Chapter XXIV: I Could Not Be Happy Without Love!

Mrs. Warren would never forget the day when Maisie returned to her so suddenly--a wan, sad-eyed phantom of the blooming girl who had gone away but two days ago--a month’s illness could scarcely have changed her more.

“Don’t make me tell you the cruel truth, dear friend,” she moaned. “Everything was changed at home. It almost broke my heart. So I will never leave you again.”

“Until some handsome young man carries you off from me,” bantered the lady. “Maisie, why did you refuse Burton Kingwood? He was really a good match--rich and of good family.”

The girl raised her heavy eyes with a pathetic smile.

“I loved another,” she said frankly.

“Another!” cried Mrs. Warren, and Maisie added simply:

“But it is quite hopeless. While I was away he--married--some one else.”

“My poor darling! No wonder you came away! But you must not brood over your sorrow. Forget the false one and try to think kindly of Kingwood.”

“I can never forget. He was the sort of man that once loved, could not be forgotten. Alas! noble, kingly. Oh, why do I dwell on him now? I must not, for he is lost to me forever,” and Maisie wept in her despair.

Mrs. Warren was full of generous sympathy. She did all she could to win Maisie from her secret sorrow, painting eloquent pictures of the good times they should have abroad, and presently the young girl smiled again, too proud to show to any one the dark depths of her aching heart.

But to think he had been won by Josephine--the vain, fickle coquette, who could never appreciate the depths of his noble nature, the warmth of his true heart--who would care only for his money! It was madness to think upon; she would have given any price to forget, to thrust that haunting memory from her heart.

A few more days and they were upon the ocean. Fortunately, Maisie was spared the horrors of sea-sickness, but her friends, the Warrens, were not so fortunate, especially the lady, who was not able to leave her berth until the day before they landed in Liverpool.

If anything could have soothed the sadness of a tortured heart it must have been the great kindness of her generous friends. From the beginning she was treated as kindly as a daughter and never reminded that her position was merely that of a paid companion. Her fellow passengers admired her beyond measure, awarding her unanimously the palm of perfect beauty. More than one man looked on her with eyes of eager admiration, but toward their advances she showed the coldest indifference. Her wounded heart lay heavy as a stone in her breast, and she felt she could never love again.

Bravely she tried to put the past away and throw herself into the new life opening brightly before her, crowded with new scenes and experiences. Having always longed for such a trip, the opportunity was hers at last, and it would be most ungrateful to her benefactors not to make the most of it.

It was most fortunate that Mrs. Warren’s delicate health required so much sympathy and petting, for it took Maisie out of herself and helped to drown the memory of her pain. They traveled about as the invalid’s health permitted, made pleasant acquaintances here and there, and Mrs. Warren grew perceptibly stronger, declaring that the change of scene was indeed doing her good.

In Paris they were surprised to find that Burton Kingwood was an inmate of the same hotel, and but for Maisie’s repugnance they might have felt truly glad to met him again.

But her careless greeting had no effect on his happiness. The first moment in which he found her alone he renewed his suit.

“It seems as if fate itself has brought us together again,” he cried. “Ah, I cannot tell you what I suffered over your coldness, but it did not kill my love. Have you no pity on such devotion?”

“The greatest pity and sympathy in the world,” answered the poor girl, who knew all the sorrow of hopeless love, and the gentleness of her voice encouraged him to hope.

“Then you will try to love me!” he pleaded. “You will give me a little hope?”

She was sorry for so true a love, but she knew that her heart could never respond to it, and with eyes full of tears she refused him again.

She could not help seeing that he was angered at her refusal. His conceit was hurt as much as his heart.

His dark eyes flashed as he cried:

“You are the strangest girl I ever met! You reject rich men as carelessly as if they were every-day affairs, when one would expect a poor girl like you to jump at their offers.”

She grew crimson with anger as she answered:

“I am not poor enough to sell myself for sordid gold.”

Her pride and independence only made him more eager to win the peerless young beauty.

“Do you not care for wealth and all the pleasures it can buy?” he asked in wonder.

“Ah, yes, indeed I do. Like any other young girl, I long for jewels, fine gowns, horses and carriages, and all the varied pleasures of life. But I believe in marriage for love alone. I could not be happy in a palace without love,” she answered with gentle frankness.

“Again I repeat, you are the very strangest girl I ever met,” cried Burton Kingwood.

“I am sorry you think so. I am sure there must be many other young girls of the same mind with me,” declared Maisie firmly, and, seeing that he could make no impression on her feelings, he left her presently in bitter chagrin at his second failure.

He took the Warrens into his confidence and begged them to help him in his love-affair.

“It is more serious than you think,” he said. “I can never be really happy without that girl, she has so grown into my heart. I shall not give her up yet. Promise to keep me informed of your whereabouts, so that I may see her some time again.”

Mrs. Warren was almost tempted to betray Maisie’s hopeless love for another, but she knew it was not right to violate the girl’s confidence, so she only shook her head while promising to do as he asked, adding frankly:

“Not that I think it will ever do you any good, Burton, much as I could wish that Violet would love you.”

“Do all that you can for me; I shall not give up hope yet,” he replied stubbornly, and, though he removed from the hotel that day and came to call on them no more, they knew he was not far away, for daily gifts of flowers came to Maisie through the long, cold, February days, and she could not help but guess at the donor, although there was no accompanying card.

“I wish he would not send them. I wish he would go away and forget,” she sighed, out of her secret sympathy for hopeless love, because she knew the sorrow.

She might not have pitied him so much had she known how he had followed her to Rosedale that day, and how he had returned alone afterward and wormed all her pitiful story out of Uncle Nicodemas, the old grave-tender.

When he said to Maisie: “You are the very strangest girl I ever met,” he had all that in his mind.

He knew that she was a widow; he knew why she had run away from home, as far as the old negro could elucidate the matter; he guessed also how her reputed death had come about through the robbery on the train, but he could not understand why Maisie chose to keep silence over the truth and remain away from her home. Surely she must have seen in dozens of newspapers the report of her young husband’s death. Why did she remain away from her friends, and let them believe that she was dead? He felt that there was some mystery under her strange masquerading, and he was half-tempted to threaten her with exposure unless she would buy his silence with her hand, but he did not feel sure enough of his ground yet to resort to such high-handed measures. He would wait and watch, hoping for success in the end.

In the meantime, he withdrew himself from her presence, but continued to remind her of his love by the flowers he sent, with now and then an imploring letter to which he got the coldest and briefest replies.

So the days slipped away, and one day while out driving with her friends one bright March noon, Maisie saw in the crowded boulevard a face and figure that made her heart leap wildly like a startled bird in her breast--Byrd Barrington!

He was alone in the crowd, and he passed on without seeing the great, startled, haunting eyes that watched him from the carriage, while a flash of memory came to Maisie, reminding her that while she crouched within the gates of Castellane in her keen despair that night of the wedding, she had heard the passers-by saying that the wedding-tour would be to Europe.

“They are here--Josephine and Barrington--in the same city with me. Oh, my heart--how can I bear it?” she thought, with silent pain.