THE LIGHTNING BOLT OF JEALOUSY.
“Is it quite wise, dear Violet?” Mrs. Warren asked soberly, when the
girl made frank confession.
Maisie laughed a little recklessly, and answered:
“No; I am sure it is not!”
“Violet!”
“Yes?”
“You love Barrington still?”
“I cannot deny it.”
“Then why stay and fan the hopeless fire in both your hearts? Are you
not afraid?”
“No!” and again Maisie laughed recklessly, carried away by the delirium
of love.
“Think of his wife,” Mrs. Warren urged gravely.
“Did she ever think of me?” Maisie cried, with flashing eyes and
burning cheeks.
She had never hated and despised Josephine so bitterly as in that hour.
And she could not help exulting in the truth that had been shown so
plainly that Barrington loved his dead love more than his living wife.
Not that she supposed Josephine would greatly care, even if she knew.
She had married him for his money, not for love. Mistress of Castellane
and five millions of money--was not that triumph enough for the shallow
flirt?
So she went up to Mrs. Warren humbly, with sudden humility, murmuring:
“I know I deserve a scolding, but please be good to me. I do not mean
to be wicked--only to see him one more time--just think, dear, one
single hour out of a lifetime, when we love each other so well! Then I
will go away with you, and see him no more forever. Will that satisfy
you?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Warren replied, in her pity and sympathy for the unhappy
girl.
Surely it could do no harm for her to see him once more, herself
unknown.
But after that she would have no more of weakness. She would insist on
the girl’s coming away out of danger of betrayal of her identity.
She could guess what a frenzy it would create in Barrington if he
learned the truth that the dead was alive and loved him now, while he
was bound in unwelcome fetters to Josephine.
“I wish his wife would come--that would bring both of them back
to their senses!” she thought wistfully, as she went in to consult
with her husband, who had stayed in all day with a headache and
unaccountable lassitude.
“I am worse--much worse,” he declared, with all a man’s impatience of
illness.
“For heaven’s sake, Warren, don’t go to having a spell of sickness,
for I am determined to get away from here before to-morrow night,” she
exclaimed in alarm.
“I doubt if you do! I tell you, dear, I’m growing worse every minute!
Shouldn’t wonder if I’m taking that horrid Roman fever!” he returned
testily.
“Pshaw! Nothing but your imagination! A man with the headache always
fancies himself on his death-bed. Shall I call in a lawyer to make your
will?” she inquired, with gentle sarcasm.
“If it were not already made I should certainly have you do so, for
I believe I’m done for!” he retorted, so lugubriously that his wife
quickly sent for a physician to convince him of his mistake.
When he came she watched his face most anxiously, saying:
“Give him a dose to cure him in a minute, doctor, because we are
leaving Florence to-morrow!”
Her heart leaped into her throat as he answered gravely:
“If you get away in a week you will be lucky. Mr. Warren has symptoms
of a mild case of Roman fever!”
“Oh, heavens!”
“I told you so!” cried the patient, with ghastly triumph. “I said I was
done for, now, didn’t I?”
Mrs. Warren burst into tears, and the physician said soothingly:
“Don’t give way to your nerves. I said it was a mild case, didn’t I? I
think I shall have him up in a week. Do not be uneasy! I’ll send you a
good nurse, and he will pull through all right.”
He hurried away, and the wife embraced her husband, praying his pardon
for her levity.
“I was cruel--wicked--to tease you so! I thought it was all ‘hypo,’ you
know. Oh, my darling, don’t die and leave me alone in the cold world!”
she sobbed, in an abandonment to grief that instantly made the invalid
much worse, and it was well for him that the clever, cheerful nurse
came directly and took charge of him.
But in the wife’s anxiety all alarm over Maisie was forgotten, even
though she would be obliged to remain here indefinitely now, exposed
to Barrington’s fascinations.
However, by the next day Maisie had come to her senses.
She sent Barrington a note postponing her boat-ride with him, on the
plea of helping to nurse the invalid.
But the infatuated man came in a few hours to inquire about the case.
Maisie received him in company with Mrs. Warren, and the call was a
short one, with no embarrassing personalities. But he sent her flowers
that day, as he had done every day since he had rescued her from death.
She did not know how to refuse them, though she knew it was wrong to
treasure them as she did, saying to herself:
“I cannot tell him I know he is married, for that would betray my
identity, and it is more than ever imperative never to do that now,
since it would only add to his pain.”
After that she went out but little; but never without meeting him. It
seemed as if he fairly haunted her footsteps, as if she could not avoid
him without actual rudeness, since he had saved her life. Besides, he
was so courteously anxious over the invalid, and if he did not see her
out he always called to inquire.
Maisie could not help a glow of happiness in his presence; a thrill at
his glance; a loneliness in his absence. But she said to herself:
“Mr. Warren will soon be well now, and we shall be going away. I need
not begrudge myself this little happiness that will so soon be over!”
She was angry with herself for all that she had missed at Castellane,
the long time that she had despised his love and scorned him to his
face.
“Oh, to call back the days that are not!” she thought, with a
passionate regret that strengthened every day.
She had been so wilfully blind, but now she could see too well how
splendid and lovable he was; now, when it was forever too late!
So the beautiful days slipped away into May, for Mr. Warren’s illness
lasted longer than the doctor had predicted. He was in bed two weeks,
and after that his convalescence was too lingering for him to think of
leaving yet.
Maisie had come to know Barrington better than ever before in her
life, even though seeing him but a short while daily; and in spite of
herself love had grown into an all-absorbing passion--passion deeper
than she realized, until one morning as she looked from the window to
see him walking on the shore she saw that he was not alone--a beautiful
dark-haired woman was walking by his side, and smiling up into his
handsome face.
“Josephine!” moaned Maisie, and fell back into her chair, stricken by
the lightning bolt of a bitter jealousy.
“She has come to claim him, my darling, my lost love!” she sobbed
miserably. “Oh, the agony of loss; how can I bear it? I would to heaven
he had left me to drown in the blue lake that fatal day we met again!”