Cinthia bowed without answering. She had no defense to make, only the mute protest of her wistful eyes.
“I am here to tell you,” continued Mrs. Varian, “that on my side there exist as grave reasons as your father’s for protesting against your marrying Arthur.”
The blood rose in the girl’s face, mounted to her fair brow, and receded, leaving her pale as death, her eyes beginning to flash with pride. She essayed to speak, and faltered:
“Arthur told me—that you—were pleased—with our engagement. I—I—did not think it mattered much—disobeying a cold, unloving father who has neglected me all my life. If he had been fond of me, kind to me, I would have acted differently.”
A strange gleam shot into the brilliant eyes of Mrs. Varian, almost as if it pleased her to know that Everard Dawn had been cold and cruel to his only daughter. Then she looked down and played with the diamonds that flashed on her white hands, as she continued, gravely:
“Arthur and I have talked matters over together—there are things we would rather not confide to you, best for you not to hear—and we have decided that your father is right. You can never be Arthur’s wife.”
Perhaps Cinthia had expected something like this, but it struck her with the force of a great shock. She began to tremble like a leaf in a gale, crying out:
“You do not mean that he—Arthur—rejects me—after bringing me away from my father’s home to marry me—[jilts] me at the very altar!”
It was piteous, that heartcry wrung from the profoundest depths of feeling, and for a moment Mrs. Varian was silent, sympathetic. Then she looked down again at her rings, and answered:
“I beg that you will not blame Arthur; he is the soul of honor; but in this matter he has no choice save to give back your promise.”