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.