.
On this dreary December day, at Idlewild, she was shut into her
luxurious _boudoir_, away from the rain and sleet of a most inclement
day, cradled in warmth and luxury, the air sweet with flowers, and
melodious with the songs of a large cage of canaries. A morning-robe of
purple brocade, bordered with rich fur, wrapped the queenly form from
the slightest breath of cold.
But with all her luxury and grandeur she was not happy, this proud
woman, who turned her eyes from the beautiful room to gaze through
the richly curtained windows at the dreary day, as perhaps more in
consonance with her gray mood.
Certainly there was much in the past to darken her life with an
ineffaceable shadow, and nothing in the future to throw any light on
the present.
Once her life had been radiantly happy in the sunlight of wedded love,
but a terrible trial had come upon her which ended in divorce and a
desolated home.
The passionate pride of a strong nature had helped her to bear it
before the eyes of the world. What she suffered in secret only Heaven
knew.
In her pride she would have perished rather than unmask her secret
suffering.
“Through many a clime ’twas mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst,
And all my solace is to know,
Whate’er betides I’ve known the worst.
What is that worst? Ah, do not ask,
In pity from the search forbear;
Smile on, nor venture to unmask
My heart and view the hell that’s there.”
She tapped with restless fingers on the windowpane, muttering:
“What a dismal, dreary day! I wish I had gone to Florida with Arthur
and Fred. There all is sunshine and beauty, while here in Virginia the
rain drips down the pane like tears, the winds howl like a banshee, and
the leafless vines tap against the walls like ghostly fingers. I hate
it all, I hate my life that is gray and cold like the day.”
A sudden thought came to her like an inspiration:
“I will join Arthur at Weir Lake. True, that girl is there; but what of
that? Her father is in California, they say, so he will not be there
to trouble my peace. Why should he trouble it anyway? He is nothing to
me, less than nothing. I hate him. I suppose that woman who was with
them abroad, that beautiful, blue-eyed actress, means to marry him in
the end. That is why she clings so close to the daughter. Time was when
he cared nothing for these vivacious blondes, and adored dark eyes as
if he saw heaven reflected in them. That is all past now. He knows the
devil that lurks in a woman wronged. Yes--yes, I will join Arthur. I
ought to see about the rebuilding of the old home myself.”
She strained her eyes through the murky rain toward the gate at a man
who was striding along under an umbrella with a free, swinging gait too
fatally familiar to her memory.
She pressed her hand to her throbbing heart.
“It is _he_! He has come back to see that old woman, his sister!
How the old feelings stir in me at sight of him again. I wonder
if--if--there was the least truth in his words that I had wronged him.
His anger was most bitter and unforgiving. Yes--yes, I will leave here
to-morrow. I can not breathe the same air with him!”
It was indeed Everard Dawn passing the gates of Idlewild without a
glance at the windows where those anguished dark eyes watched him so
eagerly between the blur of rain and mist.
He was coming, as before, in storm and gloom, to his sister’s home. An
impulse of tenderness had moved him to turn aside on his way to his
daughter, to visit the lonely old woman.
“It is well you came, for she is ill, and a week ago I hardly thought
she would live till your return,” grumbled Rachel Dane, as she admitted
him into the narrow hall.
“You should have telegraphed me,” he answered.
“She would not allow it. She said no one cared whether an old woman
like her lived or died.”
“She is mistaken. I have neglected her in my selfishness, but I love
her dearly,” he said, huskily, adding: “And as for you, Rachel Dane,
the sight of you stirs up unpleasant memories, but I hope I see you
well?”
“Well and hearty, sir, thanks to you for saving my life that night,
and to your sister for giving me a home afterward. But I have tried to
repay it by faithful service,” she added, as she ushered him into the
lonely sitting-room, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze.
“I thank you for that. She must have had a lonely life since I took my
daughter away,” he replied throwing himself in a chair, and stretching
his feet to the grateful warmth.
“My daughter! My daughter!” thought Rachel Dane, grimly. “How he would
hate me if he knew the truth! And I should never dare to tell him! No,
no; I don’t care to be bundled out-of-doors in my old age, when I have
wound myself so closely around old Mrs. Flint that she is likely to
leave me her property when she dies.”
She bustled about, watching him narrowly, thinking what a handsome man
he was still, in spite of his probable fifty years.
Then she inquired if he would not have luncheon before he went up to
the sick-room.
“No, I had a substantial breakfast on the train, and would like to see
my sister as soon as possible,” he replied.
“Oh, then you may come upstairs at once. The sight of you will be good
for her old eyes.”
He followed her up to the sick-room, that Rachel Dane had made as
cheerful and bright as possible, and there lay poor Mrs. Flint among
her pillows, wan and aged in the three years that had elapsed since
last they met, but with a light of joy in her dim eyes as they rested
again on his face.
“My dear sister!”
And he stooped and kissed her most affectionately.
“How long you have been away--you and Cinthy!--and I have missed her
so, dear girl, though maybe I wasn’t none too good to her when she was
here, but I thought she ought to be brought up strict,” she murmured,
plaintively.
“It was my fault. I told you to do it,” he answered, with a sigh; and
his eyes wandered around the room, noting vases of hot-house flowers
and plates of fruit, purple grapes, contrasted with the delicate green
of malagas, golden oranges, and crimson-cheeked apples.
“You have kind neighbors,” he said.
“Oh, yes; all the church people come to see me, and the
preacher--though Rachel there doesn’t care about him,” reproachfully.
“Mrs. Bowles, the housekeeper at Idlewild, comes often, too. She
brought me the fruit and flowers from up there. Her mistress sent
them--that grand Mrs. Varian, you know. I think it was kind in her
after the way you treated her son.”
“Yes,” and he paled to the lips under his rich brown beard. “Well, and
so they are there still?”
“She is. Arthur’s gone off somewhere, Mrs. Bowles said. I don’t know
where.”
Mr. Dawn had no idea either. His daughter had not written him of her
meeting with Arthur.
Presently he said, with a smile:
“Rebecca, I have a bright idea. Hurry up and get strong enough to
travel, and I’ll take you and Rachel South with me on a visit to
Cinthia, if you would like it.”
“Like it! Oh,” she cried, with sudden, pleasurable excitement, “indeed
I should, Everard. It will take the rheumatism out of my old bones, the
blessed sunshine of the warm South.”
“Yes; all you need is a change. You are not so much sick as just
pining,” commented Rachel Dane.