Chapter XXXIII: A Breathing Spell of Joy

Maisie had thought him a bold lover--but not bold enough for this!

Her heart leaped into her throat, the breath pulsed over her parted lips in hurried gasps, her cheeks went scarlet like a rose, then death-white like a snowdrop, her great shining eyes dilated widely, and she stared at him in wonder that left her speechless.

Was the man mad, she asked herself, or only wicked, with a wickedness she had not dreamed.

Misunderstanding her silence and her startled face, Barrington added eagerly:

“Really, Violet, I had no idea I should take you so wholly by surprise! Have you not seen that I loved you from the first hour we met? I, who never thought to love again, who deemed my heart buried in the grave of poor Maisie, have now but one thought, one dream, and that is of you, sweet Violet. To have you for my own, my loving wife, that would be heaven!”

She looked at him with a strange reproach in her eyes. She found breath in one gasping cry:

“You to take heaven’s name on your false lips--you! How dare you?”

He started and quivered as with an electric shock.

“Violet--Miss Summers--what can you mean? Have I insulted you by my love?”

She could not feel as angry as she ought, he had such an air of injured rectitude, he had grown so pale and grave at her startling words.

But the strain on her nerves was terrible. Very suddenly she burst into hysterical sobs and tears.

At that juncture she was so strangely like the Maisie of that memorable hour in the library at Castellane that it gave him somehow an uncanny feeling, as if the dead had returned to life again.

The little boat sailed away at its own sweet will over the blue murmuring water. They could think of nothing but each other now.

He fixed his eyes on her face with piercing love and sorrow.

“At least tell me why you answer me like this,” he demanded hoarsely. “What have I done to offend the being I love dearest on earth?”

She raised her wet eyes reproachfully to his haggard face. They were bluer than the blue sky--bluer than the blue bay. In their depths all of heaven was mirrored to the fancy of the lover who gazed on them so ardently, as she faltered:

“Your love, is it not an offense in itself? Do you think I do not know you have a wife already?”

Barrington muttered after her in angry amazement:

“A wife already!”

“I saw her by your side this morning,” Maisie added faintly. “I--I--heard she was Mrs. Barrington.”

An instant change came over the pale, haggard face of her lover. She flushed indignantly, when he laughed aloud:

“So that is my offense! A great one, truly! But, my dear, dear Violet, I am not the only Barrington in the world. There are others!”

To her he was the only Barrington indeed, and she looked at him in confusion.

He smiled at her tenderly, and continued:

“That was quite an odd mistake, and I am sorry you could for one moment think so ill of me. Yes, the lady was indeed Mrs. Barrington, and I was scolding her roundly for neglecting her sick husband--Lieutenant Barrington--a relative of mine!”

It was the strangest thing in the world that he did not say “my brother,” and the error was not intentional. He was thinking so much of her that he gave Delmar scarcely a passing thought.

As for her, it flashed over her instantly that the Barringtons had relatives back in the country--two stalwart young men, self-made, and independently well off. It was, then, one of these who had married Josephine the night she had crouched in the darkness, watching the fair bride through the window. Her face grew radiant with joy.

If Barrington had only said “my brother,” what a difference it would have made! It almost seemed as if Heaven intended for them to have a little happiness, a breathing spell of joy, before they were sundered widely by the bolt of fate that was waiting to burst from a seemingly peaceful sky.

She lifted her happy face and gazed at him with shining eyes.

“Then you are not really married. Oh, say it again! I can hardly realize my joy!” she breathed, like one awakening from a horrible nightmare dream.

He smiled radiantly as he answered:

“No, Violet, I am not married now. I never have been married, nor ever shall be--unless I marry you!”

A long, happy sigh breathed over her lips as if with it a terrible burden had been lifted from her heart.

“Thank Heaven!” she cried.

“For what, my dearest? That I shall never marry?” he cried archly.

“No, no--that you are not married, and never will be, except to me!” she admitted, with charming abandon.

“My dearest love,” and he caught her hand, “may I kiss you?”

“I--I’m afraid not. People might see us! They are always looking from the shore with glasses,” she objected, with exquisite blushes.

“Then I shall go with you to your parlor for my betrothal-kiss,” he said, and did not fail to keep his word.

Maisie wondered if she ought to tell him the truth--to frankly own her identity, to tell him she was the Maisie he loved and mourned; that she never had been dead, save in his fancy.

She decided to ask Mrs. Warren’s advice first, and to that decision she owed the twenty-four hours of happiness that intervened between her and the thunderbolt of fate that would fall to-morrow.

Barrington stayed with her two hours, and into that short space was crowded a wealth of happiness. They were alone, and he sat by Maisie on the sofa, with his arm about the slender waist, and the rosebud face close enough for stolen kisses, that were all the sweeter because she was almost afraid even now that her happiness was not a reality, that she would awake presently and find it all a blissful dream.

But at last he had to tear himself away.

“I am afraid I have neglected the lieutenant too long, and his wife will get tired nursing so long. You will explain to Mrs. Warren about my lengthy call, darling, and tell her I shall rob her of you soon. Now, one more kiss to last me till to-morrow.”

He left her there thrilling with happiness, her cheeks burning with the first kisses of her true lover, and hurried back to Delmar, to find him greatly improved under the ministrations of the deceitful Josephine, who had dutifully eaten humble pie in the fear of losing Delmar’s millions.

Byrd was too proud and happy to keep his news to himself. He confided it to the family when all were together--the sweet story of the girl who looked so much like Maisie that she had won his heart.

“She loves me in return, and she has promised to marry me soon,” he said triumphantly. “I want you all to know her, and love her, so I have made her promise to come with me to call on my friends to-morrow. I have told her you were mostly invalids and sick-nurses, so she is willing to waive conventionality and make the first call. Now, Delmar, you must improve as fast as you can, so as to help entertain your prospective sister-in-law.”