Julia came in to help her pack. She lined a suitcase with tissue paper and folded clothing with exquisite care, slipping in satin sachet bags. Betsy added a worn limp leather copy of Shakespeare’s As You Like It.
After supper and the early autumn nightfall, she bathed and put on the new silk undergarments, and Julia dressed her hair.
“How many thousands of times you’ve fixed it for me!” Betsy said.
“You’ll be an old married woman when I do it again, Bettina,” Julia answered. She and Paige were leaving the next day.
Margaret slipped in, flawlessly dainty in her best blue silk. Beneath the crown of braids, her eyes were sparkling. She held out a box.
“Your bouquet!” she cried. “And there’s one for Mamma, and one for Julia, and even one for me!”
Betsy opened it quickly, and he had found forget-me-nots! Blue and reassuring, they were scattered among pink roses above a shower of white satin ribbons.
Mrs. Ray swept in, gleaming in satin, filling the air with Extreme Violet perfume. While Margaret looked on, she and Julia lifted the snowy wedding dress over Betsy’s head. It rustled to the floor, and Julia’s deft fingers put the bridal cap in place and spread out the flowing veil.
“Betsy,” said her mother, stepping back to gaze, “you look lovely! Go and dress now, Julia! Hurry! And Margaret, get downstairs and turn on all the lights.”
She kissed Betsy, and went out, and closed the door.
Betsy stood in the middle of the room. She didn’t want to crush her veil by sitting down. The doorbell began to ring. She heard doors opening and shutting, and gay voices, and steps on the stairs.
Margaret would be guiding the ladies to her mother’s bedroom and the gentlemen to her father’s study. Julia would still be dressing, humming to herself, and surveying effects with a hand mirror. Julia was always late.
A knock sounded. Tacy came in, smiling, and behind her appeared a swirl of golden curls, a doll-like face! Tib flew forward with arms outstretched—but she stopped.
“Betsy! You look so pretty! Much prettier than you are!”
Betsy and Tacy twinkled at each other. “Just like Tib!” their glances said.
“Of course I look pretty!” Betsy cried, shaking Tib and kissing her. “I’m supposed to! I’m a bride!”
“Liebchen,” Tib said, “I’m so glad you’re back! And about you and Joe! He’s exactly right.”
Dear little Tib! Betsy thought, when they went out. She must find the right one, too. And then she will have that big wedding. And Tacy and I can be bridesmaids….
It was good to plan someone else’s wedding, for, facing her own, her heart was beginning to thump.
Betsy turned to the mirror. She did, indeed, look prettier than she was! The veil was a white cloud around her dark slenderness, her flaming cheeks, and shining hazel eyes.
“I look too happy. Brides are supposed to look shy.” But she couldn’t manage to look anything but happy.
Margaret, coming up to hurry Julia, darted in. “Kismet’s in the basement. I’ve put paper in the telephone and stopped the chime clock.”
Mrs. Ray came up to hurry Julia. “Everyone’s here. Papa’s pacing the floor, and Joe is almost crazy.”
“I’m ready,” Julia’s voice came sweetly. “Tell Carney she can start.” And Betsy heard her mother go downstairs, and the tender melody of “Song Without Words” began to drift upward.
Julia came in, dressed in pale green and carrying violets. She studied Betsy with unhurried attention.
“Carry your bouquet this way, darling. See? You look divine! And go slowly! Remember, they can’t start without you.” She winked. Then, going to the top of the stairs, she assumed a grave, heavenly expression, and just at that moment came the stirring and familiar strains of the wedding march!
Julia started slowly down the stairs. She turned left at the landing, and disappeared.
Betsy started after her, holding Joe’s flowers, the white veil floating behind. She too went slowly, but lightly, on the tips of her toes. She turned at the landing, and descending toward the platform mirror, she glimpsed a gauzy phantom.
She turned again, and faced the crowded room. Her father was waiting, proudly erect, wearing his white vest, and a white carnation on darkly gleaming broadcloth.
Carney sat at the piano. A salmon-pink sash fell over her spreading white skirts. Sam was turning her music.
