Chapter IV: A Hasty Wooing

To be raised all in a moment from depths of despair to heights of bliss, ah, how thrilling!

Maisie had been weeping her eyes out alone upstairs with her heart as heavy as a stone.

She had packed one trunk with her plainest clothes, leaving everything else behind, for what could a busy working-girl want with finery?

And she had written a note and left it on her pillow for Mrs. French, asking her to take care of her trunk until she could write back to her where to send it. She had not the heart to bid any one good-by--save one--and he, alas, was not there.

Her heart was aching for him, poor, injured Delmar! She longed to tell him how tenderly she sympathized with him, and how she hated Byrd.

But when she asked one of the servants where he was she was told that some one had seen him going in at the gates of Shirley.

A pain like a knife went through her heart as she crept back to her room to put on her wraps for her walk to the station.

“He has gone to see Josephine Shirley. Ah, it is plain to see that he loves her better than any one else. He has never even said he was sorry for me or asked me for one word of sympathy. He has gone to her to pour out his sorrows and find comfort in her love. He has not a word for poor Maisie!” ran her bitter thoughts as she gave way to a momentary passion of tears.

She was going out into the cold, hard world alone, and she should never see him again--not even to say good-by. She could not help hating and envying Josephine, on whom those dark eyes would gaze so tenderly and to whom that musical voice would murmur words of love.

She dried her eyes, took up her small hand-bag, and hurried with a heavy heart from the house--going out to seek her fortune, poor little Maisie, with only twenty dollars in her purse--a little sum she had been saving from her paltry monthly allowance toward the purchase of a girlish trifle. In her note to Mrs. French she had said that she declined to accept the paltry legacy of Mr. Barrington. She could make her way alone.

Stealing unobserved from the house, Maisie hurried to the gate, thinking to herself that as she passed Shirley she would peep over the fence and see if Delmar and Josephine were walking there together--so happy in their mutual love as to almost forget the sorrow of his disinheritance.

But, lo! he came suddenly in at the gate, and the girl almost fell into his arms, so sudden was the meeting.

And it was all one as if she had fallen, for Delmar quickly put his arm about her, quite as if he had the right.

And at his impetuous kiss and eager words Maisie was as deeply thrilled and startled as if the bright stars had fallen from the sky at her feet.

“I must be dreaming,” she cried in a fluttering voice as her heart throbbed wildly against Delmar’s, his arm had crushed her so closely to his breast.

“Dreaming, Maisie, dear? Then wake up quickly, and give me my answer. Will you marry me?” again exclaimed Delmar, drawing her back to a rustic seat in the shadow of some trees where they could not be seen.

She nestled fondly against him while she faltered doubtfully:

“I--I--oh, how strange this seems! Del, I thought--thought--you loved Josephine!”

He laughed recklessly:

“How blind you have been, sweet little one! Could you not see that you were the only girl in the world for me? And did you not guess that I only flirted with Josephine to make you jealous? Besides, there was Byrd, fairly glowering if I even looked at you! But after you said to-day you hated him and would not have him, with all his money, I took heart of hope to believe you would marry me!”

The words rang hollow, but she could not perceive it in the happy agitation of her heart.

By a word he had lifted her from depths of despair to heights of bliss.

And it is so easy to believe what we wish to believe.

His plausible sentences carried conviction to her wildly beating heart, and silenced the faint voice of doubt. The warm breath floating over her cheek as he bent so near seemed to enwrap her in the aroma of love and bliss.

“Was I wrong, Maisie?” went on the fatally sweet wooing voice of her lover. “Is it true that you love me as I hope, and that you will be mine in spite of my poverty, that might turn a more mercenary heart away from the poor, disinherited son?”

It needed but that touch of pathos to stir to express on sweet, true-hearted Maisie.

A sobbing cry, and the sunny head was pillowed against his breast.

“It only makes you dearer, Del--dearer, dearer!”

“And yet,” he mocked, pressing her closer to his side, “the worldly wise say, Maisie, that when poverty comes in at the door love flies out at the window.”

“Not a true love, Del, oh, no; only fancy parading in love’s guise. Why, ever since that crushing blow fell on you this afternoon I have loved you dearer than ever before. My heart ached for your pain; I wanted to put my arms around your neck and comfort you with kisses and loving words.”

“It is not too late, little one!” and he bent his dark head till her warm arms clasped his neck and their lips met in a long, clinging kiss that to her lacked none of love’s ecstasy, for she could not know that in that moment of her supreme joy he was thinking of another to whom he had said in reckless triumph:

“There are other lips!”

He was thinking of her still. He did not forget her for a moment, but it was with that cruel love that is turned to hate and triumphs in inflicting pain.

He denied her the longed-for caress--denied his own heart to punish her--and now he gave his lips to his new love, and rejoiced in the thought that if Josephine could but know, it would make her heart ache with jealous pain.

Revenge! revenge! It was all that was left for him now. He must gloat over it, make the best of it. Byrd Barrington and Josephine must suffer as he suffered--must writhe in fires of jealous pain that would scorch their hearts indelibly. It was retribution.

And he laughed aloud as he released Maisie’s lips from his betrothal-kiss, and the poor girl thought he was laughing for happiness. Perhaps it was--the happiness of gratified hate.

Down at the armory he had had several glasses of wine with his comrades who had been so kind and sympathetic over his misfortunes. His dark eyes were flashing, his cheeks burned, the blood ran like fire through his veins, but his head was quite steady. He knew what he was doing, and how he would work out his plan of vengeance.

“What comfort you are to me, Maisie,” he said. “What a dark hour this would have been to me but for your love. And you will not make me wait for my happiness? You will marry me to-morrow?”

She thrilled exquisitely, and faltered:

“To-morrow?”

“Yes, dear, because there is really no other way. We are poor now--both of us--you even poorer than I, Maisie, and you are too proud to remain at Castellane as Byrd’s guest. So we will be married to-morrow, and your future will be my care. So go back to your room, little one. You will not have to leave Castellane now, for you remember the will gave me a home here for life, and a man and his wife are one! Ah, Maisie, think how it will torture Byrd and--to see our happiness!”--laughing recklessly. “Now, good night. Sleep well, and be ready to change your name to-morrow!”

“It seems too strange to be true!” she murmured happily, walking by his side back to the house and parting from him with another caress before she went in, leaving him a miserable man under the starlight.