The lights burned in the hall with unusual brightness. Ella stood in the open door of the room, through which the light was streaming. With its radiance came the perfume of roses—the scrub-woman's gift of love. The room was a bower of gorgeous flowers. She had spent her last cent in this extravagance. Mary swept the place with a look of amazement.
“Oh, Ella,” she cried, “how could you be so silly!”
“You like them, ja?” Ella asked softly.
“They're glorious—but you should not have made such a sacrifice for me.”
“For myself, maybe, I do it—all for myself to make me happy, too, tonight.”
She dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand and placed the chairs beside the beautifully set table.
“Dinner is all ready,” she announced cheerfully. “And shall I go now and leave you? Or will you let me serve your dinner first?”
A sudden panic seized the bride.
“Stay and serve the dinner, Ella, if you will,” she quickly answered.
Jim frowned, but seated himself in business-like fashion.
“All right; I'm ready for it, old girl!”
With soft tread and swift, deft touch, Ella served the dinner, standing prim and stiff and ghost-like behind Jim's chair between the courses.
The bride watched her, fascinated by the pallor of her haggard face and the queer suggestion of Death which her appearance made in spite of the background of flowers. She had dressed herself in a simple skirt and shirtwaist of spotless white. The material seemed to be draped on her tall figure, thin to emaciation. The chalk-like pallor of her face brought out with startling sharpness the deep, hollow caverns beneath her straight eyebrows. Her single eye shone unusually bright.
Gradually the grim impression grew that Death was hovering over her bridal feast—a foolish fancy which persisted in her highly-wrought nervous state. Yet the idea, once fixed, could not be crushed. In vain she used her will to bring her wandering mind back to the joyous present. Each time she lifted her eyes they rested upon the silent, white figure with its single eye piercing the depths of her soul.
She could endure it no longer. She nodded and smiled wanly at Ella.
“You may go now!”
The woman gazed at the bride in surprise.
“I shall come again—yes?”
“Tomorrow morning, Ella, you may help me.”
The white figure paused uncertainly at the door, and her drawling voice breathed her parting word tenderly:
“Good night!”
The bride closed her eyes and answered.
“Good night, Ella!”
The door closed. Jim rose quickly and bolted it.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed fervently. He fixed his slumbering eyes on his wife for a moment, saw the frightened look, walked quickly back to the table and took his seat.
“Now, Kiddo, we can eat in peace.”
“Yes, I'd rather be alone,” she sighed.
“I must say,” Jim went on briskly, “that parson of yours did give us a run for our money.”
“I like the old, long ceremony best.”
“Well, you see, I ain't never had much choice—but do you know what I thought was the best thing in it?”
“No—what?”
“UNTIL DEATH DO US PART! Gee how he did ring out on that! His voice sounded to me like a big bell somewhere away up in the clouds. Did you hear me sing it back at him?”
Mary smiled nervously.
“You had found your voice then.”
“You bet I had! I muffed that first one, though, didn't I?”
“A little. It didn't matter.” She answered mechanically.
He fixed his eyes on her again.
“Hungry, Kiddo?”
“No,” she gasped.
“What's the use!” he cried in low, vibrant tones, springing to his feet. “I don't want to eat this stuff—I just want to eat you!”
Mary rose tremblingly and moved instinctively to meet him.
He clasped her form in his arms and crushed with cruel strength.
“Until death do us part!” he whispered passionately.
She answered with a kiss.
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