Chapter XII: The Die Was Cast

Through the din of the train’s arrival and departure from Philadelphia, Maisie never stirred from her deep slumber, she was so tired, poor child, from all she had passed through--last night’s vigil of happy love, as well as the sorrows of to-day.

Meantime, the empty coach was half-filled now, having been invaded by a theatrical stock company that immediately owned the train and made themselves at home in the genial ways of these merry folk, cracking jokes at each other’s expense, playing games of cards, singing, and altogether making things so lively that none but a Rip Van Winkle could have slept amid their merry din.

In consequence, Maisie was aroused long before they reached New York, and, sitting bolt upright, with her veil pushed back, she stared at her environments with a dazed look in her great, pathetic orbs.

She could not comprehend where she was for the moment, and it frightened her to find herself in such a jolly company, all chattering like magpies, except one, a rather handsome young fellow, who was sitting apart from the rest, trying to sing loud enough to drown all the other voices, and but poorly succeeding in the attempt. Yet it was a very pretty barytone, and Maisie listened with drowsy pleasure to the strain.

At last a voice bawled over his shoulder:

“Shut up your infernal racket, Stuart! Don’t you see you are waking up that pretty young lady?”

As if that were not exactly what Stuart had been trying to do for want of some other diversion.

But he gave a start of pretended consternation and bowed toward Maisie, exclaiming:

“Beg pardon, I’m sure, for disturbing you, miss; my intentions were quite the reverse. These gabies back here were making so much noise I thought my song would prevent you from being annoyed.”

“Hear, hear!” cried a chorus of sarcastic voices, and Maisie, slowly coming to herself in the good-natured hubbub, began to realize everything, and with a wan smile murmured:

“You’re very kind, I’m sure; but it does not matter!”

Then, wondering how long she had slept and how late it was, she put her hand to her belt, feeling for her pretty watch.

A startled cry came from her lips as she realized that it was gone.

“Oh, my watch!”

She stood up and felt in her jacket pocket for her purse, ending with another cry:

“My purse!”

Frantically she stooped down, searching the floor to see if they had fallen there.

“You have lost something? Pray let me assist you!” cried the singer, coming eagerly forward.

But Maisie now lifted her eyes to the rack where she had carefully placed her satchel, and answered in a sort of hopeless despair:

“There’s no use searching! I’ve been robbed of everything I had in the world! My purse, my watch, my hand-bag, with my clothes and jewels.”

At that the men and women all came trooping out of their seats and closed about her, with eager sympathy and curious questions, but she could only sink back in her seat and sob hysterically in her despair.

“Let her alone, poor dear, for a few minutes, till she composes herself,” one woman said gently, putting a kindly hand on the girl’s shoulder, to assure her of her sympathy.

And, indeed, every one was so kind that presently, they had it all out of the weeping girl--that she was an orphan going to New York to support herself, and that she knew no one there, and had not a penny in the wide world.

She had no idea who could have robbed her so heartlessly--she had spoken to no one except a young woman who got on at Washington and asked her the time. She had told her it was half-past eight, and then fallen asleep and never waked until now.

“A woman asked you the time, eh? She probably walked off with your time-piece afterward, and the rest of your property,” said the musical Stuart promptly.

Maisie felt it was but too true, and bitterly reproached herself for having slept at all.

The conductor now came up to hear the story, and said:

“The thief must have made her escape at Philadelphia, or before you reached here, for I took the train at that point, and I saw no woman in the coach answering to your description. Shall I not telegraph back along the line, to have the bold thief arrested?”

She looked at him with her great wistful eyes swimming in frightened tears.

“I--I--would it not get into the papers?” she sobbed.

“Very likely, miss.”

She hesitated, and a bitter thought came to her mind.

Byrd Barrington, and perhaps Delmar, would see it, and laugh at her for a little simpleton who had run away to make her own way in the world and had not sense enough to keep from being robbed on the train. No, no; she would rather die than have them know it.

So she faltered:

“You are very kind, and I thank you very much, but--but--if you please, I’d rather not make any sensation over it. The truth is”--crimsoning hotly--“I have run away from a home I hated, and if they saw that in the papers they would be able to trace me.”

The conductor eyed her pityingly.

“My dear young lady, let me persuade you to return to your home,” he cried. “Ah, you don’t know the pitfalls and snares of the great world you’re rushing into. If you will go back, I’ll gladly lend you the money to buy a return ticket.”

He never forgot the pathos of her look, or the passionate vibration of her voice as she cried:

“I will never go back! I would rather die!”

He passed on, with a shake of the head, to take up the fares, and Maisie, aching with shame at finding herself the object of such pitying interest to so many strangers, again bowed her head and wept.

A gentle, womanly arm stole around her shoulders, and a sympathetic voice whispered:

“But what will you do, my dear, when you reach New York? Where will you go?”

“I do not know.”

“Ah, my dear, I am frightened for you. You are so beautiful it is not safe to venture penniless into the great city. I offer you my friendship. Be my guest until you get settled.”

Maisie started and looked up in wonder at the handsome, noble face of the lady, who continued:

“I will tell you all about myself before you accept my offer. I am an actress--the leading lady in a stock company going to New York to play an engagement of several weeks. The members you see around you--gay comrades all, but good, honest people, whose friendship you need not disdain. My husband is the manager, and if you would like to act, we could give you a place in our company, or assist you to obtain any other employment you were fitted to accept. What do you say to my offer, dear?”

The beautiful eyes flashed with gratitude, and Maisie answered in a voice choked with tears:

“That you have saved me from despair, dear madam, for I was actually planning to spring from the train and end my wretched life. Not that I wished to do it, for I know how wicked it would be, but there seemed no other way, and no room in the world for a friendless girl.”

“Then you accept my offer? You will let me help you?”

“Thankfully, dear lady, in the hope that I may some day repay your great kindness.”

“Do not trouble over that, dear. Now, I would like to introduce you to my husband and the members of my company. Your name?”

Maisie crimsoned and hesitated. She had sworn to herself never to claim the name of Barrington, and she did not wish to be traced by her own name. She was done with her old life forever.

She recalled her mother’s maiden name, and felt that she had a right to that, murmuring faintly:

“Violet Summers.”

“A pretty name. It suits you, with your purplish-blue eyes and golden hair. You are a raging beauty, my dear, and I think you ought to go upon the stage. It is an animated life, and will help you to forget, if, as I fancy, that is your desire.”

She called the others, and they came eagerly.

“Miss Summers, this is my husband, Mr. Warren. Mr. Stuart, our leading man, and a clever pianist, by the way. Miss De Barr, a very young lady, who takes our old-woman parts,” and so on, until Maisie knew all their names and had been cordially shaken hands with by each.

Then Mrs. Warren added suavely:

“Miss Summers is my guest for the nonce, and as she is looking for employment, I hope she will join our company and be an actress. I think we can all coach her in the part of our ingénue who deserted us in Philadelphia to marry her cousin, and I think it is quite fortunate I have the place open for our pretty Violet.”

Maisie started and paled at the name, thinking how strange it was that she was never to hear herself called Maisie again, never to go back to the old life from which she had fled with reckless haste and passion. But the die was cast; there was no looking back. Farewell, Maisie Van Allyn; welcome, Violet Summers, actress.