There had never been such a grand wedding in the memory of the county.
John had “done himself proud.” The new barn, huge, and smelling of sap and sawdust, was lighted with a score of lamps and lanterns. The floor had been waxed for dancing. John had engaged a real group of waltz-musicians from Whitmore; five fiddlers, a harpist, and a drummer. A temporary platform had been built to hold the musicians and the platform itself was covered elegantly with turkey-red carpet. A table had been prepared to hold punch and glass cups in one corner of the barn. Streamers of red, white, and blue ribbon decorated every post, and even trailed downward from the roof.
John’s housekeeper was his paternal aunt, Miss Betsy Hobart, an old woman with a forbidding face, steel eye glasses, and a rigid, humorless mouth. She kept his house meticulously and was an excellent cook. She had said no word to John about Margaret when he had been pursuing her, though her opinion of the Hamiltons was very low. He never knew her opinion of the marriage.
Miss Betsy had a hired girl; to help with the cooking and the festivities, she engaged three more girls temporarily. For four days they had all been working. Fresh curtains stood at the windows of the old gray-timbered house. The antique walnut and mahogany had been polished until it glittered; in the dining room the table had been laid with a cloth as stiff as satin paper. There were to be twenty-five guests at the wedding dinner at five o’clock. Later, after the dancing, there would be extra swarms. Dozens of chickens were slaughtered, the best hams taken from the cellars, and wine imported from Williamsburg.
Miss Betsy had been born in this house, and her father before her. She had said nothing about John’s plan of demolishing it, but something must have emanated from her, for at the last moment, when the wrecking commenced, he had changed his mind. He told his aunt that she would continue to live in the house. She had merely nodded. But when he had gone, she had wiped a single tear from her eye. The new house stood only half an acre away, green lawns stretching between the two residences. It was only two-thirds finished, without shade, for new saplings had just been planted about it. But the dark old house was sunk deep in the shadow of ancient trees.
Miss Betsy had never been very sociable. Few dared visit the Hobart house except on unusual occasions; the mistress did not encourage social intercourse. There was an old story that she had once been “promised” in her youth to an elegant young man from Williamsburg, but that her father had hated the dandy. He had been a stranger, and how Miss Betsy had met him no one knew. But they did know that he came no more to the Hobart house, and that Miss Betsy, who had been a fine, strapping girl, had never looked at another man. She had kept house for her father and her brother; she had continued to keep house when the older John had brought home some pink-and-white timid little thing from Kentucky, and then she had raised John after his mother had given up the struggle and had died when he was four years old. Whether she loved him or not, John never knew. He really never knew anything about her.
Miss Betsy and Margaret Hamilton had met only half a dozen times in all their lives, but had never spoken. There was something about the older woman which had vaguely frightened Margaret. She had once discussed her with old Margot, but for once the latter was silent, except for one sentence. “There’s murder in Betsy.”
Margaret had forgotten the strange remark, but on her wedding day she remembered it with an uneasy start. She was to live in the old house, confined therein with Miss Betsy until the new house was finished, which would not be until about Christmas. John had taken her there during a brief absence of Miss Betsy’s, and she had remembered the bitter silence, the hush of the carpeted corridors, the green gloom of the shrouding trees at the windows. She had hated it at once, had felt herself an intruder. She became more and more frightened; what would she and Miss Betsy have to say to each other during all the days until the new house was finished? She had no doubt that Miss Betsy hated her, and Miss Betsy’s shadow was over all her wedding day. It was only two hours before she was to leave for John’s house when Peter, catching a spare moment alone with his daughter, drew her aside.
“Look here, Maggie, there’s this thing about old Miss Betsy. She ain’t been to visit you like the other folks hereabouts, and ain’t never invited you to visit her, neither. Now, they say all kinds of dern things about her, but you got sense, Mag. You don’t have to believe nothin’; all you got to do is mind your own business, same as she minds her’n, and you’ll git along fine with her. Besides, it ain’t long.”
“I ’spect she hates me, Pa.”
“That’s plumb foolishness, Mag. She don’t hate you, for the reason that she don’t know nothin’ about you. If she does hate you, it’s becuz she hates most everythin’. Just keep your head and don’t make no fusses and everythin’ will be all right.”
