I COULD NOT BE HAPPY WITHOUT LOVE!
Mrs. Warren would never forget the day when Maisie returned to her so
suddenly--a wan, sad-eyed phantom of the blooming girl who had gone
away but two days ago--a month’s illness could scarcely have changed
her more.
“Don’t make me tell you the cruel truth, dear friend,” she moaned.
“Everything was changed at home. It almost broke my heart. So I will
never leave you again.”
“Until some handsome young man carries you off from me,” bantered the
lady. “Maisie, why did you refuse Burton Kingwood? He was really a good
match--rich and of good family.”
The girl raised her heavy eyes with a pathetic smile.
“I loved another,” she said frankly.
“Another!” cried Mrs. Warren, and Maisie added simply:
“But it is quite hopeless. While I was away he--married--some one else.”
“My poor darling! No wonder you came away! But you must not brood over
your sorrow. Forget the false one and try to think kindly of Kingwood.”
“I can never forget. He was the sort of man that once loved, could not
be forgotten. Alas! noble, kingly. Oh, why do I dwell on him now? I
must not, for he is lost to me forever,” and Maisie wept in her despair.
Mrs. Warren was full of generous sympathy. She did all she could to
win Maisie from her secret sorrow, painting eloquent pictures of the
good times they should have abroad, and presently the young girl smiled
again, too proud to show to any one the dark depths of her aching heart.
But to think he had been won by Josephine--the vain, fickle coquette,
who could never appreciate the depths of his noble nature, the warmth
of his true heart--who would care only for his money! It was madness to
think upon; she would have given any price to forget, to thrust that
haunting memory from her heart.
A few more days and they were upon the ocean. Fortunately, Maisie was
spared the horrors of sea-sickness, but her friends, the Warrens, were
not so fortunate, especially the lady, who was not able to leave her
berth until the day before they landed in Liverpool.
If anything could have soothed the sadness of a tortured heart it
must have been the great kindness of her generous friends. From the
beginning she was treated as kindly as a daughter and never reminded
that her position was merely that of a paid companion. Her fellow
passengers admired her beyond measure, awarding her unanimously the
palm of perfect beauty. More than one man looked on her with eyes of
eager admiration, but toward their advances she showed the coldest
indifference. Her wounded heart lay heavy as a stone in her breast, and
she felt she could never love again.
Bravely she tried to put the past away and throw herself into the
new life opening brightly before her, crowded with new scenes and
experiences. Having always longed for such a trip, the opportunity was
hers at last, and it would be most ungrateful to her benefactors not to
make the most of it.
It was most fortunate that Mrs. Warren’s delicate health required so
much sympathy and petting, for it took Maisie out of herself and helped
to drown the memory of her pain. They traveled about as the invalid’s
health permitted, made pleasant acquaintances here and there, and Mrs.
Warren grew perceptibly stronger, declaring that the change of scene
was indeed doing her good.
In Paris they were surprised to find that Burton Kingwood was an inmate
of the same hotel, and but for Maisie’s repugnance they might have felt
truly glad to met him again.
But her careless greeting had no effect on his happiness. The first
moment in which he found her alone he renewed his suit.
“It seems as if fate itself has brought us together again,” he cried.
“Ah, I cannot tell you what I suffered over your coldness, but it did
not kill my love. Have you no pity on such devotion?”
“The greatest pity and sympathy in the world,” answered the poor girl,
who knew all the sorrow of hopeless love, and the gentleness of her
voice encouraged him to hope.
“Then you will try to love me!” he pleaded. “You will give me a little
hope?”
She was sorry for so true a love, but she knew that her heart could
never respond to it, and with eyes full of tears she refused him again.
She could not help seeing that he was angered at her refusal. His
conceit was hurt as much as his heart.
His dark eyes flashed as he cried:
“You are the strangest girl I ever met! You reject rich men as
carelessly as if they were every-day affairs, when one would expect a
poor girl like you to jump at their offers.”
She grew crimson with anger as she answered:
“I am not poor enough to sell myself for sordid gold.”
Her pride and independence only made him more eager to win the peerless
young beauty.
“Do you not care for wealth and all the pleasures it can buy?” he asked
in wonder.
“Ah, yes, indeed I do. Like any other young girl, I long for jewels,
fine gowns, horses and carriages, and all the varied pleasures of life.
But I believe in marriage for love alone. I could not be happy in a
palace without love,” she answered with gentle frankness.
“Again I repeat, you are the very strangest girl I ever met,” cried
Burton Kingwood.
“I am sorry you think so. I am sure there must be many other young
girls of the same mind with me,” declared Maisie firmly, and, seeing
that he could make no impression on her feelings, he left her
presently in bitter chagrin at his second failure.
He took the Warrens into his confidence and begged them to help him in
his love-affair.
“It is more serious than you think,” he said. “I can never be really
happy without that girl, she has so grown into my heart. I shall not
give her up yet. Promise to keep me informed of your whereabouts, so
that I may see her some time again.”
Mrs. Warren was almost tempted to betray Maisie’s hopeless love
for another, but she knew it was not right to violate the girl’s
confidence, so she only shook her head while promising to do as he
asked, adding frankly:
“Not that I think it will ever do you any good, Burton, much as I could
wish that Violet would love you.”
“Do all that you can for me; I shall not give up hope yet,” he replied
stubbornly, and, though he removed from the hotel that day and came
to call on them no more, they knew he was not far away, for daily
gifts of flowers came to Maisie through the long, cold, February days,
and she could not help but guess at the donor, although there was no
accompanying card.
“I wish he would not send them. I wish he would go away and forget,”
she sighed, out of her secret sympathy for hopeless love, because she
knew the sorrow.
She might not have pitied him so much had she known how he had followed
her to Rosedale that day, and how he had returned alone afterward
and wormed all her pitiful story out of Uncle Nicodemas, the old
grave-tender.
When he said to Maisie: “You are the very strangest girl I ever met,”
he had all that in his mind.
He knew that she was a widow; he knew why she had run away from home,
as far as the old negro could elucidate the matter; he guessed also how
her reputed death had come about through the robbery on the train, but
he could not understand why Maisie chose to keep silence over the truth
and remain away from her home. Surely she must have seen in dozens of
newspapers the report of her young husband’s death. Why did she remain
away from her friends, and let them believe that she was dead? He felt
that there was some mystery under her strange masquerading, and he was
half-tempted to threaten her with exposure unless she would buy his
silence with her hand, but he did not feel sure enough of his ground
yet to resort to such high-handed measures. He would wait and watch,
hoping for success in the end.
In the meantime, he withdrew himself from her presence, but continued
to remind her of his love by the flowers he sent, with now and then an
imploring letter to which he got the coldest and briefest replies.
So the days slipped away, and one day while out driving with her
friends one bright March noon, Maisie saw in the crowded boulevard a
face and figure that made her heart leap wildly like a startled bird in
her breast--Byrd Barrington!
He was alone in the crowd, and he passed on without seeing the great,
startled, haunting eyes that watched him from the carriage, while a
flash of memory came to Maisie, reminding her that while she crouched
within the gates of Castellane in her keen despair that night of the
wedding, she had heard the passers-by saying that the wedding-tour
would be to Europe.
“They are here--Josephine and Barrington--in the same city with me. Oh,
my heart--how can I bear it?” she thought, with silent pain.