Chapter III: Fate

It was no wonder that Byrd Barrington had wished to marry Maisie.

She was beautiful as a dream in her fresh young girlhood.

Her slight willowy form had the most enchanting curves, her lovely head with its aureole of curly golden hair was set with exquisite grace on her proud white throat, and her fair face with its piquant features, wild rose bloom, and saucy dimples, was lighted by the most beautiful eyes in the world--bright and sparkling, and of the rarest shade of deep purplish-blue, like pansies in shady nooks--so that few could look upon her without a thrill of tenderness for one so fair.

Byrd Barrington had long coveted the peerless beauty for his bride, but to his anger and amazement she had rejected him twice--once at sixteen, and again at eighteen, although his father’s whole influence had been thrown into the scales to win her consent.

Had the younger son wooed her, ah, how different her answer, but Delmar looking on Maisie as a sister, neglected her for other girls, and it was rumored that his heart was set on a fair coquette whose father’s estate adjoined Castellane.

It was indeed to this young beauty that Delmar’s thoughts turned quickly in the bitterness of his unexpected disinheritance. What would his darling say to this misfortune? Would she be willing to wait a few years until he could conquer fortune for himself, or--would she heartlessly throw him over?

His hasty, impetuous nature could not brook delay and suspense, so when twilight fell he hurried to her home, eager to learn his fate.

It did not seem to him that she would prove untrue after all their tender vows of love. She would be full of sympathy and tenderness, his sweet, brown-eyed darling with her rosebud mouth and soft, scented cloud of thick dark hair.

His heart beat fast as he walked up the path in the moonlight between the beds of spring flowers that scented the balmy air with delicate elusive fragrance.

Placing a sweet white hyacinth in his buttonhole, he went quickly into the house, and found her alone in the drawing-room, a sweet, white-gowned vision that came to meet him with outstretched hands of sympathy.

“We have heard all about it, Delmar, and oh, how sorry we all are. What a terrible difference it will make in your life!” she cried earnestly.

“Yes, just at first, Josephine, but not for long. Of course, we cannot be married so soon as we planned, dear, but you will be brave and wait for me a few years till I conquer fortune for myself, will you not, darling?” exclaimed the young lover, fondly trying to draw her closer to kiss the pouting ruby lips.

But to his amazement the brown eyes drooped coldly, and the graceful form drew back with slight hauteur, while Josephine replied quickly:

“Oh, Del, it’s hopeless to talk about that now! You could never make a fortune, and we can never marry! There’s--there’s an end to everything!”

“Josephine!” he cried in anguish, but although she paled at his reproachful glance, she went on firmly:

“Mama and I have talked it all over, and she agrees with me that I could never be a poor man’s wife. Oh, why were you so foolish, Del, so extravagant and dissipated, as to turn your father’s heart against you, and lose your inheritance?” she said reproachfully.

“I was never extravagant or dissipated, either. Byrd Barrington lied about me! I can look back into the past now, and see how he schemed to make my father hate me, but I waked up to the truth too late!”

“Too late!” his false sweetheart echoed dismally, and added: “What a little fool Maisie was, too, to let everything slip through her fingers as she did, when she might have been Mrs. Byrd Barrington, mistress of Castellane and five millions of money!”

“Perhaps you envy Maisie?”

“Yes, indeed! Such luck doesn’t come to every one, and almost any girl would have jumped at the chance!” she exclaimed.

“Would you?” he asked scornfully.

“Yes, indeed!”

“Without love?”

“One couldn’t help loving the man who could make one such a queen!” she replied with airy persiflage that cut him to the heart.

Oh, how cruelly she had changed to him!--the girl he thought so true and loving! He could not help groaning aloud:

“Surely you have never loved me?”

She answered in a softened tone:

“Oh, yes, yes, Del; I love you still--I can’t deny it! You are so handsome, you know, and your dark eyes, even when you look at me so angrily, are simply killing! But life isn’t all dark eyes and love! There must be gold in plenty, and I own the glamour of wealth made you dearer! So--although I shall miss you at first, and have the heartache when you’re gone--here’s your ring back, and--forgive me, and good-by! There’s no use begging me to change my mind!”

