Hasty Wedding (2 page)

Again Dorcas was vaguely aware that the fitter and Sophie were murmuring and Sophie rose gracefully, unfastened her thin brown stockings and knelt down herself beside Dorcas.

“Turn again, Dorcas,” she said. “A little more … there.” Dorcas felt Sophie’s expert fingers giving a little tug to her dress, a twist this way and that. A long pause while the fitter, smart in her black gown, and Sophie again scrutinized and murmured.

“Now walk a little, Dorcas. Toward the mirror … that’s right.”

Again a tall white figure, inscrutable, mysterious because of the floating white veil, advanced to meet Dorcas. Tomorrow that figure was to become herself. Were all brides frightened—even brides who were making sensible, well-advised marriages? Brides who were giving up romance? Who were giving up men like Ronald Drew? She wondered again (with again a hovering sense of something curiously like apprehension) whether she had been altogether fair with Ronald. Whether—whether after all she had loved him as deeply as she was ever to love anyone.

She was terribly tired, she told herself abruptly. Absurdly taut and nervous. She wished they would finish the fitting and leave her in peace and quiet.

Almost immediately Sophie, always tactful, said: “That will do now. That’s really very nice.”

The fitter was anxious, placative, complimentary. She lifted the veil from Dorcas’ short brown hair.

“Miss Whipple is a beautiful bride,” she said. “It’s been a pleasure to work on her things. I hope you’ll come to us after your marriage, Miss Whipple.”

Dorcas, looking into the reflection of her own face which was clearer now that the veil was removed, thought candidly that she had never looked worse in her life and thanked the woman absently.

Sophie rose lithely, pulled down her girdle and refastened her stockings, showing an expanse of handsome legs. She took off her smart hat, ran her fingers over smooth dark hair and said pleasantly: “It’s all right now, I’m sure. That’s all, thank you.”

The fitter went away, smiling and complimenting and looking with quick side glances at the house, at the heavy old mahogany and thick green curtains; at the incongruous chintz covers; at Dorcas’ wide, laden dressing table.

“I’ll help you out of the dress,” said Sophie. Cary came to the door, looked at her daughter with her lovely soft eyes and went away again.

Dorcas struggled out of the clinging, tight white satin and for a fantastic instant it seemed to be suffocating in its soft weight.

“I’ll hang it up,” said Sophie. “Here’s a warm robe. For heaven’s sake, don’t catch cold. There’s nothing so disgusting as a sniffly bride.” She gave Dorcas a tailored flannel housecoat and said unexpectedly: “Are you going to see Ronald again?”

“Ronald! … No.”

“Oh,” said Sophie. “Well, I suppose it’s better not to.”

Dorcas wrapped the flannel robe around her, kicked off her brown street pumps and leaned back in the chaise longue wearily.

“Of course it’s better. That’s over. I’ll never see him again.”

Sophie gave a competent look at some boxes of underclothing yet to be packed and sat down opposite Dorcas, crossing her legs and lighting a cigarette. She was a handsome woman of about forty-five; handsome in a rather delicate and well-bred way with fine bones, a long slim neck from which she fought wrinkles; dark hazel eyes, well made up, and a fine figure. She had been Thomas Whipple’s second and younger wife. Tom Whipple was Pennyforth Whipple’s brother; he had made and lost at least three fortunes and it was unfortunately during the losing of the third that he had died. Naturally Pennyforth Whipple had taken care of Sophie, settling a generous sum upon her at this death, a sum which was augmented later by an allowance given her by Dorcas.

She had social charm and grace; below that pleasant surface she was worldly and extremely practical. She said now, linking her hands around her knee: “I’ll finish packing the last trunk after dinner. They’d better go tonight. I can have them sent about ten. Are there any last odds and ends to go in, Dorcas?”

Tonight.

“There’s no hurry,” said Dorcas quickly. “Tomorrow morning will be all right——”

“I suppose so. Only there are so many things to see to. I’ve checked the lists. By the way, I forgot the Bramtons—Cary didn’t think of them either. Awful, wasn’t it? I called up and lied myself black, saying the invitation must have got lost. Well, my dear, this time tomorrow you’ll be married and gone and the thing will be over.”

Ronald, thought Dorcas. What would he be doing then? Would he be thinking of her, needing her? He loved her; she had never doubted that; and she was marrying another man.

Sophie, as if following her thought, said suddenly: “Now, Dorcas, don’t worry about Ronald. A broken heart won’t kill him—men have died and worms have eaten them——”

“Don’t …”

“My dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you felt so deeply about it—still. How long has it been since you saw him?”

“A month. I’ll never see him again of course. I mean, not the same way. I suppose I’ll see him somewhere now and then.”

Sophie pondered and sighed. “Poor Ronald. After all, young men will be young men. I thought myself people were a little hard on him. Since he’s known you, certainly he’s done nothing out of the way.”

Funny how grateful she felt to Sophie.

