“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.
CHAPTER IX.
A BUNCH OF ROSES.
Cinthia had never spent such an unhappy day in the whole of her young life. She could not realize that only yesterday she had been railing at the monotony of existence.
It was only twenty-four hours later, and a tragedy of woe had overwhelmed her in its grim embrace.
Only yesterday she had been planning, and hoping, and wishing for some way to know Arthur Varian better, and now he was won, now he was her promised husband; and through all the bitterness of her father’s cruelty, that thought made glad her warm heart.
She had shed little rivers of tears, she had sulked at her father and aunt, she had refused to eat her dinner, and pouted among the pillows all day long; but through it all ran one thrilling thought, Arthur was coming to take her away to-night. He had promised, and she knew he would keep his word.