Arthur began to grow excited by the portentous gravity of the other. He exclaimed, almost pleadingly:
“Mr. Dawn, you do not surely mean that you will make me wait two years for Cinthia?”
And to his utter horror and despair, the gentleman replied slowly, sadly, and gravely, as if every word cost him a pang:
“No, I do not wish you to wait for Cinthia, Arthur Varian, for the truth may as well be known to you first as last, cruel as it must seem at first. Believe me, I am sorry for your disappointment, and I hope your fancy for Cinthia has not taken very deep root, for—she can never be your wife.”
“Mr. Dawn!”
Arthur Varian sprung to his feet, and faced the speaker, with such a grief and amazement on his handsome face as might have melted the sternest heart.
“Mr. Dawn, you can not surely mean this refusal! What reasons could exist for deliberately wrecking two fond, loving hearts?”
“Unfortunately, the reasons exist; but such as they are, I can not explain them, Mr. Varian.”
Arthur cried out, eagerly:
“If you are offended at my impatience to claim Cinthia for my own, I will agree to wait the two years you mentioned, or even more. Nay, so deep and constant is my love, that I would rather serve seven years for her, as Jacob did for Rachel, than lose the dear hope of winning her at last for my own.”