Dr. Atherton had his back to the fireplace which was quite concealed by fragrant greenery, and golden chrysanthemums, and lighted golden tapers. On one side of a flowery golden bell stood Julia, holding her violets; on the other, Joe and Paige, spruce and pressed, also with lapel carnations.
Joe’s blond hair shone. His eyes shone. His lower lip thrust out, of course. Betsy moved forward slowly on her father’s arm.
“Dearly beloved…” The words of the service came through faintly at first. “We are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to join together this Man and this Woman in Holy Matrimony….”
Joe and Betsy smiled at each other.
“If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak now, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
No one spoke.
Betsy heard a long “Wilt thou…” and Joe’s deep voice answering, “I will.” The solemn question came to her. “Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband…. Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness, and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
She heard her voice answering, “I will.”
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” She found her hand in Joe’s. Then Joe spoke again; then she, herself.
“I, Elizabeth, take thee, Joseph, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part…and thereto I give thee my troth.”
The ring she and Joe had bought in New York was placed on her finger, and in a few moments Joe was kissing her, and everyone was kissing her.
“Mrs. Joseph Willard!” they were saying. How beautiful it sounded!
“I want to meet Mrs. Joseph Willard,” came the rich voice she had heard on the telephone, and Betsy found herself greeting a queenly woman with reddish-brown hair, and brown eyes that looked into her own with such warmth Betsy could hardly believe they were meeting for the first time.
Bradford Hawthorne was a small, alert man, with eyeglasses on a humorous face. Little Sally Day—red ringlets and a white lace dress—had the same puckish expression.
Except for the Hawthornes, all the guests were relatives or old, old friends. There was something heart-warming, Betsy thought, about a small wedding like this where everyone knew you and loved you.
Tacy’s Irish eyes were smiling around Anna, who was wearing black silk and the pink enamel pin. Tib was laughing delightedly at everyone’s jokes. Sam’s eyes were crinkled with mischief, and Carney’s dimple flashed as she whispered, “He’s tied cans to your uncle’s car by mistake.”
Harry murmured, “Your bags are locked in the Buick.”
Joe was gripping Betsy’s arm. He did not let go until Margaret called them all to the dining room which swam in the light of more golden tapers. Golden baskets were tied with tulle and filled with yellow roses.
The tables were laden with trembling salads; plates of sandwiches; hand-painted dishes of candies and nuts. Mrs. Ray sat behind the silver coffee pot at one end, and at the other stood Anna’s masterpiece—a great gleaming cake trimmed with flowers, ribbons, and a dove!
“Anna! It’s too beautiful to cut!” cried Betsy as the crowd gathered around and she poised a silver-handled knife.
“I think the dove is puny,” Anna answered, trying to sound modest. “But cut it, lovey! I made it for folks to eat.”
Other people ate. Betsy couldn’t eat a crumb.<
br />
Tib sat on the step coming down from the platform, sketching. “I’m drawing a picture of you, Betsy, so Joe can remember always just how you looked tonight.”
“I’ll remember,” Joe said, but when Tib had finished, he folded the paper and put it in his pocket.
Mrs. Ray spoke casually, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Time to change, Betsy, if you’re going to make that train! Why don’t you help her, Tacy? And Joe, go get us all more coffee, please.”
So Tacy went upstairs, and Betsy followed.
She paused above the platform. Tib, Margaret, little Sally Day, and some girl cousins gathered expectantly below. Betsy took a forget-me-not out of her bouquet and tucked it into her dress. Then the bouquet sailed down, ribbons streaming, and Sally Day caught it and jumped up and down with joy.
Betsy fled up the stairs, but only as far as the landing. With her wedding veil still floating behind, she went down the back stairs to the kitchen. Tacy, in a warm coat, was waiting there. Anna held Betsy’s velvet wrap.
Joe came in, followed by Harry, who took Tacy’s arm without speaking and sped out the back door. Joe caught Betsy’s arm and Anna threw the wrap over her shoulders, but Betsy stopped long enough to give Anna a kiss that belonged—not just to her, but to Betsy’s father, and her mother, and her sisters, and the happy Ray house.
