Clarinda took her stand in the middle of a long line of people. Other people came in hordes, some shook her by the hand and all mumbled platitudes. Others kissed her and made remarks even as platitudinous. To each she gave a smile and tried in her heart to believe this was a day of joy. The beginning of a new life of unlimited possibilities. The future she hoped was golden in its promise.
The man to whom she had been married stood close by her side; at times, he sought her hand and pressed it violently. Visions of a great happiness floated harmoniously through his mind. He was strong, virile, oppressive in his strength. His face was covered with smiles. He made answer to all the thoughtless congratulations. He stood beside his new-made mother-in-law. Her chest was more prominent than ever. It rose and fell as the heaving of the sea. He bent and kissed her.
The father, the old man, twisted with age and the struggle he had made with the world, who by his fight had made all these things possible, took those who came by the hand and answered as best he could. Down in his heart he was oppressed with anxiety. The thing filled him with fear.
After a long time the line broke and the bridesmaids scattered. They chattered and laughed, each one in her heart hoping that out of this day, might come her chance to follow in the footsteps of Clarinda.
When all the company had assembled and they had seethed about and made their compliments, the doors were thrown open that led to the dining rooms, and the line in which Clarinda had stood for so long a time broke. The laden tables revealed themselves, burdened with mounds of food, in the center of one of them a huge cake, and beside it a long, glistening knife.
The men turned with a sigh of relief from the lights of the day, the girl and the music, their minds going to their stomachs. Everything was forgotten in the mad rush for the food. Old women growled and the young like predatory beasts crowded and secured the best for themselves.
Wines flowed with a lavish hand. Men drank as if it were the last drink of their lives. The smoke from innumerable cigarettes wreathed fantastic festoons over the people. In a short while the men and the women moved with uncertain steps over the polished floors, surfeited with the wines.
Clarinda’s mind was in a whirl. She saw all these things, and sensed none of them. After a great while she slipped from the crowd and wandered with faltering steps from one great room of the house to another. Her father followed her stealthily as if he feared she might like some ethereal thing float into space.
She made her way from room to room, and as she went she stretched out her hand and stroked each object as if she loved it.
Room after room she visited, up all the staircases she went, slowly and surely, until she came to the top of the house. Stopping at an oriel window she laid her hand on the frame, and bending her head leaned it against her arm. Below and beyond she saw the garden stretched like a great panorama. The places she loved were there below her, where she had played as a child. She followed with her eyes the well-beloved paths; every flower, every bush she could identify; they seemed to carry a special significance to her at the moment. Across the lake ambient in its blue she saw the jutting ledges and barren rocks where she had sat so many days and planned her life—what it should be; and she found now it was not to be.