LOOKING BACKWARD.
“I cannot meet Delmar again! Oh, no, no, no--do not ask me!” moaned
Maisie, recoiling from Mrs. French’s tender hand in something like fear.
“Oh, my dear, you will not refuse; you must not! He is terribly wrought
up over his quarrel with Josephine, and only you can soothe him now!”
“I soothe him? I? Oh, no; that is impossible!” and Maisie’s great
protesting eyes showed that she did not wish to try.
“I--I must--go at once--to my friend Mrs. Warren. I cannot face Delmar
now, or ever, if it can be avoided!” she added, with a pleading glance
at Byrd’s face, that wore a grave and startled expression.
He answered gently:
“Wait; do not go yet, Maisie. Let me go and quiet him first; then I
will take you back to Mrs. Warren.”
He went out, and Maisie cried indignantly:
“How could he send Josephine away? It was cruel.”
“Ah, my dear, there are two sides to every question,” replied Mrs.
French sadly. “You would not wonder if you could know how cruel she has
been to poor Del, neglecting him, while she flirted with other men. If
he was hard and unjust to you, she has made him repent it in bitterness
of soul.”
And out came the story of Josephine’s shortcomings to Maisie, who
wondered at the poverty of the wife’s love for her sick husband.
“Ah, Maisie, it was a terrible mistake Del made going away from you
as he did. He realizes now too late the madness of it all. If he had
stayed, he must have learned to love you very soon. Who could help it,
you were so sweet and fair? But his mad passion for that heartless girl
made him reckless of your claims, and, alas, was glad of the chance
to punish her for all he has suffered from her treatment. You know of
old his violent and hasty temper, inherited from his father, and he
has never had the right control over it. So he gave it free rein when
Josephine flew to him in a panic at learning the truth about you, and
asked him what he was going to do about it. He told me himself, with
bitter triumph, that he pushed her head from his breast, and said
bitterly, that he should beg you to come back and forgive him; that he
would be glad to be free of one who had treated him so cruelly--she had
nearly broken his heart, and could not even wait for him to die before
she was flirting with other men. That puppy Kingwood had not even the
manners to leave the room, but stood listening to every word, and just
then he said, ‘Mrs. Barrington, I should like to say a few words to you
alone,’ and she flirted out with him, Del says, with a grating laugh,
and there he remained alone until I went to him, and found him raging
alone, as on the night she came when they quarreled so; and he vows
that if you got a dozen divorces he would never marry her again.”
“But--oh, it is such a terrible revenge! Think of her position. Del
owes it to her to give her the shelter of his name again as soon as
possible,” Maisie cried, in real dismay.
Mrs. French looked very grave and sad as she answered:
“It is a debt that he will never live to pay, my dear.”
“What can you mean?”
“That Delmar can be with us but a short while longer, I fear--not as
long, Maisie, as it would take for you to secure your divorce. His
wounded lung is very bad. The doctor has told me so. He had a very
fair chance to live when Byrd brought him from Cuba, but Josephine
hurried him into marriage, and this dreadful tour, in her anxiety to be
spending your money, and the trip and her heartless treatment, have
destroyed all his chances of life. He realizes it; he has told me so,
poor fellow, and he is so human, he is glad of her punishment. Now he
has but one wish, and that is to win your forgiveness.”
She saw the beautiful face whiten and harden with the resentment of
that never-to-be-forgotten day when she had learned herself an unloved
bride; married for spite, and deserted at the altar.
Never for one moment since had Maisie known anything but hatred of the
man who had thus cruelly humiliated her maiden pride.
“How can I forgive?” she cried proudly, and the solemn answer struck
coldly upon her heart:
“We forgive all things to the dying, you know, as we would be forgiven.”
And at that moment Byrd reappeared with a grave trouble brooding in his
blue eyes.
“I cannot pacify him. He will not be contented without seeing you.”
“And you--do you wish it, Byrd?” she faltered, almost hoping he would
answer no.
