And when he declared he'd marry her the next day if it wasn't for the new license law, Aunt Hannah said she gave up for fear he'd get a special dispensation, or go to the Governor or the President, or do some other dreadful thing. (What a funny old soul Aunt Hannah is!) Bertram told _me_ that he should never feel safe till Billy was really his; that she'd read something, or hear something, or think something, or get a letter from me (as if anything _I_ could say would do any good-or harm!), and so break the engagement again.
``Well, she's his now, so I suppose he's satisfied; though, for my part, I haven't changed my mind at all. I still say that they are not one bit suited to each other, and that matrimony will simply ruin his career. Bertram never has loved and never will love any girl long--except to paint. But if he simply _would_ get married, why couldn't he have taken a nice, sensible domestic girl that would have kept him fed and mended?
``Not but that I'm very fond of Billy, as you know, dear; but imagine Billy as a wife--worse yet, a mother! Billy's a dear girl, but she knows about as much of real life and its problems as--as our little Kate. A more impulsive, irresponsible, regardless-of-consequences young woman Inever saw. She can play divinely, and write delightful songs, I'll acknowledge; but what is that when a man is hungry, or has lost a button?
``Billy has had her own way, and had everything she wanted for years now--a rather dangerous preparation for marriage, especially marriage to a fellow like Bertram who has had _his_own way and everything _he's_ wanted for years.
Pray, what's going to happen when those ways conflict, and neither one gets the thing wanted?
``And think of her ignorance of cooking--but, there! What's the use? They're married now, and it can't be helped.
``Mercy, what a letter I've written! But I, had to talk to some one; besides, I'd promised Ito let you know how matters stood as soon as Icould. As you see, though, my trip East has been practically useless. I saw the wedding, to be sure, but I didn't prevent it, or even postpone it--though I meant to do one or the other, else I should never have made that tiresome journey half across the continent at two hours' notice.
``However, we shall see what we shall see. As for me, I'm dead tired. Good night.
``Affectionately yours, ``KATE.''
Quite naturally, Mrs. Kate Hartwell was not the only one who was thinking that evening of the wedding. In the home of Bertram's brother Cyril, Cyril himself was at the piano, but where his thoughts were was plain to be seen--or rather, heard; for from under his fingers there came the Lohengrin wedding march until all the room seemed filled with the scent of orange blossoms, the mistiness of floating veils, and the echoing peals of far-away organs heralding the ``Fair Bride and Groom.''
Over by the table in the glowing circle of the shaded lamp, sat Marie, Cyril's wife, a dainty sewing-basket by her side. Her hands, however, lay idly across the stocking in her lap.
As the music ceased, she drew a long sigh.
What a perfectly beautiful wedding that was! she breathed.
Cyril whirled about on the piano stool.
``It was a very sensible wedding,'' he said with emphasis.
``They looked so happy--both of them,''
went on Marie, dreamily; ``so--so sort of above and beyond everything about them, as if nothing ever, ever could trouble them--_now_.''
Cyril lifted his eyebrows.
``Humph! Well, as I said before, it was a very _sensible_ wedding,'' he declared.
This time Marie noticed the emphasis. She laughed, though her eyes looked a little troubled.
``I know, dear, of course, what you mean. _I_thought our wedding was beautiful; but I would have made it ******r if I'd realized in time how you--you--''
``How I abhorred pink teas and purple pageants,'' he finished for her, with a frowning smile. ``Oh, well, I stood it--for the sake of what it brought me.'' His face showed now only the smile; the frown had vanished. For a man known for years to his friends as a ``hater of women and all other confusion,'' Cyril Henshaw was looking remarkably well-pleased with himself.
His wife of less than a year colored as she met his gaze. Hurriedly she picked up her needle.
The man laughed happily at her confusion.
``What are you doing? Is that my stocking?''
he demanded.
A look, half pain, half reproach, crossed her face.
``Why, Cyril, of course not! You--you told me not to, long ago. You said my darns made--bunches.
``Ho! I meant I didn't want to _wear_ them,''
retorted the man, upon whom the tragic wretchedness of that half-sobbed ``bunches'' had been quite lost. ``I love to see you _mending_ them,''
he finished, with an approving glance at the pretty little picture of domesticity before him.
A peculiar expression came to Marie's eyes.
Why, Cyril, you mean you _like_ to have me mend them just for--for the sake of seeing me do it, when you _know_ you won't ever wear them?''
``Sure!'' nodded the man, imperturbably.
Then, with a sudden laugh, he asked: ``I wonder now, does Billy love to mend socks?''
Marie smiled, but she sighed, too, and shook her head.
``I'm afraid not, Cyril.''
``Nor cook?''
Marie laughed outright this time. The vaguely troubled look had fled from her eyes``Oh, Billy's helped me beat eggs and butter sometimes, but I never knew her to cook a thing or want to cook a thing, but once; then she spent nearly two weeks trying to learn to make puddings--for you.''
``For _me!_''
Marie puckered her lips queerly.
``Well, I supposed they were for you at the time. At all events she was trying to make them for some one of you boys; probably it was really for Bertram, though.''
``Humph!'' grunted Cyril. Then, after a minute, he observed: ``I judge Kate thinks Billy'll never make them--for anybody. I'm afraid Sister Kate isn't pleased.''
``Oh, but Mrs. Hartwell was--was disappointed in the wedding,'' apologized Marie, quickly. ``You know she wanted it put off anyway, and she didn't like such a ****** one.
