Thanks to them and Louis, he was soon enrolled in the social calendar, and if he chose to be lonely, it was his own fault.
At Christmas he went back to New York; Joanna met him at the station and took him home in her father’s car. Joel was one of the first ten colored men in Harlem to possess an automobile. The distance between his house and his business rendered it almost a necessity, and he was old enough to deserve release from the noise of the subway and the weary climbing to the elevated.
Joanna had grown very good-looking, Peter thought. More than that, she looked even distinguished. Her purposefulness gave her a quality which he had missed in the Philadelphia girls. His ardor had not cooled in the least, but he had had to force it into second place. Now it surged uppermost in his heart again.
He was glad that he had been in another city, had seen so many other girls. It only confirmed his conviction that Joanna was the only woman in the world for him. He hoped she possessed the same singleness of desire for him.
“There’s lots going on,” Joanna told him, sitting arm in arm with him in the car. “Sylvia and Brian are to be married Easter, so mother’s formally announcing it now. There’ll be luncheons—not for you I’m afraid, Peter. Then our dancing class is giving a benefit for the Pierce Day Nursery. There’ll be fancy dancing on the stage, in which your humble servant will star. And we’re to have a Christmas tree at our house and a house party. I’m asking you now, Peter. Isn’t it great being grown up?”
“You bet. Which of these functions comes off first?”
“Sylvia’s engagement party.”
“So she and Spencer are actually going to pull it off. They’ve waited a long time, haven’t they?”
“Yes, that’s because Brian insisted on getting a good start before he married. Sylvia would have married him the day after they became engaged. But I think Brian’s right.”
“They’re both right, but Sylvia’s way is the best. That’s the only attitude for anyone to have towards marriage. I’m afraid you lack it, my child. You want to begin with a mansion and three cars.”
“You mean thing! I don’t care about money as money one bit and you know it. But I do care about success. And a house or a car usually implies that. Any girl likes her man to look well in the eyes of other men.”
“This man’s going to look well.” He yearned toward her. “Kiss me, sweetheart.”
“Sir, you insult me. People shouldn’t kiss unless they’re engaged.”
“Then be engaged to me, dearest Joanna. Great Scott, are we here?”
Joanna evaded him after that. Christmas was Tuesday, but as he had saved his cuts for Saturday classes, he had managed to come away the preceding Friday night. On Christmas morning he caught her before daybreak. They had arranged to go to an early service in a large Episcopal church where Joanna had recently been engaged as a soloist. He was waiting for her in the dark hall.
“Good! There you are, Peter. We must fly.”
“Not until you’ve told me you love me.”
“I love you, Peter. Come on.”
“No, sir, put your little arms around my neck. So. Now say, ‘Dear Peter, I love you and I’m going to marry you.’ ”
“Oh, I can’t say that. Let me go, Peter.”
“Not one step.” He held her so close that she had to poise herself against him, breathlessly, exquisitely. A clock in the house boomed five.
“Peter, ask me tonight.”
“I’m asking you now. Answer me this minute, Joanna. Not one step will we stir till you do.” He shook her gently. “Say it, darling.”
She still had her arms around his neck. “Dear Peter,” she began, her voice breaking a little, “I love you and I’m going to marry you.”
“You’ve got a smudge on your face,” he told her solemnly.
She burst into hysterical tears at that. “I never thought I’d become engaged with a smudge on my face.”
“I know you didn’t. I’ll try to overlook it.” He got down on his knees and kissed her hands. “Darling Joanna, I’ll love you always.”
Between them, they wiped away the traces of the smudge and of her tears. Then they found their way out, and walked through the dark silent streets singing “Joy to the World,” like a pair of Christmas waifs.
The lovers found it hard to see each other. There were too many things going on for that. Peter could have found time, but Joanna, he realized with a pang, seemed to think of nothing but her dance. When she wasn’t at a party, or dressing, she was at a rehearsal. The affair for the Day Nursery was to come off New Year’s Eve.
Monsieur Bertully’s seven pupils danced, swayed, pirouetted. Their slim silken limbs flashed and twinkled through a series of poses and groups until one thought of an animated Greek frieze. At the end the seven girls appeared as school children. Joanna as their leader was teaching them a game. Peter watched her flashing in a red dress across the stage, dancing, leaping, twirling. The orchestra struck up something vaguely familiar. Why, it was Joanna’s old dance, “Barn! Barn!”
She swayed, she balanced, she stamped her foot.
“Stay back, girl, don’t you come near me!”
Miss Sharples was there with a group of Greenwich Village folks, Helena Arnold told them afterwards.
Peter had to leave on New Year’s Day. It was bitterly cold and the Marshalls had dinner guests, but Joanna went to the station with him. She didn’t cry this time, Peter noticed. She didn’t tell him that it was because of the pain raging at her heart.
“I’ll have to get used to his leaving me,” she told herself stubbornly. “I’ve got it to stand, for years and years. Talking about it won’t do any good.”
She had fixed up a box of
