“FORGIVE THE PAST; I LOVE YOU NOW!”
Maisie returned to her quiet boarding-house, and her round of
sightseeing in Washington, filling in as best she could the time that
dragged on leaden wings now that it had become a period of waiting
between hope and a future thrilling joy.
To her infinite relief her rejected lover left the city the next day,
saying he was going to the seashore for a while, and might not join the
company again, as some of his people desired him to go abroad with them
in September.
Maisie hoped that he would go so that he might the sooner get over the
fancy for her that was making him unhappy.
She bade him good-by with cordial good will and good wishes that he
accepted with a moody brow and injured air, so deeply was his pride
wounded by her refusal of his suit.
When he was gone Maisie forgot all about him in the whirl of new
emotions that possessed her mind, making her so restless that she was
glad to take up the drudgery of her stage life again when the company
got together to play a September engagement in Philadelphia.
True to his word, Burton Kingwood did not join them again. Mrs. Warren
said he had written her he was going abroad, so they secured a new
villain for his part, and Maisie felt secretly thankful he was a
married man, so that she need not go through the farce of refusing him
as she had all the others.
She was not a bit of a coquette, and it only gave her pain to hold a
man’s heart in her hand to accept or reject. Her sympathies were too
keen, her heart too tender, to enjoy such triumphs as please more
heartless women.
There was but one heart in the world for Maisie now--the true and
tender heart she had once slighted in her blindness.
Ah, but she would make amends now, she thought thrillingly, as the slow
days slipped away bringing the wished-for end ever closer, the day when
she could go back to Castellane and her true love, saying:
“Forgive me all the past. I love you now!”
Oh, how hard it was to wait--to let a few months of conventional
mourning for Delmar pass away when her heart was burning to go back,
when her eyes were aching for the sight of one dear face and her
little hand eager for the strong, restful clasp of a dear absent one.
Nearly four months slipped away while they were touring in Northern
cities, and still she had not made up her mind when it would be proper
to go back when the sudden illness of Mrs. Warren made it imperative to
decide at once.
The star fainted on the stage in one of her most thrilling
impersonations, and was so ill afterward that in a few days her
physician declared it was nervous prostration.
“You have worked too hard. You must not act again for a year. Go abroad
with your husband and idle away the hours on the vine-clad hills of
Italy until you grow strong again,” was his verdict.
The Warrens were rich enough to take his advice, and they announced
that the company would be disbanded.
Maisie’s heart beat with a rapture akin to pain, it was so sweet and
thrilling.
“I must go back now. It is fate,” she said gladly, to herself.
“My dear, what of your future?” Mrs. Warren said tenderly.
Maisie blushed and faltered, and the kind-hearted actress continued:
“I have been thinking what is to become of you, my dear, for it will
not be easy to get another engagement just at this season. Besides,
I cannot bear to part with you, you have grown so dear to me, as my
companion, dear.”
Marking her confusion and hesitation, the lady added sweetly:
“I will make it an easy position, Violet; you shall be just like a
daughter to me, only with a salary that will make you more independent.”
Maisie’s beautiful eyes filled with grateful tears.
“Oh, how good you are to me, my dear friend,” she cried. “Do not think
me ungrateful, but I cannot go with you because--because----”
“You don’t mean to say you are going to get married, Violet?” cried
Mrs. Warren banteringly.
She hit on the truth so nearly that Maisie crimsoned with confusion,
she knew the charge was true; that is, if Barrington were not changed,
perhaps, next year--who could tell? ran her blissful thoughts.
But she answered bashfully:
“You know I told you I was a runaway from home? Well, I have repented
my folly, and--and--mean to return.”
“My dear girl!” beamingly.
“So that is the only reason I cannot go with you, dear, dear friend,
because I am homesick and cannot bear it any longer!” sobbed Maisie,
giving way to hysterical emotion that aroused all Mrs. Warren’s ready
sympathies.
“I--I have my trunk packed,” added Maisie, “and I shall leave for home
to-day, so that I may reach there for Christmas.”
“And what a charming surprise and Christmas gift you will be to your
friends, my dear!” cried the lady, though she did not dream, indeed it
would be like one coming back from the dead.
But a strange instinct made her add, affectionately:
“Still, if you are not satisfied when you get there, if there may be
changes that you do not like, remember that my offer holds good till I
sail, which will not be for several days yet, you know, not until you
have time to write back and tell me of your happiness, dear.”
“Oh, I shall be happy, indeed,” murmured the girl gladly, adding, “and
I shall write directly and tell you all about it. You have been so kind
to trust me with my past all a secret, but I shall write fully, and
then you will understand.”
Maisie felt as if she should almost die of her happy excitement as she
boarded the southern train at Wilmington that evening, thinking that by
the next night she would be at Rosedale.
She wondered if Barrington would be greatly shocked when she came
stealing into the library, like a forlorn little ghost, holding out her
cold, little hands to be warmed in his tender clasp, while she cried
out in loving accents:
“It is Maisie herself, not a ghost. Forgive me all the past. I love you
now.”
She could fancy how he would hold out his arms, how she would creep
into his warm embrace, pillowing her golden head on his broad breast,
sobbing for very joy, how everything would be quickly explained between
them, and happiness come to both at last. Then he would lead her to
kind Aunt Constance, and what a welcome she would receive from the
dear, loving soul! In these rapturous fancies the hours flew fast until
she reached Rosedale in the gloom of the early winter twilight, just
three days before Christmas.
Fortunately, it was fair, clear weather, with neither snow nor sleet,
and a lovely crescent moon in the purple sky. Maisie decided that she
would walk to Castellane to make sure of not being recognized by any
one until she had seen him--her heart’s beloved!
How near her happiness seemed as she hurried along the familiar streets
to her old home, thinking of the glad meeting so near at hand.
What a shock it would be to him, poor, unhappy Byrd, mourning her as
dead! Perhaps after all she ought to have written and broken the news
to him gently.
But no, no, she wanted to see his startled surprise and dawning joy, to
be near him in that ineffably joyous moment.
So her light feet flew over the frozen streets until she was at the
very gate.
Then she paused in something like wonderment, for the street was full
of carriages, and from the windows both of Castellane and Shirley
streamed forth brilliant lights.
In and out of the gates of Josephine’s home she saw people coming and
going--guests going in and servants coming out on various errands.
“The Shirleys must be giving a ball! What if he should be there and not
in the library, after all,” she thought, with keen disappointment, and
unlatching the gate she flew up the walk and peered into the window.
No, he was not there. The lights burned brightly in the library, but
it was deserted. She could not carry out her pretty plan of surprising
Barrington.
Her heart ached with the bitterness of her disappointment. She turned
away.
“I must seek him at Shirley. Perhaps he will come out to smoke a cigar.
If not, I will have to come back to Aunt Constance. It is too bitterly
cold to remain outdoors,” she cried, while the tears came out on her
cheeks and sparkled like frosty pearls in the clear moonlight.
She reached the gate. Her hand was on the latch when two men passing
paused abruptly, and she drew back into the shadow of a large
magnolia-tree while their words came clearly to her ears.
“Why, what is all this? What is going on at Shirley? A ball?” one said
curiously, to the other.
The man’s answer was like a death warrant to Maisie’s eager, throbbing
heart.
“If you hadn’t been away a month, Jones, you wouldn’t need to ask that,
for nothing has been talked of for three weeks by the women but the
marriage of Barrington to Josephine Shirley. Hark! do you catch the
wedding-march? It is a home wedding on account of poor little Maisie’s
so recent death, I am told, but they go to Europe on their bridal-tour.”