CHAPTER XV
REBA had attended only one wedding in her life—her Sunday School teacher's, years ago when she was sixteen. It had taken place in the Congregational Church in Ridgefield, and Reba recalled that on that occasion there had been an exchange of rings. Moreover, both her father and mother wore gold bands as a symbol of their marriage. She ought to buy a ring for Nathan, of course! It never would have occurred to her but for the lucky coincidence under the arc-light. She was thankful to have been reminded in time of so important a factor.
She went into a jewelry-shop the next day—a gorgeous place, with a phalanx of such distinguished-looking clerks behind the long plate-glass show-cases that it took about all her courage to address one of them and drained it dry when she found herself forced to explain her errand. She could feel herself pink to the tips of her ears when the young man finally assigned to look out for her (he had polished nails and white slender hands) produced a large tray of gentlemen's rings—wedding-rings, he believed she said, and asked her what size.
"I don't know exactly," she replied, confused, and picked up one of the rings—the largest she could see in one swift glance—and slipped it over her thumb. "I guess this one will do," she said. Anything to escape! "I'll take this one, if you please," she told the young man.
Reba was not without misgivings on the night before her wedding day. She wished that there was some one to whom she might go in secret and consult. Her marriage was taking on significancies that were making her apprehensive. But she didn't know how to confide in any human being. Only in prayer had she ever poured out her heart's doubts, fears, hopes and aspirations—and even then she had done so with caution.
She shrunk from mentioning even her departure until her dismantled room, the necessity of checking her trunk, and paying her bills forced an explanation. There would be sure to be questions. In her reluctance, rather than to confess to the adored Miss Park that she had been summoned back to that vague place whence she had come, Reba preferred on the third shopping-tour with her, which took place shortly after Aunt Augusta's vital visit, to make numberless useless purchases—silver-gray shoes and stockings, silver-gray gloves, a small silver-gray feather boa, all to match the silver-gray costume—jacket and gown, nearing completion now—made of soft, lavenderish gray silk, the gown daringly draped and looped over her hips, with generous bunches of it held here and there by Frenchy little bouquets of artificial heliotrope and pink rosebuds—a costume, alas, which she must hide and lay away now. She could never wear it in Ridgefield, to be discussed and talked about and head-wagged over.
Reba didn't tell any one, even Mamie, that she was going home until the very day before she went. Even then she remarked it briefly, saying it was only for a week or two. She referred to it to Miss Park for the first time on Friday, during her last noon hour of dancing, in a non-committal little statement and in a manner that forbade questions. She said she hoped to return by late June. She could not lay bare to Miss Katherine Park the plain, homely details of her home life! Better just to slip away unobtrusively as if only for a week or two, and write an explanation later.
Miss Park had sighed over Reba's brief little announcement.
"I haven't succeeded," she confessed to Miss Bartholomew that evening, "in getting one step nearer our little Miss Jerome—not really. I've tried—tried my best, and failed. I thought for a while I was making headway, winning her confidence slowly, bit by bit, but I was mistaken. Here she is stealing away as mysteriously as she came. I don't for one minute believe she's coming back. She had such a guilty manner when she told me this noon; and when I referred to our summer plans (you know I'd asked her to help me at one of the girls' camps), she blushed and wouldn't raise her eyes. It troubles me."
"I don't see why it should, Katherine."
"I'll tell you, then. I'll confess. I'm afraid that she has used up all her money. If she has, then I'm the one to blame for it! You see, I thought I was being kind—getting close to her. She seemed so anxious to have some pretty clothes, and made me believe she had all sorts of money which she had never been taught how to spend. She asked me if I thought it was wrong—wicked, for her to buy one wonderful costume, no matter what it cost—just as wonderful, she said, as the most fashionable woman would wear at the most fashionable summer-resort on the Atlantic coast. That was the way she put it, and I took her to Madame Boulangeat! She had given me to understand that money was the one thing she had in abundance—only had to sign her name—and what she wanted most in the world was to know how to exchange part of it wisely for other kinds of wealth—not only clothes, but good times, and interests. I had such plans for enriching her! I was so interested! You can't imagine how responsive she was to anything I suggested. It was like working on a canvas with every stroke of your brush inspired—true and perfect—promising you a masterpiece. Something like that. Why, I had a kind of sneaking notion that she would be one of our masterpieces! And then about a week ago, her eyes suddenly left off shining, her voice lost that little note of impulsiveness, and there was no more of that eagerness, nor pretty embarrassed enthusiasm about her. Oh, if I have helped her to squander her tiny fortune on mere clothes—if I have made such an error in judgment, then I don't deserve my position!"