Her father’s good common sense heartened Margaret, and she forgot about the forbidding old woman. The Hamilton house was in confusion all that day. The children crowded under everyone’s feet and added to the general hysteria. Peter had been able to dig up only twenty-five dollars, and so it was Melinda who had a new purple silk dress, and Linda a cheap white muslin. Margaret had made over old Margot’s ivory silk for herself. She trusted the folds of it to conceal her clumsy black slippers.
These last few days Margaret had not thought at all. She was conscious only of haste, of feverish excitement alternating with dull lassitude.
The day was a fair and clear one. An hour before the wedding was to take place, the little church in the hollow began to sound its bell, and the thin clamor of it rolled back from the hills. Margaret heard it as she finished dressing. Her head ached.
John’s carryall arrived for the bride’s party, which consisted only of the bride, her parents, and her excited younger sister, Linda. Peter wore his greenish-black store clothes. His mighty wrists protruded from the sleeves of his tight coat; his black beard had been decently trimmed, and his broad-brimmed hat had been brushed until the nap was smooth. Melinda felt very elegant in her purple silk and jet bonnet with black streamers; Linda’s yellow curls streamed over the white muslin dress. Margaret had found a delicate ivory scarf in her grandmother’s box and she held it carefully folded in her hand. Her thoughts were frantic.
God. I’m going to my wedding and it all seems like a nightmare. I wish that bell would stop ringing. I wish I’d let John buy me a real wedding dress. They’ll all laugh when I go into the church; Lydia will be there. She’ll laugh. I don’t blame them. I look a fright. I’m going to be sick, I can feel it. Ralph. Ralph. I’m going to be sick!
Melinda suddenly became conscious that Margaret had not spoken since they had left the house. She glanced at her daughter. The girl’s head was averted; she sat straight and stiff, her head bare.
“Time you put on your scarf, Maggie,” she said.
After a moment, Margaret’s hands listlessly shook out the scarf.
They could see, now, the dozens of buggies and carryalls hitched about the church. No one was visible, for all were inside. From the open door there issued the strains of a wedding march.
From his place before the altar, John could see the blurred faces of his neighbors; he could hear the dull buzz of their whispering, could guess their muttered conjectures. He could think only that in a few minutes Margaret would be his for a lifetime.
The pale gray rectangle of the church door darkened. Margaret and her father were coming in; her hand rested on his arm. Melinda and Linda swooped into seats near the doorway. Margaret and her father were coming down the aisle. Everything became hushed, breathless, except for the wedding march.
Then, from scores of throats came a deep “Ah!” John widened his eyes as he looked at his approaching bride, and was astounded.
She walked proudly, slowly, on her father’s arm. Her face was very pale in the gloom of the church. Her tight bodice with its foam of lace at the breast clung smoothly, glistening to every swell of her figure. From the bodice flowed the folds of the ivory silk, gleaming like moonlight in the dusk. On her head was the ivory gossamer of the scarf, and through its meshes could be seen the smooth blackness of her hair. About her throat was clasped the garnet necklace, and from her ears burned the garnet earrings. They threw sharp little scarlet shadows on her flesh, and trembled a little. She was incredibly beautiful.
She moved in a dream. She did not feel the floor under her feet; she floated. She could see John’s face, could feel the swift touch of his hand. Otherwise she had lost hold on reality. She heard her voice replying to something in a hush like that of an eternal silence. The organist had tried to pedal down to a faint murmur, and the result was that the instrument had died altogether. There was only the sound of Margaret’s voice and John’s voice, and, from the distance, a long roll of unseasonable thunder.
The moment the service ended, the rain began, accompanied by a lusty wind. The tin roof of the church rattled like gunfire; lightning glared whitely at the windows. John was kissing Margaret; he was holding her by the arms; he kissed her again and again.
And then it happened. Miss Betsy Hobart rose from her seat in the first pew, an apparition in her black silk dress and bonnet. She came up to the bride and groom; she took Margaret by the arm and turned her about. For a long moment she stared into the girl’s face, almost fiercely. Then she leaned forward and kissed Margaret’s cheek with her cold, hard lips.
The wedding party rattled merrily away to the Hobart house. The air had turned sharply cool; the earth was silent, the hills dull purple and sodden. But the laughter and voices and calls of the guests echoed clearly, while the sky burned brighter.
