After quite a while Clarinda arose from beside her father, and went back
up the stairs. Her mother continued to stride about the rooms, giving
orders and placing things as she would have them. Clarinda went to
prepare herself for the sacrifice, which she hoped in her heart would
not be as terrible as she thought it would be. When she was dressed she
placed a wreath of orange blossoms in her hair. Mohammedan-like her face
was covered with a long diaphanous veil formed as a yashmac, except it
was fastened by gold pins. Clarinda dreamed of freedom. Presently she
came from her room dressed as a bride. The house became astir. Her
wonderful body swayed, lithe and strong, with perfect undulations. Her
youth was paramount.
Beneath her veil, her face was contorted, a deadly pallor overspread it.
Her lips trembled and her hands shook slightly. She was cold.
Behind her in unison with her step came immaculate maids who bore her
long train. As she advanced to come down the stairs, bridesmaids ran
hither and thither, picking up wraps and huge bunches of flowers.
The front doors of the house were thrown open as she came the length of
the hall, lined by lackeys in uniform. Wide stood the doors, and the sun
of the day in June swept into the spaces. It was sweet with the odor of
new-mown hay and it merged with the perfume of the banked-up flowers.
The light as it broke in cut arabesques on the rugs.
Clarinda felt the odor of the new-mown hay and the warmth of the sun
crept into her soul, burning spaces in her fear.
Beyond the open doors at the beginning of the garden, at this side of
the fountain that threw its pellucid waters high into the air, stood an
automobile furnished with gleaming glass sides.
Clarinda felt the quiet.
It was broken now and then by an occasional laugh, hysterical in its
intensity, a giggling girl, the sob of an old servant, but these
interstices seemed only to accentuate the quiet.
With effort she moved the length of the hall and passed through the open
doors. She entered the automobile which was to carry her to the church
and a new life. Clarinda peered through the glass sides and watched the
things she knew so well swept by her.
As the car started off, she heard the thundering tones of the bells of
the church.
The car finished its journey and stopped suddenly at the church. Some
one opened the door and helped her alight. Clustered about on the
pavement stood evil, curious people. They gaped with envious eyes upon
the girl. Some in their envy spat upon the stones as if to give vent to
their wrath. Maliciously they grinned or cursed, cruel, bitter jealousy
filled their souls. They whispered and commented upon her beauty and the
beauty of her gown.
Clarinda did not know they asked why. Nor that their hands were
stretched out in an agony to destroy. She did not know they hated her
and the things she represented. Nor did she know they thought it unfair
that they should be without and she should have all. These people
shivered in the heat of the day. None of them smiled. Clarinda went by
them without looking. She did not see their faces, nor did she feel
their comments upon her and her gown.
The church swallowed her up. It was all dark. Heavy perfume hung in the
air and the gloom was smitten and torn by lights from tall candles upon
the high altar. Here and there the sun sent a ray through the
stained-glass windows as if to try to dispel the dark. At a distance
that seemed miles to Clarinda was the high altar, covered with flowers
and decorated with the insignia of the church.
As she looked down the aisle, she saw standing at the end of the
chancel, a priest in garments of white and of gold. He was looking
steadily towards her as she approached, and at times read from his
rubric. A choir of voices in the stalls sang and the music reverberated
through the church.
At the steps to the chancel, she saw another man, who was very tall;
behind him stood another clothed in black as the first, like bearers at
a funeral. As she stopped the bridesmaids collected in certain fixed
lines about her, making bright spots in the gloom. They seemed happy,
and as envious as the poor who stood at the door and cursed her in the
sunlight. The priest raised his hand and prayed that an infinite God
might bless this pair. He read with deep intonations.
He was old and grey, his body was bent with the weight of his years.
Many had come to him in their youth. Over thousands he had intoned the
same prayers and raised his hand in blessing. He had seen these
thousands turn and walk away to dangers they knew nothing of, with hope
in their hearts and love in their souls.
Even so, Clarinda walked to dangers she knew nothing of, as thousands
had before her, with hope in her heart and infinite love in her soul. As
she turned from the priest, she pushed the veil back from her face and
gently placed her hand upon the arm of the man—a smile was on her lips.
Calmly she walked towards the door of the church, through the searching
eyes of the host.
