How could he reconcile himself to the horrible reality? This woman and
the dreams of her had become part of his very being. The memory of his
hopes began to strangle him--the wonderful life they were to live
together, whose pictured scenes stretched out now before him--of home,
of love, of motherhood and fatherhood hallowed by adoration, the pain,
the glory, the passion, the tenderness, the sanctity, the mystery of it
all--and this the end. A marriage sordid, cold, vulgar to such a
man--this little tobacco-stained, bead-eyed weasel.

And she had talked to him about her career. As if she didn't know that
the career of any woman was immeasurably grander than that of any
man--if she fulfil her destiny that links her to God in the creation of
a child--a being whose simple word may mould a million wills and change
the fate of centuries--and yet she had deliberately strangled her soul
and chosen this little pig, who rooted in the dirt for gold, to be the
father of her children.

He rose, breathing hard and brushed a tear from his eye--a tear that
had come unbidden in spite of his iron will.

He wished he had not made the foolish promise to Bivens. He knew now
that he had never really believed he would have to keep it. And yet the
day had come and the hour had struck, and no miracle had been wrought.

He walked with leaden steps through Tenth Street to Broadway, stopped
and gazed for a moment on the graceful spire of the church before whose
altar Nan would soon stand and perjure herself for money. How could
she! He had long felt that in every true man's religion was a supreme
belief in himself--in a woman's, faith in some one else. He knew that
she believed in him, not in the man to whom she was surrendering
herself. And yet she wished to consummate this act of blasphemy--in the
House of God before His high altar.

"Why? Why? Why?"

His heart fairly shrieked its cry of despair. He moved mechanically
toward the church and waked from his reverie to find himself jammed in
a solid mass of humanity. Never before had he realized the utter
vulgarity of a public wedding. Why should any one wish a crowd of
curious fools to witness even the happiest wedding? Its meaning is
surely frank enough without shouting it from the housetops. Should not
its joys and mystery be something too shy and sweet and holy for a
vulgar crowd of strangers to gaze on? And stripped of the sanctity of
love, this ceremony becomes merely a calling of a mob