“I’ll come,” the boy had said, trying to make his voice casual, his tone careless. “Sure, I’ll come oncet in a while.”
“Once, Roelf. Once in a while.”
He repeated it after her, dutifully.
After the wedding they went straight to DeJong’s house. In May the vegetable farmer cannot neglect his garden even for a day. The house had been made ready for them. The sway of the old housekeeper was over. Her kitchen bedroom was empty.
Throughout the supper Selina had had thoughts which were so foolish and detached as almost to alarm her.
“Now I am married. I am Mrs. Pervus DeJong. That’s a pretty name. It would look quite distinguished on a calling card, very spidery and fine:
| x |
| x |
| x |
| Mrs. Pervus DeJongxxxxxxxxx |
| x |
| x |
| At Home Fridays |
| x |
She recalled this later, grimly, when she was Mrs. Pervus DeJong, at home not only Fridays, but Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.
They drove down the road to DeJong’s place. Selina thought, “Now I am driving home with my husband. I feel his shoulder against mine. I wish he would talk. I wish he would say something. Still, I’m not frightened.”
Pervus’s market wagon was standing in the yard, shafts down. He should have gone to market to-day; would certainly have to go to-morrow, starting early in the afternoon so as to get a good stand in the Haymarket. By the light of his lantern the wagon seemed to Selina to be a symbol. She had often seen it before, but now that it was to be a part of her life—this the DeJong market wagon and she Mrs. DeJong—she saw clearly what a crazy, disreputable, and poverty-proclaiming old vehicle it was, in contrast with the neat strong wagon in Klaas Pool’s yard, smart with green paint and red lettering that announced, “Klaas Pool, Garden Produce.” With the two sleek farm horses the turnout looked as prosperous and comfortable as Klaas himself.