CHAPTER VI.REBELLION.
Cinthia would have slept later than usual that morning but for her aunt’s hand gently shaking her as she said:
“Get up, Cinthy. Breakfast is almost ready. Put on your Sunday gown, and try to look your best when you come down-stairs.”
“Is—is—Arthur here—already?” cried the girl, a beautiful flash of joy illuminating her face.
“Never mind about that; only come down as soon as you can, or the biscuit will be soggy,” returned the old lady, hurrying out in trepidation. The sight of the beautiful, happy face made her nervous.
Cinthia hurried her toilet, not taking time to plait her hair, but letting the bright mass fall in careless waves over the brown cloth gown—her “Sunday best.”
“How ugly it is!” she cried, with an envious glance at Mrs. Varian’s finery spread over a chair; then she sped down-stairs, wondering happily if Arthur had indeed arrived so soon to ask her aunt’s consent.
But a strange man, tall, grave, brown-bearded, stood with his back to the fire, scanning her with moody blue eyes as she fluttered in, and Aunt Beck said in nervous tones:
“Yourfather, Cinthy.”
“Oh!” she faltered, in more surprise than joy, and paused, irresolute.
“What a pretty girl you have grown, my dear!” said Everard Dawn, coming forward and giving her a careless kiss. Then he took her hand and seated her at the table, saying laughingly that her aunt had been fretting about the biscuits.
No emotion had been shown on either side. The man seemed indifferent, with an under-current of repressed agitation; the girl was secretly wounded and indignant. Her own father! yet he had never shown her a sign ofreal love. Between this pair her poor heart had been starved for tenderness.
A little triumphant thought thrilled her through and through:
“What do I care for his coming or going now? I shall soon be happy with my darling!”
She was wondrously beautiful this morning, even in the plain dark gown that simply served as a foil to her fairness. Everard Dawn could not help from seeing it, and saying to himself:
“What peerless beauty! No wonder Arthur Varian lost his head!”
He felt like groaning aloud, his sudden home-coming had precipitated him into such a tragic plight, for the task that lay before him was most bitter.
He could not help from seeing the pride and resentment in her eyes, and something moved him to say, apologetically:
“I dare say you have been vexed with me for staying away so long, Cinthia; but I have been working for you, trying to lay aside a little pile, so that you could enjoy your young ladyhood. You shall have pretty gowns and pleasures henceforth. Are you not glad?”
It cost him effort to say so much, but there was no gratitude in his daughter’s proud face, only a mutinous flash of the great dark eyes as she answered:
“I shall not need your belated kindness now.”
“What do you mean?” impatiently.
“Haven’t you told him, Aunt Beck, about—about—Arthur?” blushing vividly.
“Yes—yes, dear.”
Cinthia nodded her head at him with a mixture of childish triumph and womanliness.
“You see,” she said, proudly, “I am going to be married soon. I shall have a husband who will give me all I want—even,” bitterly, “the love I have missed all my life!” tears sparkling into her eyes under the curling lashes.
He felt the keen reproach deeply, and exclaimed, gently and sadly:
“Poor little Cinthia.”
“Not poor now,” she answered, quickly. “It isrichCinthia now—rich in Arthur’s love and the certainty of a happy future.”
She meant to be scathing, poor, neglected, wounded Cinthia, but she could never guess how the words cut into his heart and tortured him with secret agony—he who meant to lay her love and hopes in ruins, to blight all the joys of her life by the exercise of a father’s privilege of breaking her will.
But no shadow crossed his face, no trouble was apparent in his manner as he laughed easily, and answered:
“Nonsense! you are scarcely more than a child yet—too young to be dreaming of marriage. I shall send you to school to complete your education before you can begin to think of lovers.”
“I will not go!” she said rebelliously, with startled eyes upon his inscrutable face.
“Cinthy!” reproved her aunt.
“I willnotgo!” the girl repeated, defiantly. “I shall marry Arthur, as I promised, before Christmas!”
She sprung from her seat and rushed to the window, drumming tempestuously upon the pane, her habit when greatly excited.
Outside the prospect was dreary. Thedébrisof yesterday’s storm littered the ground, the limbs of some of the trees hung broken, the sun was hidden under clouds that hinted at snow.
Mrs. Flint whispered to her brother, apprehensively:
“I told you so. She has a rebellious will, and she thinks you have no authority over her now, because you stayed away so long.”
“She will find out better about that before long,” he answered, decisively, though the curious paleness of last night settled again upon his handsome face.
He went over and stood by Cinthia’s side.
“It will snow before to-morrow,” he said, quietly.
“Yes;” and she looked around at him with a flushed face, crying: “Oh, papa, you were jesting?”
“No. I can not give you to Arthur Varian, Cinthia. You must forget him, my dear child.”
“I can not, will not! I should die without him!” passionately.
“No, no, you will soon get over this fancy, for youhave known Mr. Varian but a little time, and to-morrow I shall take you away from this place, and amid new surroundings you will forget the face that dazzled you here.”
“I will never forget Arthur, nor will I go away!” she protested.
“You can not set at naught a father’s authority, Cinthia.”
“I disclaim it, I defy it! You have given me neither love nor care, so you forfeit every right! Oh, I am sorry you ever came back here!” stormed the angry girl.
“Cinthy, Cinthy, come and help me with the work!” her aunt called, sharply; and she left him with the mien of an offended princess.
He took refuge in a cigar, and smoked moodily, till the click of the gate-latch made him look up, with a face working with emotion, at a handsome, elegantly clad young man walking up to the door.
Cinthia had gone upstairs to make the beds, and her aunt went to admit the caller.
In a minute she ushered him into the little sitting-room, saying nervously:
“Mr. Varian—my brother, Mr. Dawn.”