The great warm fires in the old house were welcome. Candles and lamps flickered everywhere. Miss Betsy led Margaret up the dimness of the circular staircase to the floor above. Between two tall windows stood the huge white bed with its four posts; the spread had been folded back, the snowy sheet crisply turned, the pillows immaculate and plump. There was an air of comfort and security in the room.
Margaret put her hand to her head in her old vague gesture and stared about her. The firelight made the old ivory stuff of her gown glow, brought out a hidden grandeur in her figure and face. Miss Betsy watched her from the shadows; then she came forward.
“Look here,” she said curtly, and went to the wardrobe. She flung open the door. On various hooks hung several bright feminine dresses of silk and muslin, two new cloaks, and two new bonnets. “These are yours.”
“Did John buy those for me before—?”
Miss Betsy closed the door sharply and looked at Margaret with a contemptuous smile.
“No. I did,” she replied. Her voice had a hoarse hardness to it.
There was a little silence.
“Thank you,” said Margaret uncertainly. Miss Betsy regarded her with fierce gravity.
“I thought, today, that you weren’t a fool,” she said. “I hope you won’t disappoint me. A scoundrel is always better than a fool.”
Margaret smiled faintly. “I don’t think I’m a scoundrel, but I’m sure I’m not a fool.”
“I’m not so sure of it,” Miss Betsy said shortly. “See here, that gown of yours won’t be any good for dancing. You’d better put on one of those dresses. I hope they fit you; I think they will. I remembered you well.”
Margaret regarded her soberly for some moments.
“Do you know, you remind me of my grandmother,” she said suddenly, and then flushed at her words.
“I knew her a little,” Miss Betsy said. She retreated to the door, unmoved and a trifle sinister.
Left alone, Margaret removed her wedding gown and put on one of her new dresses, a dark red silk over red merino, which fitted to perfection. She glanced in the mirror, was dreamily amazed at the beauty that gazed back at her, and went down the staircase.
Exclamations of admiration broke from the ladies; the gentlemen merely stared as Margaret entered. John, who was already carving the great hams, glanced up. He stood there, knife in hand, without moving. But Margaret looked at none of the guests, only at Miss Betsy; on the older woman’s face there glinted a cold smile of triumph.
In her hushed dreaminess, Margaret was not aware of what she ate, of what she said or did, or whether she smiled or laughed. Neither could she think; at times her eyes closed, and she felt that she was sinking into a deep and cushioned sleep. She would start to consciousness, sounds and voices unbearably sharp in her ears. She was not unaware of the envy and the malice of the women present, but she did not care. She kept telling herself that tomorrow there would be light and sun, and she would be able to fix things securely in her mind.
When the rain had stopped a little there was a rush over the dark moist earth to the barn. It was brightly lighted; the musicians were already playing seductive waltzes and square dances when Margaret entered with John. The gaiety, the laughter, the music, only increased her sense of bemusement.
It was not for some time that she realized Miss Betsy had gone.
On a sudden impulse Margaret opened the door and slipped out into the windy darkness of the night. She ran lightly to the house and as she approached she became aware of the thunderous sound of an organ. She let herself inside and crept softly to the door of the parlor. It stood open; bleak and silent, except for the fire behind the grate and Miss Betsy, rigid and gray at the ancient organ.
Her back was to Margaret, and so she did not see her enter. Her body was stiff and emaciated in the black silk. As though Margaret’s entrance were a signal, the organ seemed to draw a tremendous breath, and from it rolled bitter echoes, majestic, heroic, and yet contemptuous. They surged against the walls, rolled back, like a giant that strained at chains. The sound caught at Margaret; involuntarily she put her hands to her ears, shivering, as though the cry came from her and she would suppress it. She was not aware that she was weeping. In that music, she had lost orientation. It was only after a long time that she became aware that everything was silent. She shook her head slightly; as through the mists of a dream she saw that Miss Betsy had turned to her on the organ bench, and that she was looking at her with perfectly expressionless eyes, her hands still on the keys.
Margaret walked to the organ and looked down at the older woman without speaking. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long time. It was Miss Betsy who looked away. She smiled a little grimly.
“Child, what are you doing, coming back here?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” the girl answered quietly. She rubbed the old mahogany of the instrument with the palm of her hand.
Then, abruptly, Miss Betsy closed the organ and turned to Margaret. She began to speak without looking at the girl.