The car bore them swiftly away from the mob and their curses. Clarinda
crept close to the man at her side, and even though she smiled a tear
fell down her face. Clarinda trembled and shook as she tucked herself
closer and closer to his side. The man put his arm around her, drawing
her lovely body to him, and wiping away the tears as they fell.
“It is wonderful,” she said tremulously. The man laughed. “I am yours,”
she added.
“Mine!” he replied.
“Everything that I was before is done. I am someone else. There is no
more the old Clarinda. Don’t you think it is wonderful? Think of it, a
few words, a motion of the hand, a prayer intoned by an old man and
everything that one has been is dead.”
“Yes, it is wonderful, Clarinda. You are mine,” the man replied, and
added as an afterthought, “until death do us part, for richer or for
poorer; in sickness and in health.”
Clarinda withdrew herself from his arms and sat straight up in the car.
She looked him steadily in the face.
“Let no man put asunder what God hath joined together,” she said with
deep feeling.
“Those are the words,” he answered.
Through the streets, over the stones, around the corners, through the
unheeding many who were swept by their own necessities, the car rushed
as if it wished to deliver itself as quickly as possible of the freight
it carried.
The keeper of the lodge, at the beginning of the garden stood waiting at
the gate. As they passed he bowed low to the ground. His face was
covered with a sinister smile. His hat touched the immaculate driveway,
as it had done when they went out.
They came to the house. The bridesmaids arrived in various cars and
collected about her. Her old father took her kindly in his arms. Her
mother pressed a kiss upon her face. The music from the organ at the end
of the hall played loudly and a childish voice sang alone, “O Perfect
Love.”
Clarinda took her stand in the middle of a long line of people. Other
people came in hordes, some shook her by the hand and all mumbled
platitudes. Others kissed her and made remarks even as platitudinous. To
each she gave a smile and tried in her heart to believe this was a day
of joy. The beginning of a new life of unlimited possibilities. The
future she hoped was golden in its promise.
The man to whom she had been married stood close by her side; at times,
he sought her hand and pressed it violently. Visions of a great
happiness floated harmoniously through his mind. He was strong, virile,
oppressive in his strength. His face was covered with smiles. He made
answer to all the thoughtless congratulations. He stood beside his
new-made mother-in-law. Her chest was more prominent than ever. It rose
and fell as the heaving of the sea. He bent and kissed her.
The father, the old man, twisted with age and the struggle he had made
with the world, who by his fight had made all these things possible,
took those who came by the hand and answered as best he could. Down in
his heart he was oppressed with anxiety. The thing filled him with fear.
After a long time the line broke and the bridesmaids scattered. They
chattered and laughed, each one in her heart hoping that out of this
day, might come her chance to follow in the footsteps of Clarinda.
When all the company had assembled and they had seethed about and made
their compliments, the doors were thrown open that led to the dining
rooms, and the line in which Clarinda had stood for so long a time
broke. The laden tables revealed themselves, burdened with mounds of
food, in the center of one of them a huge cake, and beside it a long,
glistening knife.
The men turned with a sigh of relief from the lights of the day, the
girl and the music, their minds going to their stomachs. Everything was
forgotten in the mad rush for the food. Old women growled and the young
like predatory beasts crowded and secured the best for themselves.
Wines flowed with a lavish hand. Men drank as if it were the last drink
of their lives. The smoke from innumerable cigarettes wreathed fantastic
festoons over the people. In a short while the men and the women moved
with uncertain steps over the polished floors, surfeited with the wines.
Clarinda’s mind was in a whirl. She saw all these things, and sensed
none of them. After a great while she slipped from the crowd and
wandered with faltering steps from one great room of the house to
another. Her father followed her stealthily as if he feared she might
like some ethereal thing float into space.
She made her way from room to room, and as she went she stretched out
her hand and stroked each object as if she loved it.
Room after room she visited, up all the staircases she went, slowly and
surely, until she came to the top of the house. Stopping at an oriel
window she laid her hand on the frame, and bending her head leaned it
against her arm. Below and beyond she saw the garden stretched like a
great panorama. The places she loved were there below her, where she had
played as a child. She followed with her eyes the well-beloved paths;
every flower, every bush she could identify; they seemed to carry a
special significance to her at the moment. Across the lake ambient in
its blue she saw the jutting ledges and barren rocks where she had sat
so many days and planned her life—what it should be; and she found now
it was not to be.
