Chapter XXVIII: The Thorns of Regret

But Byrd Barrington’s eager interest only increased.

The likeness to Maisie had aroused a tenderness that would not be quelled.

It found expression in daily inquiries and gifts of rarest flowers that made sweet the confinement to her room.

“Humph! almost too attentive for a married man! Perhaps I had better take you away!” cried Mrs. Warren banteringly.

“Oh, if you only would! Could we not slip away without seeing him? I could leave a note of thanks,” implored Maisie.

“It would seem ungrateful. Receive him just once, Violet; then we will fly from the danger.”

“It shall be as you say,” she sighed, with unwilling resignation; and the day came when she could put it off no longer.

It was more than a week since the accident.

She was quite well and strong again. The delicate rose-bloom had returned to her cheeks, the radiance to her beautiful eyes. They were full of a restless fire at the thought of meeting him again.

She took the greatest pains with her toilet that day. She wished to appear to him even more beautiful now than the Maisie he had loved and lost. It might be coquetry to wish him to regret her more bitterly, but she could not help it.

“He should not have been in such haste to marry Josephine,” she thought, with bitter anger and jealousy.

She arranged her beautiful golden hair in the most becoming fashion, and chose a white gown, because it was more becoming than any other; but while she pinned on her ribbons her small hands trembled with nervousness, and her poor heart went pit-a-pat with emotion.

“Dear heavens! How shall I ever meet him calmly?” she sighed, when the moment came, and Mrs. Warren came to tell her that Barrington was in their private parlor chatting with Mr. Warren.

Mrs. Warren had to steady her footsteps along the hall, she trembled so visibly.

“Courage!” she whispered, kissing the changing cheek as she led her across the threshold.

Barrington sprang forward with eager pleasure, his blue eyes radiant, as he was presented to her.

“My friend, Miss Summers.”

Their hands touched--hers cold, Barrington’s burning--their eyes met.

“I am very glad that you are well again,” he exclaimed confusedly.

“How can I thank you?” she faltered, with equal embarrassment, and sinking into a chair.

Then suddenly they found themselves alone.

The Warrens had considerately slipped away.

Maisie ventured to lift her eyes to him again where he sat in the very nearest chair. She began bravely:

“I cannot find words strong enough to thank you for saving my life. It was brave, noble, to run such a risk for me--an entire stranger!”

“It is true, as you say, we are entire strangers, Miss Summers; but pardon me, you do not seem thus to me, because--you strangely resemble one I once knew.”

“Yes?” she answered, feigning a gentle, languid interest, and Barrington continued:

“A fair young girl I once knew and--loved. To-day has been a most sad one to me, crowded with sorrowful memories, because it is the first anniversary of her death.”

Maisie started with a thrill of recollection.

“Yes,” she said to herself, “it is indeed the twenty-first of April--the date I saw engraved upon that gravestone.”

She looked at him with a new interest--at the handsome, high-bred face, pale with the memories he was evoking--at the fair clustering locks, tossed back from the intellectual brow; at the grave, brooding eyes. How little she had admired him in the past, blinded by a fancy for a pair of dark eyes; how fatally dear he was to her now.

She was frightened at her own emotion, in terror lest some inadvertent word might betray her identity. She wondered if he noticed how the white lace rose and fell upon her bosom, stirred by the agitated throbbing of her heart; she feared that he would be surprised at her tremulous voice, and the blushes that came and went upon her cheek in the gladness of seeing him again--gladness that was almost a sin, now that he belonged to Josephine.

Was there not a lurking triumph in the thought that her rival had not filled his heart? That his tender thoughts still clung to her he believed dead?

She could see that he was as deeply moved as she was; that the sight of her face had stirred cruel memories in his heart, and she could not help exulting in her power. It was his punishment, she said bitterly to herself, for marrying too soon. Had he but waited a little longer, how different all might have been; what rare happiness might have come to him now.

She wondered where his wife was, why he had come on here without her; but she did not dare to ask him, or even to hint that she knew he was married, lest she should give away her own identity.

So with a violent effort of her will she forced herself to apparent calmness, and answered to his last words:

“It is almost a pity that one cannot forget such anniversaries. There is so much sadness in them.”

“I do not wish to forget,” answered Byrd Barrington earnestly, and gazing fixedly at her, he added:

“Suppose you had been drowned out there in the blue lake last week--would you wish your friends to forget you?”

Maisie laughed a little bitterly.

“They would very likely do so, whether I wished it or not. You see I am an orphan, with no near relatives, so there would be no one to remember long.”

“No lovers?” he asked, still very earnestly, watching the quick blush that burned her face as she responded carelessly:

“I suppose there would be no use denying that--almost every girl has men admirers; but I said none to remember long!”

“I am sure that you do your charms injustice, Miss Summers. A face like yours is sure to be engraven indelibly on some true heart, never to be forgotten,” he answered warmly, thinking of the face so like her own that even in death he could not forget.

And as she hesitated for an answer he continued:

“Your likeness to the girl of whom I was speaking becomes even more pronounced from what you have told me. She, too, was an orphan, with no near relatives; but now that she is dead, poor little Maisie, she is not forgotten. Her memory is most tenderly treasured in my heart.”

It was sweet to hear such words, but she could scarcely keep the tears from her eyes. She felt sure she should betray herself unless the subject was speedily changed.

So, swallowing the threatening lump that was rising in her throat, Maisie exclaimed:

“I shall not let you cultivate the blues, Mr. Barrington, sitting in this darkened parlor, talking of the dead! Do you know that I have been shut up indoors for a week, and am pining for the sunshine? Let us go out and walk!”