“What is the matter?”
“Come away! We must go to some other church. Here it is that the pigs of Sicilians get married. It is no place for a Genovese like me or a fine Neapolitan like you. Come, we shall find another priest.”
In secrecy he saw his one chance of saving himself for the present from the consequences of openly defying Signor Di Bello. To be married at the altar of San Loretto, to which dozens of sharp eyes and gossiping tongues were always directed in prayer, would be to proclaim the nuptials to all Mulberry before vesper bells should be rung that day.
He led her through Houston Street and across the Bowery to a rectory in lower Second Avenue, a quarter that lies only a few blocks beyond the frontier of Mulberry, but with a life as remote and distinct from that of the Italian colony as though a hundred leagues of sea divided them. A brief mumbling in a little parlour, and they were man and wife.
Neither bride nor bridegroom looked joyous as they came forth into the street and moved slowly toward Mulberry. Bertino’s face was particularly long. He was in a black study. Throughout his persistent courtship he had promised Juno that she should have a home in Casa Di Bello if she became his wife. Now he found himself cracking his wits to contrive a good excuse for keeping her out of his uncle’s sight. If they met she would be sure to tell him of the marriage, whereupon inferno would kindle. With a wife on his hands, he would find himself homeless and out of employment, even if Di Bello’s vendetta did not remove the need of earning a living. He dared not make a confidante of his wife, for to do so meant disclosure of the ugly truth that he had cheated her of the richest husband in Mulberry—of a prize which he knew she had been eager to win. His heart sank at thought of the terrible vendetta that she might take. He believed her capable of forsaking him and setting their union at naught. Silent of tongue and sore bestead, he moved along slowly, while passers-by eyed the majestic woman at his side. When they had reached St. Patrick’s Graveyard, and her glance fell on Casa Di Bello, she said:
“Now that we are married, let us go to your uncle and tell him, so that I may move in over there. When that is done we can have the marriage before the mayor, and the wedding feast.”
“Not yet,” he said; “not yet, for the love of Dio!”
“Why?” she demanded. “I am as good as any one in that house.”
“Oh, my precious one, it is not that; not that. Listen. There is my uncle—a good man, but strange, strange. When I told him I should take a wife he called me fool and got very angry. He said I would not do my work so well if I took a wife. But you—ah, you, my angel!—I would not give you up for all the uncles and shops in New York—yes, in all America.”
“You talk nonsense,” said Juno. “Tell me why I should not live in Casa Di Bello.”