This marrying

“You should have been a bridesmaid,” said Aunt Caroline. “Everyone was so surprised that you weren’t. And the yellow would have been so becoming with you so dark.”

Horatia smiled and her smile carried no regrets for her lost opportunity. Everyone, as her aunt said, had been surprised at her refusal to be a bridesmaid at the wedding of her friend. But with a quick reminiscent glance back at the ceremony, Horatia congratulated herself again on the decision that had held out against the requests of Edna and the expostulations of her aunt. She recalled the hurried fussy little ceremony, and the curious people, the space reserved in the front parlor with its tall cathedral candles, its lavish ten yards of white satin ribbon and the rose pink prayer rug. A faint odor of candles and coffee and perfume clung to the memory. In the minds of her aunt and West Park these things were vastly suitable, just as to them Edna Wallace was still her “best” friend, because they had played together as children and gone through High School together. But Horatia realized that her college experience and her four years of absence from West Park had made great gaps between her and the bride of last night as well as between her and this middle-aged aunt and uncle with whom she sat at breakfast. She looked just then as if not only yellow but any color would become her. She was fairly tall and well made and carried herself with the easy distinctive swing that comes from perfect health and no corsets. Her hair was brown and heavy and shaded into the brown of her eyes to add still another tone to the whole that her aunt characterized as “you so dark.” Her clothes were simple for she scorned on principle all the minor affectations of dress and quick changes of fashion, but she had an eye for color and line which developed gowns which were sometimes beautiful and sometimes startling. Not that there was an unlimited number of them. Uncle George was generous but generous by West Park standards and by Aunt Caroline’s expenditures, and Aunt Caroline still considered fifty dollars a scandalous price for a suit or cloak. Horatia never grumbled about money or about clothes. This morning she was dressed for the City and her satin blouse and slim tailored suit set off her young health perfectly. Even her aunt and uncle were conscious of fresh energy at the breakfast table.

“I didn’t want to be a bridesmaid,” she answered. “It always makes me seasick to try to walk to music.”

“Horatia’s waiting,” said Uncle George, over the top of his newspaper, “until she can be the chief performer.”

Horatia smiled at him. “You want to get rid of me, don’t you, and you don’t care what I take. I’ll tell you what I am going to do. I’m going to town this morning to get a job. When I try that for a while I’ll decide whether I want to get married or not.”

“Get a job? What do you want a job for? You want to stay home with your aunt and me now.” Uncle George went so far as to put his paper down and repeat himself. “What do you want to do that for?”

“Earn money.”

He reached for his check book in all seriousness, but Horatia leaned over and put her hand on it.

“Truly I want to earn it. Everyone earns money nowadays, unless she is feeble-minded--or married. I don’t particularly want money just now anyway. I still have some of that last fifty. But I want to work. All the people I know are either married or going to be or working. I must get in some class. Of course I don’t mean to leave you. I’d be here nights, you see.”