Chapter XXXIX: 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.