He was tempted to confide his own story to her ears, that she might not blame him so bitterly for Cinthia’s grief, but prudence intervened, whispering that it were wiser to keep the cruel secret.
CHAPTER XXXII.
“A COLD, GRAY LIFE.”
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.