Loved you better than you knew

Doctor Sprague, the minister, had noticed on entering that a tall, stately lady in a long traveling-wrap stood at one of the windows, looking down absently on the busy avenue.

It was, in fact, Mrs. Varian, who had arrived but a few minutes ago, and was waiting in the parlor until her room should be made ready.

Tortured by a cruel unrest after her interview of the evening before with Everard Dawn, she had decided to leave Idlewild for a few days, until after he went away with his daughter.

Her mind was quite easy over the breaking up of the untoward love affair, as Arthur had written her a note earlier in the day, saying he was off on a short trip with a friend, and would wire particulars to-morrow.

On learning from Mr. Dawn that he had rejected Arthur’s suit for his daughter’s hand, she guessed readily enough that her boy had gone away to drown his sorrow. She was glad of this, believing that change of scene is a great panacea for hopeless grief.

Acting on this idea herself, she determined to make a short journey to Washington, and perhaps New York, in the hope of obliterating from her mind certain painful impressions produced, or, rather, renewed on it by the encounter with Everard Dawn at Idlewild.

The man’s face and voice haunted her and brought back memories fraught with pain. To escape them, she had fled from her home that stormy night to seek “respite and nepenthe.”

Absorbed in painful thought, she had not observed the entrance of any one until the raised voice of the minister made her look over her shoulder in cold inquiry:

“I shall need two witnesses, please. Perhaps that lady looking out of the window would oblige us.”

Then the host advanced toward her, saying, courteously:

“Madame, will you honor us by becoming the witness to a ceremony of marriage?”

Mrs. Varian inclined her proud, dark head in assent, and moved gracefully forward toward the young couple who stood before the minister, the girl bashful and trembling, the man pale, but with an eager smile on his handsome face.

The next moment a startled cry rang on the air.

“Arthur!”

The young man dropped Cinthia’s hand and looked around.

“Mother!” in surprise.

“Oh, Arthur! what is the meaning of this strange scene?” she cried, coming up between him and Cinthia.

The young man laughed easily, soon getting over his surprise, and answered:

“It means, mother, that Mr. Dawn refused to give me Cinthia, so we took the bit between our teeth and ran away. But how came you here? You did not pursue us, did you, dear?”

“No, no; for I did not dream of this. I made up my mind last night to come to Washington on a little—business trip while you were away. When—when—did you arrive?”

“Just a few minutes ago. And I thought we had better get married before we registered, or even had breakfast, for fear Mr. Dawn might be on our track.”

“We must have traveled on the same train. How strange we did not meet—how fortunate that we meet now!” she cried, with almost tragic emphasis.

“Yes, mother, for now you can witness our marriage and give us your blessing. Cinthia, dear, shake hands with my mother.”

Cinthia put out a little trembling hand, and looked timidly out of the corner of her drooping eyes at the beautiful lady.

She met a cold glance, and the hand that just touched hers without the slightest pressure was icy.

“Are you ready now?” asked the minister, again opening his book.

“Yes,” answered Arthur, taking Cinthia’s hand, and turning to him eagerly.

But there came a low, heart-wrung cry from the mother’s lips:

“Wait!”

All turned toward her in surprise.

Her eyes were like coals of fire, her face wore a bluish pallor, her very lips were white as she uttered, hoarsely:

“I beg pardon, but the ceremony must not go on—until—until—I speak—to—Arthur!”

Every word came jerkily between the pallid lips, and her outstretched hand clutched Arthur’s arm.

“Come with me—let me speak to you alone!” she implored.

Every one realized that she was laboring under the most terrible agitation. It seemed plain to all that she meant to forbid the marriage.

Arthur frowned at her—the son whose wishes she had never thwarted—and exclaimed, impatiently:

“Can you not wait till the ceremony is over? Remember, Mr. Dawn may come at any moment.”

“No—I can not wait! Come,” eagerly, “I will not detain you long. Miss Dawn, will you not wait here just a few moments while—I—I—tell Arthur—the truth?”

“Go, Arthur,” answered the girl, faintly; and she sunk upon a chair, trembling in every limb, sure in her heart that something was going to happen.

Mrs. Varian was angry with her—she was sure. How coldly she had looked at her, how reluctantly she had touched her hand with icy fingers!

Mrs. Varian dragged Arthur away with her to her own room, and then the genial host said kindly, in sympathy for the suffering girl:

“I will send a maid to show you to a room to rest, Miss Dawn, while you are waiting for your friends.”

“Oh, I thank you,” she answered, gratefully, desperately glad to be alone.

When she was gone, the minister said, uneasily:

“I do not believe there is any use in my waiting. There will be no marriage if that proud Mrs. Varian can have her own way.”

“You are right,” returned the host. “I could see plainly that she intended to break off the marriage. I believe that she pursued them here, instead of just meeting them by accident, as she pretended. I never heard of such a coincidence. I suppose the girl is poor, as her clothing was plain and cheap, and the mother and son are rich. In fact, I know they are, because the young fellow has stayed here several times before and he throws money about like a young prince.”

“He said that her father had refused him her hand, so he must be a very black sheep, as poor men are usually glad to welcome a rich son-in-law,” said the minister; adding: “I believe I had better go, if you think I shall not be needed. I am sorry for that sweet young girl, for I am sure that proud lady will show her no mercy.”

“If you are needed, I will send to the parsonage for you, but it would be a surprise to me if the marriage comes off now,” the host said, candidly.

So presently the minister went away, rather disappointed at losing the expected liberal wedding fee.

Cinthia locked herself into the luxurious room, and laid aside her hat and jacket, so that she might bathe her face and neck, and brush out the golden waves of her beautiful hair.

When she had finished, she gazed at herself in the long mirror, and saw an exquisitely beautiful young creature, although her face was pale, and there were dark circles under her heavy eyes, caused by the excitement and emotion of the last thirty-six hours.

She sunk into a large easy-chair, and waited, with a wildly throbbing heart, for the end of the interview between Arthur and his mother.

She had a lurking presentiment of evil. It had fallen on her at the touch of Mrs. Varian’s cold hand, and the strange glance of her eyes—so different from her sweet friendliness the night she had been her guest at Idlewild.

Yet Arthur had said his mother was pleased at their engagement. What could it all mean?

The lids drooped over her tired young eyes, and in spite of her anxiety, weariness overcame her, and she fell into a heavy sleep—so she did not have to undergo the suspense of waiting, for more than half an hour passed away before there came a low, half-deprecating rap upon the door.

It startled Cinthia, and she sprung awake, looking about her in confusion, before she comprehended her position.

The rap came again, and a little impatiently, so she hastily opened the door to Mrs. Varian, saying:

“Pardon me if I have kept you waiting. I was fatigued with travel, and fell asleep.”