“As if I should try!” blazed Delmar Barrington bitterly, and he was turning from her when she followed him, whimpering like a spoiled child:

“You’re not going like this--without--without kissing me good-by, Del. You--you--may if you wish!”

Her voice betrayed the yearning heart that loved him still.

But now was his turn to be cruel.

He laughed mockingly:

“There are other lips!”

And he brushed aside the curtain, and was gone--with the madness of revenge in his heart.

Josephine stood like a statue with interlocked hands, a jealous frown on her beautiful face.

She muttered wildly:

“Did he mean Maisie? Will he marry her now that both are poor, and he is reckless?--I know she would jump at the chance! That was why she wouldn’t have Byrd, she has been in love with Del from the first; but the stupid fellow never guessed it, and if he finds it out now and marries her to spite me, how I should hate her, the little wretch! But mama says I must try for Byrd now! I wonder if I could teach him to forget Maisie! Oh, Del, Del, it breaks my heart to lose you!” and the girl threw herself weeping upon a sofa, fighting out the bitter battle between her love and the pride of gold that would not permit her to marry a poor man.

As for him, he flung himself out into the moonlight again, feeling like one to whom the end of the world had come all on a sudden--“whose sun had gone down while it was yet day.”

What a change from yesterday, as if golden day had turned in a moment to stormy night, as if the flowery grass had been suddenly overspread with a carpet of freezing snow, as if the stripling of yesterday, the youth of one and twenty, had become an old man in an hour.

Yesterday rich in friends, a bright future before him, heir to great wealth, betrothed to a beautiful, loving girl--now poor in friends, the future a blank, disinherited by his father, hated by his brother, his love faithless--the change was sudden and terrible enough to strike down reason from its throne or to drive him to suicide.

His worst enemy--even Byrd Barrington--might have pitied the boy--he was scarcely more--as he stood there in the moonlight, tearing from his breast the spray of white hyacinth, and trampling it savagely beneath his feet, with a stifled oath on his lips, as if he cursed his untoward fate. Poor Delmar! thus suddenly bereft of all that made life worth the living.

From this hour he would hate the odor of hyacinths. They would bring him back always this accursed hour so dark with fate.

He was robbed of wealth, hope and love, and Byrd Barrington had done it all. But he knew how to punish him. Why should he stay his hand?

Josephine was mistaken in her thought that Delmar was too stupid to guess at Maisie’s love. He had seen it long ago, and with generous pity left her much to herself, hoping she might forget. With his heart full of Josephine he had been blind to her girlish charms.

He had guessed also long ago that his betrothed was secretly jealous of Maisie, and there flashed over him quickly a wild scheme of vengeance just as he flung back the bitter words:

“There are other lips!”

He thought of them now as he hurried on--of ripe, luscious lips that always had a smile and a gay word for him, hiding behind a careless seeming a wealth of love. What would not Byrd Barrington give for the kisses of those honied lips? Perhaps his whole fortune!

Delmar Barrington laughed aloud at the thought, and the laugh was not good to hear. It was desperate, mocking, the laugh of an outraged heart that, failing of justice, wreaks revenge.

It was hours before he went home. He went hither and thither, aimlessly walking while the fires of rage burned hotter and hotter in his heart; he went to the cemetery and asked the dead, half-insanely, why he had wronged him so, but no answer came to him from the sealed lips beneath the mound of flowers. He went down into the town to the armory, and spent some time with his comrades, the Young Guards, then he hurried back to Castellane, and met at the gates, as it were by fate, a slight black-clad figure hurrying away with a little traveling-bag.

He caught her hand and detained her, crying eagerly:

“Maisie, what does this mean?”

“It means I am leaving Castellane forever! Do you think I could breathe under the same roof as Byrd Barrington another night? I am going to Washington to hunt for work. Don’t detain me, Del, it is almost time for the train!” she half-sobbed.

But he suddenly slipped his arm about her waist, and bent his head to press a kiss on her tear-wet cheek.

“Do you think I would let you go out all alone into the cold world, sweet, little Maisie, while I am alive to protect you? We are partners in distress, aren’t we, dear, so let us make common cause against the enemy. Little one, you wouldn’t marry Byrd with his millions--will you have me, the poor disinherited son?” he cried earnestly, pressing her so close he could feel the eager throbbing of her fond heart.