She knew her chimera was shattered. Everything she had planned was gone
from her. All was changed. Clarinda felt the wrench from her old life
and the cast into the new. An anguish greater than she had ever felt
before came over her, and with a saddened spirit she turned from the
window, from the garden, the paths and her childhood. As she turned she
met the eyes of her father, who stood just below her in the doorway to
the room.
The old man trembled and was uncertain, his mind was torn with
conflicting emotions. He felt with the going of Clarinda it was the end,
the disrupting of the one thing upon which he had built all his later
life. Yet, he knew in his heart, it was but a natural sequence. He had
built his temple around this slip of a girl. All the dreams of his life
had been centered upon this one thing. He had so wished she would always
be with him, and that she should gather his many years together, place
them in his old dead hands and fold the curtain, when he should at last
be placed where moth and rust do not corrupt nor thieves break through
and steal.
No one knew with more certainty than he, that all things were futile and
ephemeral, but a passing foment. As he stood below at the door and
looked up at her with her luxuriant life, he knew he would soon go,—and
in a short while she too would pass. Out of nature would come
obliteration, and with this obliteration all things he had built
crumbled into dust. Even the tiny traces he had made upon the shifting
sands of time would be blotted out. His fortunes, his house built of
iron and granite, in a few short strokes of the clock would return to
their primordial condition; this, even, before the grass should grow
green above him.
Clarinda moved quickly over to him and clutched his hand, as if she felt
the thoughts that were going through his mind. The old man shook with
fear. He feared death, for it was an obsession with him. The thought of
his last hours filled him with an ineffable sorrow, and drove the sweat
out upon his forehead. And he knew death was there, he felt it in his
quaking limbs and in his unsteady gait. He felt at times as if he dwelt
with the dead.
At night when he laid himself down to rest, after the multitudinous
labors of his day, as he closed his eyes, he would see floating before
him all those whom he had known and with whom he had lived and worked
and who had died. He counted them as they passed before him. A cold
perspiration as he counted them enveloped him while they beckoned to him
to follow, with their denuded fingers, and laughed at his futility.
He shivered now and clasped Clarinda’s hand so firmly that she winced
with pain. With an effort he gathered himself together. Clarinda
stretched her arms out to him and put them gently around his neck, as if
to protect him from his fears.
“Father!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, my child,” he said tremulously.
They turned and went slowly hand in hand down through the halls, from
place to place, from room to room, on down to the place of the food.
Together they stood for a few moments at the bottom of the staircase and
looked at the milling crowd. They, even, marked the steps of those who
had fed and drunk too eagerly, as they weaved and staggered from one
part of the hall to the other.
They listened to the laughter emphasized by the wines. The crowd milled
about. The young danced to the music. The old sat immovable in the
chairs, breathing heavily like constrictors. They smiled, these overfed,
and whispered among themselves; they criticised, and in their meager
hearts their filled stomachs gave charity.
Gradually the hands of the clock, at the head of the stairs, moved
towards the hour of departure. Unheeding time went on its inexorable
way—irrepressible, grinding, persistent. It ground these minions with
malicious certitude. It grinned at the futility of the people, the
futility of the father, of the groom, the bridesmaids, the flowers, and
the players of the music behind the palms.
It knew, this inexorable time, that the flowers massed upon the tables
and hung in festoons from every point of vantage, the tables, the
chairs, even the lights, it would smother in its unending advance. The
people who laughed, who drank the wines and smoothed each other with
unmeaning unction, it would in its own good process take back and bury
in itself.
Clarinda knew nothing of time, and smiled at its progress. She smiled
because she had never thought. Life to her was but opening up, and all
of it was to be.
The man to whom she had been married came to her, and together they
walked to the table that held the huge cake. Her heart turned from the
things about her and went to him who cut the cake as if it were the
Gordian knot. He cut this thing with the same strength he would cut his
way to fame. Pride expanded her heart as she looked at him. Her father
faded from her sight, and in his place came a new thing, a bigger thing,
that resolved itself into youth, hope and ambition. She saw her mother
float from place to place, and she too faded into the things that had
been, and she had no place in the new condition.