But she did not realize yet the man’s grand nature, that never wearied
of trying to atone for the one cruel wrong he had done his brother.
Taking her white hands tenderly in his, he murmured:
“Dear, let us put aside all that we have dreamed of in our blindness
for a little while--for stern duty’s sake! Let me sink myself into the
rôle of your brother, while you--oh, again for stern duty’s sake--teach
your wounded heart the beauty of relenting.”
If he had told her with that look and that voice to venture into the
jaws of death, she must have obeyed him, she loved him so well.
His command was little less bitter to her heart.
But she placed her whole life at his command, who had saved it.
“I will obey you,” she answered, low and trustfully; and so he led her
to Delmar’s door, pushing her gently inside, whispering:
“He will prefer for you to see him alone. Be kind to him, dear, because
he has repented, and longs to atone.”
The door closed on her, and Byrd staggered back to his own room, to be
alone with his despair and God.
The dew of suffering beaded his high, white brow, and ran down his pale
cheeks; he clenched his hands till the sharp nails cut into the soft
palms that had pressed Maisie’s so tenderly a while ago.
“Oh, God, what will be the outcome of it all?” he moaned. “Will she
forgive the past when she sees him so humbled and repentant, and
anxious to atone? What if the old love should return, if her tenderness
should call back the fleeting life to its weak tenement, if he should
be spared to us after all, and win her back? Dare I pray that such come
not to pass--I, who darkened his life with the shadow of my mother’s
hate, and now, having fulfilled the curse, owe him all that lies in
man’s poor power to atone? Nay, Delmar, brother; my prayers arise that
all things good come unto you, although your life and your love be
builded on the ruins of my happiness!” and thus upon his knees a noble
soul wrestled with selfishness and won the victory.
But what of her, poor Maisie, going reluctantly to her husband’s side?
She hung down her golden head and drooped her eyes, reluctant, alas, to
see his face again.
So she knew not with what kindling tenderness, late remorse and budding
hope, his dark eyes watched her lovely, downcast face, till she lifted
heavy fringes from solemn violet eyes and met his look.
“Maisie!”
“Del!”
And their hands met in a light pressure and quickly fell apart again,
hers were so cold and inert.
She sat down in the chair by the sofa, murmuring stiffly:
“I am very sorry you have been so ill.”
“Thank you,” wearily.
“And--and I think you were very wrong to send Josephine away. I--I--you
might have married her again when I had gotten my divorce.”
“She was waiting impatiently for me to die, that she might marry her
lover, Burton Kingwood. She can now marry him a little sooner,” he
replied, with a great bitterness, mixed with scorn.
Maisie started in surprise, remembering how passionately Kingwood had
pleaded for her hand that morning, and what a ruthless revenge he had
taken for her refusal.
Was it possible he would marry Josephine? If he did so, it could only
be from a bitter pique.
“Ah,” Maisie said to herself, in a sort of dismay, “what a world of
hate and spite and revenge? It is terrible to contemplate.”
She could not even hold herself guiltless, remembering how she had
hated Delmar since the hour of their ill-starred marriage.
As he lay there now upon the sofa, with the rich dressing-gown wrapped
about his wasted figure, his splendid dark eyes flashing out of his
wan, thin face, he seemed a pitiable object for any one’s hate.
The evil he had done had recoiled most bitterly upon his own heart.
It astonished her that Delmar was so determined on giving up Josephine.
She had believed that his passion was proof against all her faults. As
she looked at him in wonder, he cried vehemently:
“I am not cruel to Josephine. If she really loved me, it would be
different, I grant you; but she married me for money, and now I am
penniless, she would not stay, even if you had never returned. Ah,
Maisie, how differently my life would have been spent had you not run
away in your anger and left me to think you dead! If you had been more
patient, if you had waited for me at home, my heart must have turned to
you when I came back. I am not excusing myself, dear. I erred greatly;
but were not you also to blame?”