They were married early in December. There were no preparations to be
made, for a wedding is nothing without friends, and they had none but
Amy's and though Joe said nothing to Ethel about it, she knew he had not
sent them word. "It's better," she thought. She herself wrote to a few
girl friends, but they were scattered all over the country. No one of
them would be coming East. And at times she felt very lonely. With
memories of weddings at home and of her dreams for one of her own, which
she had planned so often, she begged Joe to let her be married in
church, and Joe gave in good-naturedly. He did not go to the minister
who had buried Amy a year before, but to one who had a small
Presbyterian church on the next street. There he soon arranged to be
married. But then, in his ignorance of such matters, Joe said, in his
blunt, off-hand way:
"I like to settle these things ahead. So if you'll just name the
amount--" he stopped. For the clergyman straightened up as though at an
insult. Joe reddened. "Look here," he blurted, "I didn't mean--"
"Oh, that's all right." The other man was smiling queerly. "How long
have you been in New York?" he asked.
"Nine years."
"Ever been inside of a church?"
"No, I can't say that I have."
"Then why do you want to get married here?"
Joe smiled frankly. "The bride's idea."
"I thought so," said the preacher. A glint of humour came into his
eyes. "You asked me what it would cost to get married. If you'll go
down to City Hall, it will cost you exactly two dollars. But if you
care to be married here--well, there's an old scrub-woman I know who for
nine years every Sunday has come to this church and put a quarter in the
plate to keep this institution going for you. And if you care to use it
now it will cost you just what it has cost her. Figure it out and send
me a check, or else go down to City Hall."
"I'll pay up," was the prompt reply.
At home he told Ethel about it with keen relish at the joke on himself.
And Ethel smiled rather tensely and said:
"Don't let's make a joke of it, dear. Let's make it as much of a one as
we can."
But there was little or nothing to do. And the next afternoon in church
it felt so queer and unreal to her as she stood with Joe in front of the
pulpit. Behind her in the shadowy place were only Susette and Emily and
the building superintendent's wife. No long rows of faces--caring.
Only the hard murmur of the busy street outside. No excited whispers
here, no music and no flowers, no bridesmaids and no wedding gown.
"I pronounce you man and wife."
Then what?
She took Susette tight in her arms for a moment. Then Emily--thank God
for her!--was whispering fiercely in her ear:
"It's going to be all right, my dear! In a minute you're going to laugh
or cry! Laugh! It's better! Laugh! . . . That's right!"
Joe had his small car waiting outside; and waving good-bye to Emily, who
was taking Susette to the park, they sped away to the river and off into
the country. Soon they were talking excitedly.
It was after dark when they returned, and as had been already planned
they went to a café to dine, a gay place crowded full of people, music
throbbing, voices humming. Ethel wanted it like that. She wanted to be
lifted through. Joe alarmed her now. "Oh, don't--don't be so
considerate!" she wanted to exclaim to him. "What good does it do?" As
they smiled at each other, again and again she had to fight down an
impulse to cry--or shiver. She would bite her lips and turn away and
watch people, then turn quickly back and start talking rapidly.
At home, alone in Amy's room, she sat at the dressing table there, her
movements swift and feverish. She had often looked at herself of late
in her mirror in the nursery, but now she did not look into the glass.
Her hands were cold. In a very few minutes she called to Joe.
And a little later, on her old bed by the cradle in the nursery, she lay
violently trembling and staring intently up at the ceiling.
"What has happened?" she asked. "Whose fault was it? Mine?" With a
strange thrill of fear and repulsion, she clenched her teeth and held
herself until the fit of trembling passed. "Is this real, Ethel Knight?
Do you mean to say this is what love is--just this, just this?" She
shook her head and bit her lips. She asked, "Am I tied to this man for
life? I am not! I can't be! This isn't real--it isn't me!"
The night was a blur, like a bad dream. Once she remembered jumping up
and quickly locking the nursery door. But that was the beginning of a
return to her senses. "I needn't have done that," she thought. "It
wasn't fair. It was even rather insulting." This thought made her
quieter. And later, as the night wore on, a feeling of having been
unjust and foolish little by little emerged from the chaos and began to
steady her. But again the old dismay and dread and loathing would come
back with a rush. All at once her body from head to foot would grow
cold and rigid. And the power which a year ago with her sister she had
excitedly sensed as the driving force of this whole town, now loomed
brutal, savage! The thought rose suddenly in her mind, "Amy. She was
his wife! Five years!" And then in a revealing flash, "Her love was
like that! She taught him!"
With a bound that feeling of intimacy with her sister leaped to a
climax--burned!
It was long till she could quiet herself. She had to do it by walking
the floor. . . . Thank heaven for the daylight and the small, round
face of Susette peering over the edge of the crib. Soon she had the
child in her bed and they were looking at pictures.
Later she went back to her husband. It cost her no slight effort of
will, and it was a relief to find him gone. On her dresser he had left
a note:
"I am sorry, dear--it was all my fault. I was a fool--a clumsy fool.
But remember there is plenty of time--and be certain absolutely that
everything will be all right."
She read it more than once that day, and it helped her prepare for the
evening. When Joe came home and took her in his arms, she knew at once
that he meant her to feel there was nothing to be afraid of.
"I've got to be down at the office tonight," was all he said. But in
his voice, low, kind and reassuring, like that of a big brother, there
was a promise which gave her a thrill of gratitude and deep relief.
With it came some self-reproach, which caused her again to struggle,
alone, and then go to Amy's room to sleep. She lay listening there for
hours, carefully holding herself in check. When she heard his key in
the hall door, she sharply stiffened, held her breath. . . . She
heard him go into the small guest room which had been hers a year
before. . . . And then she cried softly to herself. With the
blessed relief of it, her love for Joe was coming back.