Chapter XVII: The Only Romance of His Life

When they reached Washington, the first of August, two members of the company fell ill from the torrid heat, and the Warrens decided to disband for two weeks and scatter out into the country round about for an interval of rest.

Maisie elected to remain in the city at a cheap boarding-house.

“I have never been in Washington before, except for a day at a time, and I shall stay and take in some of the sights,” she said.

So they all flew away like happy birds on their outing, and left her alone, all save one, the genial young man who played the villain’s parts.

She was frankly annoyed when she found that he had also remained and taken board in the same house.

“I have never seen Washington, either,” he said. “We can enjoy the sights together.”

Maisie answered curtly:

“I must decline your company!”

“You prefer to go it alone?” he laughed incredulously.

“Yes.”

“But see here, Miss Summers, it will be very lonely for you, don’t you know?--and--and--hang it all, I’d as well own the truth now as ever! I love you, my dear! Will you marry me?” and his bright, dark eyes flashed with eagerness.

Maisie could not help taking it as a joke. Every unmarried man in the company had proposed to her by now, with more or less earnestness, so she laughed aloud:

“That is very amusing!”

He flushed to his temples, but answered in the same tone:

“You find it amusing--really? So shall I if you accept me!”

“Nonsense!” she chaffed lightly.

“But, Miss Summers, I am in actual earnest! I beg you not to treat my offer with such levity--I love you devotedly. I have loved you since the first moment we met on the train that night. Your beauty and distress touched my heart, lured it forever from my keeping. I entreat you for your favor!” and he began to grow impassioned, his face lighting up with emotion.

Maisie repressed her careless smile, seeing that he was so painfully in earnest, and answered, with gentle candor:

“I am very sorry for this, for--I do not love you!”

Her admirer exclaimed eagerly:

“But see here, Miss Summers, I am really a very good match for you! I am not dependent on my beggarly pay for acting, but have an independent fortune of my own! It is true; I can give you proofs from my lawyer. I’m only in theatricals for a lark--stage-struck last year, you see--that’s honest truth! But I’m dead sick of the biz, and just when you joined the company I was planning to quit--fact! I stayed on just for your sake! Isn’t that devotion enough to touch your heart? Come, if you’ll only say yes, we can get married to-day, and right off to New York, and on a wedding-tour to Europe in a jiffy!”

Maisie gave a kind of gasp as his words flowed on, but at the first pause she lifted her eyes sadly enough, faltering:

“I cannot!”

Burton Kingwood was almost dazed. He cried incredulously:

“You refuse me! when I offer you the dream of every young girl’s life--a wedding-tour to Europe?” and he glared at her in amazement, while she faltered:

“I am sorry to grieve you--I have the deepest sympathy for disappointed love, but I have no heart to give you, and I would marry no man without love--not if he could place a crown on my brow and endow me with a kingdom!”

“Then you are a very foolish girl--the only poor girl in the world, I should say, who would refuse a rich man when she might never have such another chance!” her admirer cried resentfully, rushing from the room.

She could only bow her head in her hands and weep.

“Is it true? Am I the only girl who would not sell herself for gold? I cannot believe it!” she said to herself, and her thoughts flew back to one who could have made her life a dream of luxury if only her perverse heart could have owned him for its lord. It seemed to be her fate to win love from all but the one to whom she had given, unasked, her silly girl’s heart, to be trampled on and thrown aside as of little worth.

She mused on him a little sadly--now that he was dead--wondering if they had brought him from that foreign land where he had died, back to his old home, to rest among his kindred.

“Would Byrd be so kind to the brother he did not love?” she mused, and a strong yearning seized her for the old scenes--to go back to them for a day and see the old home once more, and perhaps Delmar’s grave, so that she could feel more certain of her widowhood and her freedom.

“I will go--I can make up so that no one will ever recognize me,” she decided.

Burton Kingwood having gone off alone in wrath, she went that very day--the longing was so great she could not ignore it.

When she had left home she had thought in her anger that she never wished to see the old place again, nor any of the old familiar faces. Now it was going on four months since she went away, and her heart was aching for the old scenes and the old faces, even to look upon them by stealth, so that they should never know.

Rosedale was but a few hours’ ride from Washington, and all the way her heart was beating with great, muffled throbs of excitement and joy--joy that she could not herself understand.

She thought it was because Rosedale was so beautiful a village and Castellane such a charming home! In fancy, she could see the grand old mansion, with its tall towers and its windows alight with sunshine, the home of the Barringtons for generations. She knew how the roses were blooming in the spacious grounds, how her favorite lilies would be standing up tall and stately, how green the grass would be, how the cool breeze would be whispering in the giant trees, telling stories, perhaps of those who had passed away while the happy birds sang their joyous songs with no one to listen now, perhaps, for Aunt Castellane was old and prosaic, and Byrd so cold and grave, with not a weakness, perhaps except that he had once loved a pretty young girl with the only romance of his life--alas!

It all grew on her as the train sped on its way, and when she reached the station she could have cried out with an inexplicable joy that she was at home again.

She meant to go to the graveyard first, but she went out of her way to pass by Castellane, she was so eager just for one glimpse, and she was not afraid, for her darkened skin and black, curly wig would preclude recognition.

She loitered slowly past, with her heart in her throat, but there was not a soul to be seen in the grounds but the gardener, pottering about with his shears, clipping off the fading roses, so she stopped at the gate, and asked him in a hoarse voice for a few flowers to put on a friend’s grave.

While he clipped them she stood waiting eagerly, scanning every door and window, but no familiar face appeared to her yearning vision.

“I shall come back and peep in the windows to-night. I cannot go away again without seeing some of their faces!” she thought, with a silent sob in her aching throat, as the gardener presented her with a large bunch of exquisite flowers.

“Thank you kindly,” she faltered, hurrying away, lest she burst into sobs before his curious eyes, for in spite of her disguise he had caught in her voice a tone of one he believed long dead--fair little Maisie, the sunshine of Castellane.

She clasped the roses to her bosom, murmuring: “I will keep some of them always, for memory’s sake! And the others I will put on Del’s grave, in token of forgiveness, now that he is dead!”