It was as if heaven had opened before Daisy. The blood in her veins
moved to the rhythm of dance music; her vision was being fed upon color
and light. And, for she was still a child, she was taken great wonders
to behold: dogs that rode upon bicycles, men who played upon fifty
instruments, clowns that caused whole theatres to roar with laughter,
ladies that dove from dizzy heights, bears that drank beer, Apollos that
seemed to have been born turning wonderful somersaults. And always at
her side was her man, her well-beloved, to explain and to protect. He
was careful of her, careful as a man is careful who carries a glass of
water filled to overflowing without losing a drop. And if little by
little he explained what he called "life" to her, it was with delicacy,
with gravity--even, as it seemed, with sorrow.
His kisses filled her at first with a wonderful tenderness; at last with
desire, so that her eyes narrowed and she breathed quickly. At this
point in their relations Barstow put off his pleading, cajoling manner,
and began, little by little, to play the master. In the matter of dress
and deportment he issued orders now instead of suggestions; and she only
worshipped him the more.
When he knew in his heart that she could refuse him nothing he proposed
marriage. Or rather, he issued a mandate. He had led her to a seat after
a romping dance. She was highly flushed with the exercise and the
contact, a little in disarray, breathing fast, a wonderful look of
exaltation and promise in her face. He was white, as always, methodic,
and cool--the man who arranges, who makes light of difficulties, who
gives orders; the man who has money in his pocket.
"Kid," he whispered, "when the restaurant closes to-morrow night I am
going to take you to see a friend of mine--an alderman."
She smiled brightly, lips parted in expectation. She knew by experience
that he would presently tell her why.
"You're to quit Linnevitch for good," he said. "So have your things
ready."
Although the place was so crowded that whirling couples occasionally
bumped into their knees or stumbled over their feet, Barstow took her
hand with the naïve and easy manner of those East Siders whom he
affected to despise.
"You didn't guess we were going to be married so soon, did you?" he
said.
She pressed his hand. Her eyes were round with wonder.
"At first," he went on, "we'll look about before we go to
house-keeping. I've taken nice rooms for us--a parlor and bedroom suite.
Then we can take our time looking until we find just the right
house-keeping flat."
"Oh," she said, "are you sure you want me?"
He teased her. He said, "Oh, I don't know" and "I wouldn't wonder," and
pursed up his lips in scorn; but at the same time he regarded her out of
the corners of roguish eyes. "Say, kid," he said presently--and his
gravity betokened the importance of the matter--"Cullinan's dead for it.
He's going to be a witness, and afterward he's going to blow us to
supper--just us two. How's that?"
"Oh," she exclaimed, "that's fine!"
The next morning Daisy told Mr. and Mrs. Linnevitch that she was to be
married as soon as the restaurant closed. But they had schooled
themselves by now to expect this event, and said very little.
Linnevitch, however, was very quiet all day. Every now and then an
expression little short of murderous came into his face, to be followed
by a vacant, dazed look, and this in turn by sudden uncontrollable
starts of horror. At these times he might have stood for "Judas
beginning to realize what he has done."
Barstow, carrying Daisy's parcel, went out first. He was always tactful.
Daisy flung herself into Mrs. Linnevitch's arms. The undemonstrative
woman shed tears and kissed her. Linnevitch could not speak. And when
Daisy had gone at last, the couple stood and looked at the floor between
them. So I have seen a father and mother stand and look into the coffin
of their only child.
If the reader's suspicions have been aroused, let me set them at rest.
The marriage was genuine. It was performed in good faith by a genuine
alderman. The groom and the great Mr. Cullinan even went so far as to
disport genuine and generous white boutonnières. Daisy cried a little;
the words that she had to say seemed so wonderful to her, a new
revelation, as it were, of the kingdom and glory of love. But when she
was promising to cleave to Barstow in sickness and peril till death
parted them, her heart beat with a great, valiant fierceness. So the
heart of the female tiger beats in tenderness for her young.
Barstow was excited and nervous, as became a groom. Even the great Mr.
Cullinan shook a little under the paternal jocoseness with which he came
forward to kiss the bride.
There was a supper waiting in the parlor of the rooms which Barstow had
hired: cold meats, salad, fruit, and a bottle of champagne. While the
gentlemen divested themselves of their hats and overcoats, Daisy carried
her parcel into the bedroom and opened it on the bureau. Then she took
off her hat and tidied her hair. She hardly recognized the face that
looked out of the mirror. She had never, before that moment, realized
that she was beautiful, that she had something to give to the man she
loved that was worth giving. Her eyes fell upon her old doll, the
companion of so many years. She laughed a happy little laugh. She had
grown up. The doll was only a doll now. But she kissed it, because she
loved it still. And she put it carefully away in a drawer, lest the
sight of a childishness offend the lord and master.
As she passed the great double bed, with its two snow-white pillows, her
knees weakened. It was like a hint to perform a neglected duty. She
knelt, and prayed God to let her make Barstow happy forever and ever.
Then, beautiful and abashed, she joined the gentlemen.
As she seated herself with dignity, as became a good housewife presiding
at her own table, the two gentlemen lifted their glasses of champagne.
There was a full glass beside Daisy's plate. Her fingers closed lightly
about the stem; but she looked to Barstow for orders. "Ought I?" she
said.
"Sure," said he, "a little champagne--won't hurt you."
No, Daisy; only what was in the champagne. She had her little moment of
exhilaration, of self-delighting ease and vivacity--then dizziness,
then awful nausea, and awful fear, and oblivion.
The great Mr. Cullinan--Bull Cullinan--caught her as she was falling. He
regarded the bridegroom with eyes in which there was no expression
whatever.
"Get out!" he said.
And then he was alone with her, and safe, in the dark shadow of the
wings.