"Nonsense," comforted Miss Bartholomew. "Don't worry. She probably considers her money well spent. No doubt she's going back to Skidunkville to make the impression of her life in her grand folderols."
"No," gravely Katherine Park replied, shaking her head.
"Or," suggested the resourceful Miss Bartholomew, "perhaps she's going to be married in the wonderful costume. Never can tell about these close-mouthed New Englanders—what their motives are. I'm glad I'm Pennsylvanian."
Katherine Park continued staring into space, still shaking her head doubtfully. "Oh, dear! I hate to fail with a girl when I've tried so," she exclaimed.
Miss Bartholomew was nearer right in her chance surmise about the Boulangeat costume than she knew—nearer right than Reba herself knew. For it was not until Reba was leaning over her trunk late that Friday night, folding the gray creation safely away between layers of tissue paper in the second tray, that it occurred to her to be married in it.
She rose, went over to the window and raised the curtain. The stars were shining. It promised to be fair. Why not? And the twenty-dollar hat, too, that had never been out of the oblong room since the day of its arrival—why not christen that as well? And the gray shoes and stockings, and the feather boa, perhaps? She would never have another chance. Besides, was it not her wedding-day? Her long black dust-coat, bought long ago for the railroad journeys to the sea, would conceal her from chin to ankles as she left the Alliance, and a half-dozen blocks away she would be hidden in the blessed city crowds. Nathan had told her that he was to honor the occasion with a brand new suit of blue serge. Well, she also would come freshly dressed.
The sun shone very bright the next morning. The air was clear and cool. Nature had a sort of shining quality on the morning of Reba's wedding-day, as if it had just dipped itself in cold water and felt exhilarated. From the bits of snowy white clouds, shining bright against the clear blue sky, high up above the copings and cornices of the buildings, down to the shining plate-glass show-windows, shining brass doorplates, shining black sides of the automobiles passing close beside Reba on their way to the shopping district, there was a clean, washed look. It was a day to dispel doubts and fears of whatever nature, and as Reba hurried along that Saturday morning on her way to meet the man she was to marry, she, too, felt shining underneath the long black dust-coat.
She slipped the disguising thing off when she reached the edge of the Public Gardens, and hung it over her arm, appearing suddenly as fresh and bright as the radiant flowers in the formal flower-beds. People turned to gaze at her.
She had no idea how transformed she was. She had been able to see herself in her wedding clothes only in sections. Standing on a chair in front of her high chiffonier, she had caught a glimpse of her gray-shod feet. On the floor, tipping the mirror well forward, she had surveyed somewhat doubtfully the amazing panniers over her hips. And finally, with the mirror straightened, had caught the pouter-pigeon effect of the little short gray boa hugging the back of her neck, and the small hat tipped forward at the angle the clerk in the shop had placed it.
All the confidence with which earlier in the morning Nathan had set forth in his new blue serge, red tie, and stiff black hat, deserted him completely at sight of the modish young lady whom he spied a long way off coming to meet him. Uneducated as he was in woman's fashions, still he was acutely aware of the smartness, the loveliness too, of Reba's costume. He gazed at her in dumb admiration for a second or two.
All he said finally was, "The flowers aren't good enough," and he passed her a florist's box.
Lilies-of-the-valley—huge ones with "bells twice the size of those that grow at home in Ridgefield under the syringa bush in the clothes-yard," she told him prettily.
He had no answer for that, no answer for anything just then. He had just noticed her feet in gray suede!
He did not speak of them—he did not speak of any of Reba's little fineries—but she knew by his furtive glances that they were not unobserved. Of the two, she was the more at ease. She prattled almost volubly, as she tripped along beside him across the gardens on their way to be married.
The ceremony was to be performed at the home of the young clergyman who was sailing on the "Ellen T. Robinson" the following Saturday. Nathan had explained all the details to Reba at their last meeting, and already had searched out the address where the clergyman lived so that there might be no delay. The hour suggested by the clergyman had been eleven in the morning. After a conversation or two with the sailor, the clergyman could not help but feel a warm protective interest in him, and he had told him that he would ask his own mother, with whom he lived, to act as witness.
It was just two minutes of eleven when Reba and Nathan stood timidly waiting for admittance outside the plate-glass, filet-lace-covered front door of the clergyman's residence in the Back Bay.