The crisp dark had the smell of autumn in it. Chilly stars were looking through the branches. Lights were streaming out of all the windows, and music streamed out, too.
Julia—to help the plot—had gone to the piano. She had begun her father’s favorite song:
“Believe me, if all those endearing young charms…”
Everyone was singing.
Tacy was seated beside Harry, at the wheel. He had started the engine of the Buick.
“We can make Minnetonka in an hour,” he was saying as Betsy gathered her white veil together beneath the velvet wrap and climbed into the back seat. Joe followed.
But before they rolled away, a shower of rice flew over their heads. They looked out to see Anna, weeping joyfully and waving.
“They threw rice,” she shouted, “at the McCloskey girl’s wedding. It’s for good luck, loveys!”
6
The Golden World
“YOU’RE A VERY NICE wife,” Joe announced. “Shouldn’t be surprised if I stayed in love with you for a considerable length of time. Say—I want to be reasonable about this—say, a lifetime.”
Betsy frowned in thought. “Well,” she answered, “since you’re being so conservative, I will be, too. I’ll stay in love with you for a lifetime, too.”
And they went, laughing, into each other’s arms, and caught hands, and ran out of their cottage—a rough, unplastered, lakey-smelling cottage, perched on stilts, and painted green. They ran across the lawn which was sprinkled with fallen leaves, and down a steep flight of steps to a dock, stretching out into Lake Minnetonka.
It was the third and last day of their honeymoon. Tonight they would take a streetcar boat to Excelsior where they would catch a streetcar for Minneapolis and the Ray house. Tomorrow Joe would start work at the Hawthorne Publicity Bureau and Betsy would go hunting an apartment.
Last chance for a swim, Joe had said, but Betsy had declared it was too cold. She settled herself in the sunshine on the dock and Joe dropped his towels, flexed his arms, walked to the end, and plunged.
Betsy shivered. “But Joe likes it,” she remarked to a gull, posing on a bark-covered post. “My husband likes to swim in icy water.”
The gull looked unimpressed.
At the side of the dock was a small wire enclosure used for bait. “But he doesn’t like to fish. My husband doesn’t like to fish,” Betsy told the gull.
He looked scornful.
“My husband,” Betsy informed him, “is the handsomest, dearest, cleverest, most wonderful person in the world.”
At that, the gull flew away, and Betsy laughed, and hugged her knees into her arms. She was wearing the green plaid skirt Joe liked, and a middy blouse, with a narrow green ribbon tied around her hair which was dressed in the old way, low and soft around her face. Of course, she had not been able to curl it. But, blessing of blessings, Joe liked it straight!
The water looked like polished green glass—but mobile glass. It came moving toward her, slantwise. The whole great body of the lake came moving toward her, speaking softly, plashing against a rowboat which was moored among the rushes.
The neighboring docks and diving boards were all deserted. So were many of the cottages. The bank here was high and wild, crowded with bronzy undergrowth and trees leaning over the water.
Across the bay, the shore was flat, and there was a boathouse with a little peaked tower. It had an oriental air, Betsy had observed to Joe.
“We must have come to Japan on our honeymoon!”
“I never did trust that Kerr!” Joe replied, and they had laughed as though at scintillating wit.
Betsy turned around and watched him shooting out into the lake. She wished he’d come back.
It was warm, sitting in the sunshine. The weather had warmed up gloriously every day, but the evenings and the mornings had been cold. Joe had sprung up early, while the lake still slept under an eiderdown of mist, to start a fire in the plump air-tight stove. Betsy loved that stove, roaring importantly, gleaming in comic threat through the front damper.
Joe had cooked breakfast—coffee, bacon and eggs, French toast—even sour-milk pancakes. Betsy had breakfasted elegantly in the pink chiffon negligee and the boudoir cap trimmed with rosebuds. But after breakfast she had put on a sailor suit, and one of Tacy’s starched aprons, and had washed the dishes, and made the bed, and swept, and brought in bouquets—goldenrod and starry asters, or a spray of thorn-apple berries.
