“But yes,” returned Mrs. Varian, smiling, as she rose as if to go.
Cinthia raised her heavy head and held out a deprecatory hand.
“You are going,” she said, “and it is not likely that we shall ever meet again. Wait till I ask you one question. Why is it that you hate me?”
“I do not hate you, child.”
“Why deny it, when I have read it in your eyes?” cried the girl, accusingly.
Mrs. Varian’s face worked with emotion, and she started forward as if she would have embraced the girl, then suddenly drew back, saying huskily:
“Cinthia, you are mistaken. I—I—do not hate—you! It was—your mother!”
“My mother!” the girl gasped, in bewilderment, gazing in wonder at the beautiful and agitated face of the lady.
Mrs. Varian continued, hoarsely:
“My feelings toward you are complex, Cinthia. For your own sake, I could love you—you are beautiful and winning, but between your parents and me there has been a deadly feud—they both wronged me! I have hated them both for years and years, and that hatred comes between you and me, child, like an impassable gulf. That first night I saw you I did not guess at your parentage, hence my attraction to you. When I learned the truth upon the return of your father, my feelings changed. I do not deny it. I could not contemplate with any calmness the thought of a marriage between you and Arthur.