"I appreciate that, Ted. But I guess I belong over here. I'm going to take my bonus money and set up for myself as a consultant in New York. A man better stick to what he knows. If I went to London, I'd have to learn all over again. It's different with you—you are going home. I'm going to stay here."
A little before two, one of Deep Harbor's most elaborate "hacks" deposited Knowlton and me at the awning-covered approach to the portal of St. Asaph's. I remember that there were a few curious onlookers standing on the pavement outside, and inside, there seemed to be music and a lot of vegetation. Beyond these blurred impressions I can recollect nothing until I was aware that Helen was coming down the aisle on her father's arm. It flashed across me that Mrs. Claybourne must be weeping somewhere near. Helen looked at me steadily through her veil, a deep and wonderful grey in her eyes as she came on, and I know I wanted to cry out, "Oh, damn this ceremony—let's bolt for the station, dearest." We did as we had been instructed—just what, I don't know, but the Reverend Mr. Osborough's voice got under way promptly. It was in the air above me, I felt. Helen wore a wreath of orange blossoms—not unusual for a bride, of course—but I loathed their scent, as I had ever since the day of my small-boyhood when a flower girl under Charing Cross station in London had thrust some beneath my nose.
The questions were beginning, and I made an effort to pull myself together. What was my cue? I heard Osborough whispering something under his breath. I had missed the first response, and he was prompting me. Would Knowlton grin? I couldn't look around. I stumbled through my lines, and Knowlton came forward with the ring. Helen was letter-perfect; not once did she fluff her lines or miss a bit of stage business. I admired her for it. We had to kneel—side by side. I saw the ring on her finger—it must be nearly over. We got up again—"Now!" I thought. No, Osborough was off again. What was this about? A sermon specially for our benefit—we were kneeling before the altar. I blinked at the candles to avoid looking at Osborough. I had hold of Helen's hand. I felt her press mine gently. "She's kept her head—I knew she would!" I thought in an ecstasy of delight over her self-control. "Probably knows everything that's happening." Ah, the benediction at last—obviously the finale; that isn't the right technical word. We were standing up—Helen had thrown back her veil.
"Kiss me quick, Ted, before any one else gets to me," I heard her say. I obeyed with great speed. Osborough was next, then Knowlton—things were growing confused again, and I'm not sure of my facts. There was a fearful uproar from the organ, and we were very near it. We started back down the aisle, Helen on my arm. Women peered into our faces. I felt that there were a great many persons treading on our heels—bridesmaids, some of them, and Knowlton mixed up with them. I wanted to look around, but a strange woman was glaring at me from a pew near at hand. What had become of my hat? It mysteriously appeared again at the door—out of the void a hand passed it to me. Helen and I were wafted into a carriage—I am certain our own legs had nothing to do with it—rice and confetti fell into our laps—and the horses started with a jerk.
"Ted, we're married," Helen said, and laid her cheek against mine. I closed my eyes and held her hand tightly. Some things are hard to realize. There was a clamour in my brain, and I couldn't think. The carriage stopped. The Claybourne house was not over a few hundred yards from the church.
Knowlton helped us out. "How the devil did you get here ahead of us?" I asked in terrified surprise. His grin returned. It was reassuring, like finding a link with home when lost in a strange place. The unseen force took us up the steps and into the house—more flowers and greens. We were made to stand by the drawing-room doors, Knowlton close behind me. Mr. and Mrs. Claybourne were next, and there were embraces; Mr. Claybourne shook my hand and clapped me on the back. Then floods of people—Uncle Peter and his wife, with bridesmaids and ushers. The ushers kissed Helen, and I had to kiss the bridesmaids. One got kissed twice, and there was a great deal of laughter at my expense. They were difficult to tell apart. In the background several women were weeping. After it did not seem possible I could kiss another girl—for all and sundry followed the bridesmaids, while Helen was kept busy by the male half of Deep Harbor—we sat down to what was called a breakfast.
There was a large bride's cake and champagne, to say nothing of Uncle Peter's speech. It was a funny speech: that is to say, each word he uttered was received with roars of laughter. I don't, myself, remember it. Plate after plate of various foods were put in front of us by swarthy foreign waiters, and whisked away again before I got around to eat. I wasn't hungry. In the midst of a particularly noisy demonstration I became aware that I was being called on for a speech.
"Get up, Ted," Helen whispered. I got up, and my teeth chattered, but no words flowed through them. Knowlton handed me a glass of champagne, with a grin floating across it. I said something; great applause and laughter. This was encouraging, considering I hadn't any idea what I had said. I went on—more applause. I pulled Helen to her feet, and we drank from the same glass of champagne as a climax. Tremendous hit! We sat down.
Helen went upstairs to change to a travelling frock. From the top of the stairs she tossed her bridal bouquet to the bridesmaids. They tore it apart like a pack of hounds making a kill. Knowlton led me away to another room to dress, as a policeman might help a blind man across Piccadilly Circus. Mysteriously to me, I found my own dressing bag there and all my things laid out. Knowlton sat on the bed and grinned at me as I struggled into the other clothes.