CHAPTER VIII.A DARK SECRET.
Cinthia did not obey. She only clung closer to her sorrowing lover.
“Oh, Arthur, don’t leave me! Take me home with you to your sweet, kind mother! I hate that man!” she sobbed in wildabandon.
Her father came down the walk toward them, and Arthur bent and whispered rapidly in her ear:
“Go in with him now, my own sweet love, for we can not defy him openly, we can only defeat him by strategy. Be brave, darling, for—I will come for you and take you away to-night.”
He kissed her, in spite of Mr. Dawn’s great eyes, and pushed her from him with gentle violence just as her father came out and took her hand.
“Come, Cinthia,” he said, with gentle firmness, and she followed, though she shook off his touch as though it had been a viper.
“Don’t touch me! I hate you—hate you!” she cried, like a little fury, her eyes flashing fire. “Do you think I will go with you to-morrow? Never—never! You have made my life empty of joy, and now you envy the sunshine that love has brought me! But you shall not part me from Arthur—no, no, no!” and desperately sobbing, she flung herself face downward on the floor.
He sought Mrs. Flint in terrible perturbation.
“Come, she is in hysterics!” he exclaimed, anxiously.
“I told you it would go hard with Cinthy,” she answered, curtly.
“Yes, I feared she would grieve; but, good Heaven! she is a little fury—all rage and rebellion, swearing she will not go with me to-morrow. She must be closely watched to-day, for there is no telling what such a desperate girl may do,” he said in alarm mixed with anger.
“Pshaw! she will simmer down when her fit of crying is over. I’ll get her upstairs and give her a soothing dose. Her temper-fits never last long, for Cinthy is a good child, after all, and I am sorry over her disappointment, she sets such store by love,” returned the old woman, in real sympathy for the girl and secret disapproval of his cold attitude to his neglected daughter.
He felt the implied reproach and answered, in weary self-excuse:
“Rebecca, I know you think me hard and cold, but my heart seems dead within me.”
“That is no excuse for neglect of duty,” she answered with telling effect as she went to the difficult task of soothing Cinthia and getting her upstairs to her room.
“A bitter home-coming!” he muttered, as he went out into the bleak morning air, with its scurrying flakes of threatening snow, to try to walk off some of his perturbation.
Somehow the dreary day dragged through to the drearier late afternoon.
Upstairs, Cinthia lay still and exhausted upon the bed after such a day of tears, and sobs, and passionate rebellion as Mrs. Flint hoped never to go through again.
Everard Dawn took his hat and great-coat, and set out for another long walk—this time in the direction of Arthur Varian’s home.
Had he repented his harshness? Was he going to recall Cinthia’s banished lover?
The air was keen with a biting east wind, the sky was gray with threatening clouds, and occasional light scurries of snow flew in his face and flecked his thick brown beard as he stepped briskly along, gazing over the low evergreen hedge at the beautiful grounds of the fine old estate he had refused for his daughter.
As he almost paused in his walk to gaze with deep interest at the picturesque old stone house, he saw a lady come out of a side-door and turn into an avenue of tall dark cedars that made a pleasant promenade, shutting off the rigorous wind very effectively.
He followed her progress with wistful eyes and tense lips.
It was indeed the stately mistress of the mansion. Wearying of its warmth and luxury, she had come out, wrapped in sealskin, for her favorite constitutional along the cedar avenue.
She walked slowly, with her hands behind her, andher large, flashing dark eyes bent on the ground, as if in profound thought.
Everard Dawn gazed eagerly after Mrs. Varian till she was lost to view among the cedars, then, searching for a gate in the hedge, he entered and turned his steps toward the avenue, so as to meet her on her lonely walk.
Slowly they came on toward each other, the echo of their footsteps dulled by the carpet of dead leaves, dank and sodden with last night’s rain, and the face of the man, with its gleaming eyes and deep pallor, bore signs of unusual agitation.
Suddenly the lowering clouds parted, and a dull sunset glow sent gleams of light down through the cedar boughs upon the sodden path. The woman lifted her large, passionate orbs to the sky.
Then she stopped short and uttered a startled cry.
She had caught sight of the advancing man, the intruder upon her grounds.
He removed his hat and stood bowing before her in the dying sunset glow, the light shining on his pallid face and the streaks of gray in his thick locks.
“Mrs. Varian!” he exclaimed.
“Everard Dawn!” she answered, in a hollow voice, and her eyes glowed like live coals among dead embers, so ashy-pale was her beautiful face.
Pressing her gloved hand upon her side, as if her heart’s wild throbbings threatened to suffocate her, shecalled, hoarsely:
“Why are you here? How dare you face me, traitor?”
“I have not come to forgive you, Mrs. Varian, be sure ofthat!” he answered, sternly.
“You do well to talk of forgiveness—you!” she sneered, stamping the ground with her dainty foot.
“And—you—madame—would—do—well to crave it—not that it would ever be granted you, remember. Only angels could forgive injuries like mine!” the man answered, stormily, with upraised hand, as if longing to strike her down in her defiant beauty.
She did not shrink nor blanch, but her face was a picture of emotional rage, dead white against the setting of satin-black tresses and rich seal fur, her eyes flashing as only great oriental black eyes can flash, and her rare beauty of form showing to advantage as she drew herself haughtily erect, hissing out:
“Go, Everard Dawn! Take your hated form from my sight ere I summon my servants to drive you from the grounds!”
Turning, as if to put her threat into execution, she was arrested by a stern voice that said significantly:
“It is more to your interest to listen to me one moment, Mrs. Varian.”
She whirled back toward him again, saying, imperiously:
“Be brief, then, Everard Dawn, for you should knowthat it suffocates me to breathe the same air with such as you!”
Evidently there was some strange secret between this haughty pair, for he flashed her a glance of kindling scorn, as he returned:
“What I have to say needs but one sentence to assure you of its importance. Your son, Mrs. Varian, wishes to wed—my daughter!”
A hoarse, strangled cry, and she fell back against the trunk of a tree, clasping its great bole, as if to prevent herself from falling. Her face wore such a look of agony as if he had plunged a knife into her heart.
Everard Dawn impetuously started forward, as if to catch her in his arms—the natural impulse of manhood at seeing a woman suffer.
Then he suddenly remembered himself, and drew haughtily back, waiting for her to speak again; but she was silent several moments, gazing at him with the reproachful eyes of a wounded animal at bay.
Then she gasped, faintly:
“Is she—is she—that Cinthia Dawn?”
“Yes. Cinthia Dawn is my daughter,” finishing the unended sentence. “She lives here with my sister, and I came home last night, after being self-exiled for weary years, and found Arthur Varian and Cinthia plighted lovers. I have forbidden their love, and sent him away; but they are defiant and rebellious. I shall take her awayto-morrow—but in the meantime I came to you, for you must help me to keep them apart.”
“I—oh, Heaven! what is there I can do?” she moaned, in piteous distress.
He looked at her in dead silence a moment, then answered, firmly:
“Cinthia is only a tender girl, and I will not have her young life blasted with the hideous truth. Arthur is a man, and if the dark secret that comes between their love must ever be divulged, it is to him alone it need be revealed. Will you charge yourself with this duty should he persist in his resolve to marry Cinthia?”
“If you asked me for all my fortune, I would rather give it you—but you are right. The duty is mine. I will not shirk it, though it slay me. Poor, poor Arthur!”
“That is well. I shall depend on you to curb his passion. Farewell, Mrs. Varian;” and with a lingering glance, he turned away just as the last sun-ray glimmered and faded in the west.