A SUSPICIOUS LOVER.
Somehow Maisie did not care to stay at Rosedale any longer when she
heard that Barrington was away.
The charm of the place was suddenly gone, and she went straight back to
the station, eager to catch the return train to Washington.
She was just in time, and she hurried into a coach without perceiving
that she was followed by a gray-haired, middle-aged gentleman who had,
in fact, not lost sight of her since she had left Washington--no other
than her discarded suitor, Kingwood, who, full of pique and angry
curiosity, had vowed to ferret out the baffling secret of the young
girl’s past.
Easily disguising himself as an elderly gentleman, he had followed
her to Rosedale, but without getting the least satisfaction, for she
appeared to be just what she pretended, a stranger to the place.
“But why on earth,” he asked himself, “did she choose to disguise
herself in that black wig, and darken her skin? There is surely some
mystery about this girl that I cannot understand. It must be true as
she confessed on the train that night that she had run away from home
and was fearful of being traced. Is Rosedale her home, and if so,
why did she only visit the cemetery? Why did she fall down in that
deathlike swoon among the flowers?”
Lurking near-by among the concealing shrubberies of white crape myrtle
he had not dared venture near enough to overhear her conversation with
Nicodemas, or he might have gathered enough in which to base some
suspicions of the truth. He had not indeed had a chance to find out the
name on the stone that had seemed to excite her painful interest, but
he made up his mind to return on the first opportunity and satisfy his
curiosity on this point, besides having a conversation with the negro.
What he hoped to gain by learning her secret he could not explain to
himself unless to get her into his power and force a reversal of her
rejection.
His pride chafed bitterly under her indifference, and the yearning for
her love grew into a master passion.
Meanwhile Maisie, all unconscious of his burning regard, gave herself
up to some very unhappy musings while the train whirled her back to
Washington.
She wondered why she had felt so strangely elated while going, and at
the heaviness of heart that signaled her return.
“What did I wish or expect?” she asked herself impatiently. “I did
not from the first intend to reveal myself to any one. Why does it
pain me to leave without seeing him? Why this painful interest in Byrd
Barrington ever since the moment I heard him bravely taking my part
against the brother who had wronged me? True, I realized from that
moment he was nobler than I had deemed him, and that the good in him
was incompatible with the wrong he did Delmar. For he did not deny
himself that it was his malign influence that had caused his brother’s
disinheritance. Yet he would have somewhat atoned for that wrong by
his generous wedding-gift to me! How bravely he bore himself at my
marriage! How nobly he took my part against Del! How inscrutably calm
he was in our thrilling interview afterward! I never saw before how
grandly handsome he was with his clear, steady blue eyes, his noble
white brow, with the bright chestnut locks curling about it in careless
luxuriance. How his deep voice thrilled me. I felt like a scolded
child, I was mad with pain and wrong, and I did him a cruel injustice,
throwing back angry words into his face because he would not take me at
my word. I was cruelly humiliated, believing that his heart had turned
against me, that his boasted love was dead! For long, long months I
have believed the same, but it seems that I was blinded by my anger
and could not see the truth. What a thrilling story that old man told
me there by that grave supposed to be mine! He almost died of grief
after my supposed death; he placed the beautiful stone there, and the
fragrant flowers, even the chair to come and rest in while he mused on
poor little Maisie, now an angel in heaven. Ah, what a love, so strong
and deep, it lasts beyond the grave! How strange that I never knew him
truly before, that, blinded by a girl’s romantic fancy for a pair of
dark eyes, I scorned the truest heart on earth.”
Under her close veil her face was all wet with burning tears that
threatened to wash off the dark dye that stained her fairness, and
her bosom heaved with emotion. She was looking at herself now and
contrasting the picture with what might have been--contrasting the
lonely, penniless young widow with what she might have been as
Barrington’s bride, the queen of a happy home and an adoring heart.
Then followed a thrilling thought.
“He loves me still; that old man said so! Delmar is dead, and it may
not be too late to retrieve the past. I--I could easily learn to love
him now.”
The pain of disappointment gave place to tremendous hope.
“I will go back some time, not now, because Delmar is too lately dead,
and the world will expect me to grieve for him, but how can I when he
killed my love at one blow, stretched it dead at his feet by his cruel
falsehoods! How can I grieve? It seems now as if I really never loved
him, so quickly was my innocent love turned to hate! Not that I hate
him now, poor Del, in his bloody grave. He suffered, too; he was driven
mad by Josephine’s perfidy; I realize it fully now, and I forgive!”
The tears dried up in her eyes and a tender smile curved her rosy
lips--lips that had seldom smiled since Delmar Barrington had pressed
on them his perjured bridal kiss.
She murmured again:
“I will return to Castellane some day, when months have passed. Oh, how
glad, how surprised he will be! He will take me for a ghost at first.
Perhaps he will be glad to see even my poor, wandering spirit, and when
I have explained all, when I have proved to him that I am Maisie in the
flesh, will he not rejoice over my restoration to him--to him, thank
God! Oh, I can scarcely wait for my happiness! I long to go back now,
and beg his forgiveness for all my waywardness and folly that grieved
him so sore.”
A voice in her heart seemed to clamor, passionately:
“Go back now; go back now! Wait with Aunt Constance for his coming.”
But a warm blush rose to her cheek.
“No, no, not yet,” she said to her clamorous heart, “it is such a
little while since I--thought--I--hated him! Could he believe I had
changed so soon? Might he not believe me fickle, or deceitful, dreading
lest I was angling for his money? I would to Heaven that he were poor
as I am; I would turn back to-morrow!”
No wonder Burton Kingwood from his seat just back of her wondered what
was going on in her mind. At first he saw her weeping silent tears of
grief, and anon smiling happily to herself as if at some great, good
news. And such a smile! so full of tenderness that he was mad to bask
in its enchanting glow, only that he dared not betray himself.
“What a mysterious, adorable girl, changeful as an April day! now
smiles, now tears, and equally beautiful in both!” thought the
infatuated lover, never taking his eyes from the object of his
thoughts until the train rolled into the Washington station.
With a sigh Maisie stepped from it to return to the life of the past
few months, wondering how she was going to drag through it in patience
until she could feel that the time had come for her to return to
Castellane.
Alas, why did she turn a deaf ear to her heart’s eager promptings to go
back now?