Chapter V: “there Are Other Lips!”

Sleep well! Ah, how was it possible for her to sleep at all?

She was too happy, too excited to sleep. She lingered at the window for hours, breathing in the balmy air, and watching the starlit sky, going over and over in her mind every word and caress that had thrilled her heart with rapture so keen it was almost pain.

And in her joyous emotion she did not recall how evasive Delmar’s words had really been, and that, although he had so eagerly urged her to marry him, he had not once said, “I love you, Maisie!”

She believed in his love as truly as she believed in the goodness of Heaven. Had he not explained his seeming indifference by saying he had gone with Josephine to make her jealous, and because Byrd was angry when he showed Maisie any attention? That made everything clear now, and she was all the happier in her present joy for the doubt and pain of the last few months.

No, she could scarcely sleep at all, and the sunny golden head tossed restlessly all night upon the pillow, thinking of to-morrow’s happiness when she should be Delmar’s bride.

It was nearly day when she fell into a light slumber, and when the maid came in to call her for breakfast she had not the heart to do it, she was resting so sweetly, with a hovering smile on her rosy lips.

“Poor little thing, I don’t see how she can smile even in her dreams after yesterday,” she thought, with ready sympathy. “But let her sleep on and I’ll keep her breakfast warm. She’ll be sad enough when she awakes and remembers that she will have to go out into the cold world and earn her bread before she eats it. They do say that she told Mr. Byrd she would rather starve than marry him with all his millions, and I must say that seems very foolish, for, after all, he’s a likely man to my notion, though not young and handsome as his half-brother. Still, if she couldn’t love him, she couldn’t, and that ends it. ‘Every one to his taste,’ as the old woman said when she kissed the cow.”

And, seizing her duster, she slipped noiselessly out, leaving Maisie to her rosy dreams.

So it was high noon when the bright eyes opened in bewilderment at first, and then comprehension that made them gleam softly with tender joy as the red lips murmured:

“My wedding-day.”

Indeed, she had scarcely bathed and slipped on her morning dress before the maid came in, saying:

“Well, I never! I thought you intended to sleep till doomsday, Miss Maisie! I’ve been three times to look about you, but this time I meant to give you a little shake, for here’s a note from Mr. Delmar Barrington.”

How the roses glowed in her cheeks, and how her heart beat with excitement as she read:

“DEAR: I have planned such a thrilling surprise for our friends. I
have persuaded Aunt Constance to invite the minister for luncheon;
also, Mrs. Shirley and Josephine. The minister is in the secret;
no one else, and just before luncheon I want you to come down to
the drawing-room in your prettiest white gown. I will meet you at
the door, and lead you in, and the ceremony will begin, to the
astonishment of all, who won’t be able to catch their breath until it
is all over, and you are Mrs. Delmar Barrington!

“Ha, ha! Fancy Byrd’s rage and jealousy. Yes, and Josephine’s, too,
for, after all, I believe she was a little sweet on,

Yours truly, DEL.”

Maisie caught her breath with excitement. It was but an hour before luncheon.

“Do you want me to take him an answer?” queried the maid.

“No, no--it will be all right. Is--is--there any company, Nancy?”

“The minister came a while ago, and Mrs. Shirley and her daughter. Mrs. French said they would be here for luncheon. Do you want me to fetch up a bit of warm breakfast before you dress, miss?”

“No, there will not be time. I can wait till luncheon,” and as soon as the girl was gone she began to dress with trembling fingers for her wedding.

How strange to be all alone at such a moment--no gay, chattering bridesmaids to help! But she only gave it a passing thought as she deftly arranged the shining waves of her bright hair, and slipped into a sweet white gown, an organdie trimmed with white lace and ribbons, that she had worn last June for her graduation at a famous college. A fresh white hyacinth in a window-jardinière she snapped off and fastened in her hair, while she murmured:

“I wonder where Del is going to take me on my wedding-tour? Not so very far, of course, since he is so poor, but then I can be happy anywhere with him, my darling!”

A light, impatient rap on the door made her start and quiver; it was Del, she knew, and, throwing it open, she faced him in all her delicate, girlish bloom and beauty, a sight to enrapture a lover’s heart.

“So you are ready, Maisie? I began to think you were not coming at all, and Reverend Mead began to look so anxiously at the door that I feared he would let the cat out of the bag any moment, so I came to hurry you,” he cried, laughing hoarsely as he caught her hand and drew her along the hall by his side.

He was deadly pale, but his eyes flashed luridly, and Maisie had never seen him look so handsome.

From some caprice he had chosen to be married in his uniform of the Young Guards, and the resplendent suit became him as no civilian dress ever could, setting off at its best his dark, brilliant style.

He seemed eager and impatient enough, certainly, but somehow, as they went down the grand stairway arm in arm, Maisie’s heart ached with a little childish pain because he had not kissed her when she opened the door, and had not even told her that she looked pretty in her wedding-gown.

She stopped in the lower hall as he was about to push back the drawing-room portières, and held up her face, faltering wistfully:

“Kiss your sweetheart for the last time, Del.”

He started and bent his handsome head, winding his arm about her waist.

“Certainly, of course, dear; you are right to remind me--ha, ha--not that I had forgotten it at all, Maisie. The fact is, I was just going to,” and he pressed his lips on hers with seeming eager passion.

She trembled and cried:

“Del, your lips are like ice! You--are--ill!”

“Only nervous, my love--like any man on his wedding-day--bah! where did you get that flower? You must not wear it!” With sudden passion he tore the white hyacinth from her hair, and threw it beneath his feet, muttering: “Excuse me, but--I--hate that odor. Come”--and he swept back the portières, and they were in the room.

But a moment before he had excused himself to the group of five--his brother, his aunt, the minister, Mrs. Shirley, and her daughter, saying carelessly:

“I will send a message to hurry Maisie downstairs.”

Josephine’s bright eyes followed him with yearning love.

“How grandly handsome he is! Oh, my love, how can I give you up?” she moaned to her aching heart, even while she smiled in answer to some light remark of the master of Castellane.

Suddenly the heavy curtains were swept aside, and her jilted lover reappeared with Maisie on his arm--Maisie, with that streaming love-light in her splendid eyes; Maisie, all in airy white--so strange that she had laid aside for this the deep mourning of yesterday.

But a stranger thing was to follow, for the minister quickly advanced to meet the handsome young pair with an open book in his hand, and the other four, all rising to their feet in consternation, found themselves witnesses to a wedding ceremony--a wedding whose responses rang clear and full through the room to the very last moment when he kissed the lovely bride.

But even as he bent over the golden head his eyes sought Josephine’s with a burning triumph that recalled to her the words of last night, still quivering in her proud heart:

“There are other lips!”