THE SUNSHINE OF A WINTER DAY.
“But it is useless to discuss all these things now,” she said evasively.
“But yes, Maisie, for what if I should pass away soon? And I cannot die
in peace without your forgiveness.”
His voice sank into a murmur, and his eyes closed wearily. He lay thus
for several moments, as if exhausted by all that had passed.
And how could it be otherwise, after such a shock in his weakened
condition?
The beautiful girl who was his wife, who loathed her fetters, who felt
them chafe like iron bands, sat there watching him in silence, with a
heavy heart.
But there was no rush of the old-time love that once thrilled the heart
of the dreaming, romantic girl. Rather she wondered now how she ever
had loved him when his brother was by.
She sat stirless, and for a while he seemed to sleep, worn out by his
emotions.
Suddenly, without premonition, the dark eyes unclosed, and he smiled at
her faintly.
“So you are with me yet, Maisie? I was dreaming of you, dear--of the
joyous days when we romped together, a happy boy and girl. It might
have been the beginning of the happiest love idyl in the world, but
for false Josephine, with her coquette wiles! Ah, that I might live to
atone, and to win you back!”
She shivered, and he saw it with keen remorse.
“You cannot forgive!” he faltered.
Again the lovely face grew hard and cold, but before she could utter
the “No” that trembled on her lips there came to her a sudden memory of
Byrd’s pleading voice:
“Be kind to him, Maisie.”
She placed her warm, throbbing little hand gently in his cold,
trembling one.
“I--forgive!” she murmured.
“God bless you, dear wife!” he answered fervently. “Ah, why do you
tremble at that word from my lips? You would rather be as a sister?”
Her gentle smile gave assent, for she still hoped he might be
reconciled to Josephine. She could not believe that his once passionate
love was dead. After all, he had suffered most bitterly; he had paid a
cruel penalty for his madness. It began to dawn upon her clearly, and
the ice round her heart seemed to melt, overflowing her eyes with tears.
“I cannot help but pity you, Delmar,” she said sweetly. “You have
suffered so much that it disarms revenge.”
His eyes brightened with hope and the secret thought:
“Pity is akin to love. Heaven grant me recovery, that I may win her
for my true wife. She cannot be so very fond of Byrd, whom she once
despised. Not that he deserved it. He is noble, kingly--but she is
mine, lovely Maisie, and if life be spared, I must keep her for my own.”
She did not dream that her kindness had awakened such tender hopes in
his heart, but she knew that he was pleased by the faint flush that
rose to his cheek, so she added cheerfully:
“And now that we are reconciled, I must leave you to return to my dear
friend, Mrs. Warren, who will be wondering why I have remained away so
long.”
“You are going to leave me, Maisie. But you will come back to me,
dearest? You will stay with me while I live?” he pleaded eagerly, and
she had not the heart to refuse, now that she had relented and forgiven
him.
“I will come back,” she said, gently smoothing back the dark curly
locks that had strayed over his pallid brow.
Then she hurried out, and found Byrd waiting for her with a pale face
of secret unrest and pain.
“Will you take me to Mrs. Warren now? I must tell her all. Then I
have promised Delmar to return and stay--as a sister! Can you bear my
presence--after the pain of our broken dream?” she whispered.
“Heaven will give me strength,” he answered, with grave tenderness, as
he walked by her side out into the golden sunshine of the fair day that
jarred painfully on their saddened hearts.
Their dream of love, how sweet and short it had been, alas--like the
brief sunshine of a winter’s day, soon clouded over with gloom.
They had scarcely a word to say to each other till their walk was ended.
“You need not wait for me. I shall not return for several hours,”
she said, parting from him with a timid handclasp, as she went in to
astonish Mrs. Warren with her startling story.
And as she had rejoiced over her friend’s happiness yesterday, she wept
over her grief to-day.
“My poor darling it is cruel, cruel, and my heart aches for your
trouble,” she cried. “How blind we were not to find out the truth any
sooner; but I never gave a second thought to that poor sick young man,
although being a compatriot of ours. We should have called on him and
showed a friendly interest. Still, as I was ailing myself, and my
husband ill afterward, I suppose we are excusable. And to think that
Lieutenant Barrington is your husband, and you are not a widow, as
you have thought yourself so long! It was a trying ordeal, my dear,
but you have come out of it nobly, and you will be happy by and by,
when his poor life is ended--though, of course, we should not count on
that! Maybe after all he may recover and win you back. Do you think
you could love him again, Maisie? How strange it is to say Maisie,
instead of Violet, to be sure.” So she ran on, adding, as Maisie gave
no answer to her question: “I cannot help feeling glad over Josephine’s
discomfiture, the heartless thing! She was well paid for her heartless
behavior, and I should be very much surprised if Burton Kingwood
marries her at all!”
Maisie let her run on at random, scarcely answering a word, her
sorrowful thoughts following Barrington back to his brother’s bedside,
but not guessing at Delmar’s feverish excitement of hope and love.
He did not fail to tell Byrd of Maisie’s kind, forgiving words, and her
promise to come back and stay as a sister.
“She was shy--who could blame her? But I was grateful for even that
promise. I hardly dared to hope for so much,” he said frankly. Then,
with brightening eyes, “Oh, Byrd, if I might but be spared, who knows
but that she might love me again? I was her first love, you know, and
how natural to turn back to the heart’s first love!”
He did not know how cruelly he was paining Byrd, for no outcry came
from the pale, drawn lips of the suffering brother, but Aunt Constance
said, a little tartly:
“Josephine was your first love. What if your heart turned back to her
again?”
“Oh, aunt, never breathe her name in my ears again! Let me try
to forget the wealth of love I lavished vainly on that heartless
coquette!” he cried.
She had drained the costly cup of his love to the bitter lees, false
Josephine, and he was only cheating his sick heart with the dream of
future happiness.