Each morning they had walked to the store, along a road where the trees met overhead, comparing progress on their red and yellow leaves. The roadsides were gaudy with fall growth.
“Those bursting milkweed pods,” Joe said, “make me think of grade school. I always expect to be asked to draw them.”
“I’ll bet your drawings were pinned up on the blackboard.”
“They were used to scare the children.”
Trying to act like an old married couple, they had bought melons and doughnuts and tomatoes and frankfurters and syrup and milk and crusty bread. The storekeeper, an old Scandinavian woman with bright observant eyes, treated them with great respect.
When they returned, Betsy had tied on the apron again, but Joe did most of the cooking. The kerosene stove was a mystery to her; and, of course, her talents at any stove were meager. Tacy had left a chocolate cake, with fudge frosting half an inch thick, and it proved a boon.
They always lunched on the porch, and sometimes a flicker knocked against the wall.
“You can’t come in,” Joe would call. “Don’t you know this is a honeymoon?”
A little white-tailed rabbit would run across the lawn.
“Don’t you know,” Joe would ask, “that we’re supposed to be left alone?”
The squirrels paid no attention to them. They were busy burying nuts.
In the afternoons Joe and Betsy had sat on their lofty lawn, looking out at the lake which was sometimes cloth of silver and sometimes a carpet of diamonds. They had read aloud—poetry.
“Nothing but poetry is allowed on this honeymoon,” Joe had announced on the first day, bringing out a volume of Keats, and one of Shelley, and one of Tagore, and one of Alfred Noyes.
“Shakespeare was a poet,” Betsy had replied, producing As You Like It. Joe had given it to her one Christmas when they were in high school. He had written on the flyleaf: “We’ll fleet the time carelessly as they did in the golden world.”
They had read Alfred Noyes the most. Joe had read aloud about the forty singing seamen, and the highwayman who came riding, riding, riding, and “Come back to Kew in Lilac Time,” which Betsy had loved in London, but, especially, “Silk O’ The Kine.”
&n
bsp; Betsy quoted it softly now.
“…her hand lay warm in his clasping hand:
Two young lovers were they…”
She thought of those young lovers swimming to their death.
“Out, far out, through the golden glory
that dazzled the green of the bay:
Two strong swimmers were they….”
Joe was a strong swimmer but Betsy was glad, looking around again, to see that he was headed toward her.
He came up, dripping.
“Colder than blazes!” he said, blowing and snorting and rubbing vigorously. He sat down beside her. “Do you know what I was thinking out there? It would be fun to live in a place like this.”
“It would be perfect!” Betsy cried. “Just perfect for two writers! Let’s buy that place with the Japanese boathouse.”
“All right,” said Joe. “Of course, first, I have to earn the money.”
“And I have to learn to write things that will sell to the good magazines. Some of my stuff,” Betsy admitted, “is pretty awful.”
“I’ll tell you all old Copey taught us.” Professor Copeland had been Joe’s favorite teacher at Harvard. “Betsy, maybe you’d do better with a novel. Why don’t you try one?”
“Maybe I will,” said Betsy, “when we’re living out here.”
And they began to plan.
“I’ll get on a paper when Mrs. Hawthorne’s campaign is over,” Joe said. “I’ll enjoy a stretch of newspaper work. And after a year or so, we’ll move out of the apartment and buy a little house—not at the lake yet…”
“And have a baby,” Betsy put in.
“A boy or a girl?”
“Both. The boy first, so he can take her to parties.”
“Let’s name the girl Bettina,” Joe said. He liked Julia’s nickname for Betsy. “And before we settle down, we might travel a bit. New Orleans, California. Have a fling at New York. Would you like that?”
“I’d love it,” Betsy answered. “But we won’t stay.”
“No, we’ll come back here to Lake Minnetonka, and write.”
It was beautiful sitting on the dock in the sunshine, planning out their lives, but they had to go in. They had to have an early supper, and pack, and row over to the streetcar boat. Harry had said he would pick up the rowboat at the landing there.