'I don't know. Not much difference. Doesn't matter.' Dorothy inspected her eyes, picked up a cake of make- up.
Nan, waiting, fingered the small jeweled pin on her shoulder. 'I guess you should have this,' she said, in rather a wistful voice. 'It's not mine, at all. It's your mother's pin.'
'I wouldn't touch it!' said Dorothy violently. 'Kate's pinl'
Nan seemed to stagger and step back.
'When my father's been locked up, away from me> Jor seventeen years' because of it? When I could have had a father, all this timel I wouldn't touch it—I'm going to see him tomorrow.'
Nan said, 'Tomorrow?' Her eyes were wide and solemn.
'The quickest I can.'
'Johnny will take you, I guess,' Nan said reniotely. She looked as if she were tasting and examining this emotion. This reaction.
'I look all right,' sighed Dorothy. 'Come on. Let's get you married to this Dick, since you insist, Johnny and I can start north by noon.'
'Bart is your uncle. Dot. Old Mrs. Bartee is your great-grandmother. These are your own people.'
'They never gave up things for me,' said Dorothy. 'They thought my blood was bad. Emily is my people. I don't forget the years of Emily. But I wish she'd told me, from the beginning. I could have taken it.' Dorothy looked tall, vibrant and strong.
'I—I could have taken it, too,' said Nan weakly. 'I mean, if it had been me. Dick and I were going to see— Mr.
McCauley, of course. I just put Dick first, because I'm in love.' It was as if Nan saw the reaction one ought to have had, a little too late.
'So am I.' said Dorothy. 'I've been in love with Johnny Sims these three years gone. I just adore him.' The cousins stood still, facing each other.
Nan said, in a moment, 'Well, I suppose you can have Johnny. And you'll have the money and all. I'm glad.'
Dorothy said contemptuously, 'I don't need the money. I wouldn't bother with it. Johnny half loves me already and I'll study to please him with all my heart. You take the money.'
Nan blinked.
'You can call it my wedding present,' said Dorothy recklessly. 'All / can think, is that I've got a fatherl And Johnny, to help me find out the truth about my mother's murder.'
'But if your father—did it?' Nan was looking for absolution.
'I'm not afraid of the truth,' Dorothy said. 'But if he didn't do it. Nan. I won't make any sacrifices or keep any secrets, for anyone's sake.'
Nan knew what was meant.
'What would you f-feel,' quavered Nan, 'if Johnny were accused? You'd believe in him.' Nan's eyes were clouded.
'Ah, but Johnny,' said Dorothy, 'I know. Also, I know and I like his ancestors. That's a little different. Come on. Ready?'
The bride's throat moved. She looked into the glass. 'Ready,' she said.
Johnny stood in the parlor. Someone had put a record on the player. The people hushed. Blanche moved in to stand beside the old lady's chair. Everyone stood quietly waiting.
The minister came, wearing a robe, carrying his book. He put it on the lectern. He stood quietly.
Dick Bartee and one of the men (Johnny didn't know him) came in together. Stood to the minister's left. Dick was composed, at least on the surface. The gray eyes rested on the minister—cold and even faintly hostile.
Dorothy came in, walking gracefully, her head up. Her
eyes were brilliant and met nobody's eyes. She went to stand at the minister's right.
The groom looked at the bridesmaid. His throat moved.
Then, Bart came in, with Nan on his arm. Here came the bride, in white, head down, dark eyes shy. Walking with that fmmy little dignity which was a defensive vanity. Johnny knew she wasn't sure of herself. Somebody should back her up, he tliought with an old pang.
The music was the only sound.
Bart brought the bride to the groom. The groom did not look at her, looked over her head, at the bridesmaid.
The minister began the famihar phrases. 'Dearly beloved . . .'
He came to 'Who gives this woman to be married?'
Bart drew away. Nan looked very small. Now nobody backed her up.
There was an extraordinary tension in the room. The bride swayed. The minister stopped speaking. His eyes were full of doubt and question. For just a moment the ceremony seemed to have frozen, to have come to a stop upon a point where the equiUbrium was perfect, between yes and no. Then decision rippled across the group like fire in grass. .-•