“I’ve watched you. You aren’t a fool, like everyone else. But you still have some foolishness. Folks like you, and like I was, think it’s something superior to make long and romantic faces at the moon, and sigh deeply. It isn’t superior, and it isn’t very bright. And sometimes, when you get to the place where you realize you haven’t been very bright, it’s too late. Folks won’t let you forget; they keep on acting as though you hadn’t realized what a fool you had been; they won’t believe you realize at last. And the worse part of it is that even if they’d let you alone, you’d never forget, either. You’d never forget how much of life you had lost during that time, and how you’ll never regain it. And then, when folks won’t let you forget, you’ll hate ’em; and finally, you hate everything.”
Was she trying to tell Margaret that she had been a fool not to have followed her real desire and gone off with Ralph? But how could she have known about Ralph anyway? It was very confusing. During these bewildered thoughts Margaret gazed at Miss Betsy earnestly. She felt that the older woman could tell her something if she would.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said finally. “In what way am I being a fool?”
The pale gray eyes behind the spectacles looked hot and painful.
“Then, I see you haven’t found out. Perhaps it won’t come sudden, and you’ll get over it, like getting over typhoid, slow and long, but sure. And you’ll be none the worse. But, if your sickness goes on making you see things that don’t exist, like a person in a fever, and then you wake up, you’re going to hate yourself for a long time. If you want to be a fool, don’t let anyone guess it! That’s the trouble with most of us; we call the whole world to come out and watch us make fools of ourselves! You must keep it a secret!”
Margaret looked at her with quick fear and shrinking. Why, the woman was crazy! The hotness in the sunken gray eyes had turned to flame; her mouth twisted from side to side, convulsively, and the cords in her thin throat struggled with vehemence. She leaned so closely to Margaret that the girl could feel gusts of her hot breath in her face, and she involuntarily recoiled a step, glancing fearfully for a moment over her shoulder at the closed door.
Miss Betsy drew her handkerchief swiftly, almost furtively, over her lips. Then she looked at the piece of linen absently. She seemed to have forgotten Margaret; her face was entirely composed.
Then a door opened and slammed, and John’s voice shouted in the dining room “Maggie! Where the devil are you?”
Margaret drew a deep breath. She had the feeling that she had been wandering in a crooked underground cavern, had turned a corner, seen sunlight, and heard a human shout close at hand. She ran to the door, opened it, called an answer in a ringing voice. Then she glanced back at Miss Betsy.
She was quietly turning down the wick of the lamp; a moment later she knelt and poked the fire. It blazed up, scarlet on her bony profile with its grim lips and the creases about them.
Margaret had two swift thoughts, Was her husband’s aunt insane? Was she a friend or an enemy?
She went out into the dim hallway. John was waiting for her, puzzled and a little impatient. He came forward and seized her arm.
“Why’d you run off, Mag?”
“I wondered about your aunt, John. She wasn’t over to the barn; I came back to see about her.”
John raised his eyebrows.
“Aunt Betsy? Why, she never goes no place, dancin’ least of all.”
His expression of surprise lingered. His aunt had always been there in the background of his life, silent and efficient, but this was the first time that he thought of her as a human being. He found the idea novel.
“I kin see her dancin’!” he laughed. Margaret bit her lip, and her brows drew together.
“It isn’t dancing, John. It’s—something else. You never speak about her; she might just as well be stock.”
John grinned. “There are some that think wimin folks is stock, Mag, belonging’ to the man that owns them. Wimin folks, cattle, sheep, all the same. You, you’re different, and I—But, Mag, this ain’t the time for such talk! Let’s be gettin’ back to the music.”
Margaret stared at him blankly, but she did not see him. She saw the dignity of Betsy Hobart’s gaunt figure, the flaming gray eyes, the emaciated but beautifully formed hands. And then, her gaze focusing, she saw John, tall, proud, grasping at life with both hands. So there were men who considered they owned their women folks, owned their women as they owned their cows! Earthy, insensitive men like John …
“Come on, let’s get out of here, back to the barn,” John said impatiently, bursting into her thoughts with power and abruptness. He put his arms about her, nudged back her head with the side of his cheek, and kissed her long and slowly on the lips. For one blinding moment she saw Ralph’s face, his wounded eyes. She struggled, and then her will dissolved, was swallowed up in a languor of inexplicable desire. Ralph’s face died away.