Out of the complacency of her youth she looked at her mother’s tired
face. Incompletely she saw her move from place to place. For some reason
her spirit revolted against her as if she had done her an irreparable
wrong, in bringing her into the world.
Clarinda left the crowd and went up the stairs by herself to dress for
her departure. The man, the groom, youth to her youth, waited at the
foot of the stairs, and talked rapidly with another man who twitted him.
They laughed occasionally, and he smoked, this bridegroom, viciously,
drawing the smoke from his cigarette deep down into his lungs, but the
tobacco quieted him, and lent him assurance.
As he waited, he thought that from now on in the distant future all
things should be his, the world, and success lay in the hollow of his
hand. He would command. Life was no mystery, no uncertainty. It was
plain and the hard road would be marched with ease.
For months before this wedding, in the still watches of the night, he
had dreamed of the house he would build, and the things he would
accumulate. He built this house, brick upon brick, just as he had
dreamed, and he placed within its walls each piece of furniture as he
would have it. In the aurora of it he placed Clarinda, for there was no
futility rearing its head in front of him.
For a long time he stood with the other man at the foot of the
staircase, waiting patiently, and presently from above came a sound,
then he turned his eyes and above him stood Clarinda in all her lovely
fragrance. Clarinda was ready, ready to go forth to give herself to him,
and to take up life as it would come. A fearlessness, complete,
enveloped her.
A smile covered her face as she saw him below. Then she placed one tiny
foot in front of another tiny foot, and her movement was slow as if in
accordance with the music that played in the hall. The man’s heart beat
in unison with her step, and a smile of pride covered his face. The
crowd stood back, then, as she stopped for a moment, a faint murmur
arose, the voices gradually becoming louder, until the air was rent with
a roar of approval.
Out into the sunlight they went—the man and the maid, and at the
beginning of the garden they entered the car. The bridesmaids threw
after them, as they left, old shoes and broken slippers as if they hoped
to give a happy augury to their future.
Then the two, lost in the car, looked out of the windows, and they saw
the garden fade out of sight. The keeper of the lodge like some old
gnome bowed low to the driveway, this time as if an evil spirit
possessed him. He seemed to laugh at their youth and their hopes.
The old keeper knew what futility was, for, in his youth he had taken
hope in his heart and love in his soul. He, as they, had started down
the roseate path, and it had looked to him as it did to them now, as to
all the others who had driven through these gates and had come after him
with hopes in their hearts and love in their souls. They, as he, had
swept up the ashes of their lives upon the hearths of their homes. And
the winds of adversity had come and driven them whirling into space. Out
of it all they had gathered nothing, nothing remained, except
bitterness, age and the certainty of death.
Clarinda saw nothing of this. In her ears the car sang. The power under
the hood sang, and the man who drove sang, even the birds flying in the
soft sunlight sang madrigals, and the great beams of the sun, as they
cut the branches of the trees, seemed to be doing so out of pure love
for her and her joy. The man beside her told her of his love—of the
thought in him that at last he had arrived at the peak of his life. He
told her that she was the one thing that went to complete his happiness.
Clarinda trembled with joy and nestled closer and closer to him. Nothing
marred the pleasure she felt. She dwelt upon his words he uttered and
gloried in the softness of his voice. Clarinda held fast to the things
he said and let them sink into her heart.
Mile after mile went by. They talked but little, but he told her again
and again of his love, and from time to time he took her gently in his
arms and kissed her.
Clarinda forgot everything, except the moment.
Late in the night they came to the front of a huge house, lit from
cellar to garret. In front, collected upon the porch, there moved about
many servants. The heavy doors were open and the lights from within cut
the night as with a two-edged sword. The car stopped. Clarinda got out
slowly. They walked hand in hand into the place. Clarinda gave no
thought to anything.
They were served and ate a light repast. The clock in the hall struck
twelve, the butler yawned and the other servants stood about and let
their faces fall into a curious repose. The man arose from his seat.
Clarinda passed out of the room. In her dressing-room there was a book,
and it was open and as she read the open page a flush came over her
face.