She whirled back toward him again, saying, imperiously:
“Be brief, then, Everard Dawn, for you should know that 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 away to-morrow—but in the meantime I came to you, for you must help me to keep them apart.”