“It’s done now,” she said, her voice a little husky and uncertain. “It’s too late——”

Sophie rose abruptly and stood there looking thoughtfully down at Dorcas. “It soon will be too late,” she said and turned toward the door. With her hand on the doorknob she paused to look back at Dorcas. “I’ll finish your packing after dinner. You’d better rest now. Thank heaven there’s nothing more for you to do but show up at the wedding tomorrow at twelve. Try to sleep. And forget about Ronald. Only listen, my dear; I never advise, you know that, but I’m going to now. Don’t tell yourself you don’t dare to see Ronald; that is admitting——”

She stopped, looking at Dorcas thoughtfully and a little remotely with her dark hazel eyes shadowed as if she were seeing someone else.

There was another small, heavy silence. Rain dashed gustily against the window beside her

“Admitting what?”

Sophie’s look became focused again upon Dorcas.

“Nothing,” she said and went out and closed the door firmly behind her.

The room was very still after she’d gone. Still and growing darker, with only the two lights on the dressing table making little circles of cheer. Outside the rain whirled against the blackening windowpanes. Dorcas pulled an afghan over her feet and pushed the cushions so they were comfortable under her head and an hour later was still staring wide eyed at the high ceiling. Tomorrow at this time the wedding would be over. She would be on the train. Married. Going away on a honeymoon.

If only, now it was too late, she could forget the despairing look in Ronald’s face when she had told him she was to marry Jevan! The things he had said—desperate things, threatening to kill himself; telling her he would always love her, throwing himself upon her mercy; and she’d had no mercy.

No one came into the room; Sophie had told them she was resting. She pushed away the cushions and afghan and got up, prowled to the window and back again. Lighted and put down a cigarette. Went back to the window and stared down at the cold, foggy night with the street lights making blobs of radiance and the pavements catching gleams of light from occasional passing cars.

The whole house was silent. They would bring her dinner on a tray.

She passed the table and there was the telephone and she stopped, oddly tempted. She knew Ronald’s number. By taking up the telephone and murmuring a number she would hear his voice, talk to him, summon him from the confused oblivion to which her own act had cast him.

She locked both hands behind her.

What had Sophie told her to do? Oh yes, sort out the last minute odds and ends she intended to take with her.

She did so slowly. A sweater coat that would go in the trunk. Cold creams and bath sponges and powder to go in her dressing case. A little heap of things which Sophie might make use of—a tweed suit, a white velvet evening gown, two afternoon dresses; she folded them neatly and put them on a chair near the dressing table.

What else now? She glanced around the room and went to the boxes which had that afternoon arrived, and opened them. Stacks of underclothing, handmade with tiny, delicate stitches. She must pack them. Her trousseau.

She stood looking at them and after a moment thrust the lids back on the boxes again and turned away.

She paused at the dressing table; sat down and leaned forward to look at herself in the mirror. There might have been times when she could have thanked the Lord for a straight nose and fine skin and lovely, deep eye sockets. For deep blue eyes and a gay smile. For a soft masking of the firm Whipple chin. For glancing, evanescent moments of spiritual beauty. But it was not one of those times. She was pale and tired and lifeless looking. Beautiful bride indeed! She reached for powder puff and rouge; took up a new stick of lip paste and spread it heavily on her mouth. It was too deep a crimson, she thought, scrutinizing the face that now looked back at her from the mirror. She reached for blue eye shadow. And the telephone rang. Her own phone, there on the table. That meant the call was for her.

Who? Jevan or one of her bridesmaids.

But for a moment she did not move. And when she did get to the telephone and took it in her hand that hand was trembling. She said unsteadily: “Hello …”

It was Ronald. She had known it would be.

“Dorcas,” he said. “Dorcas. Oh, my darling, I must see you. I’ve got to see you. Now.”

T
HE GUTTERING BLACK WINDOWPANE
reflected her eerily. Painted mouth and wide dark eyes; short rumpled brown hair; a green flannel housecoat wrapped tight around her. A telephone clutched to her breast.

She said almost in a whisper: “Ronald …”

“Darling, I’ve got to see you. I must see you. I can’t bear it. Just one more time, Dorcas.” Words poured feverishly into her ear. “Listen, dear; I’ve got it all planned. No one need know. I’ll be at the corner of the house with a taxi at eight. Meet me there, darling. I’ll bring you back any time you say. I won’t—I won’t beg or plead or—I won’t do anything, my darling, but look at you. I’ve got to see you. Don’t you understand, Dorcas? Just once more. Before you belong to another man.”

It was like Ronald. Boyish. Impulsive. With anguish in his voice. But she couldn’t meet him; it was impossible.

“You must come, Dorcas. I’ll be there. I’ll never ask another thing of you. Never. But I must see you.”

“No. No.”

“Why?”

“I——”

“Why not, Dorcas?”

She didn’t answer and his voice acquired a sudden eagerness. “Are you afraid to meet me, Dorcas?”

Afraid? That was admitting—admitting what? she had asked Sophie, and Sophie had looked at her slowly and said: “Nothing.”

“No, I’m not afraid. But I can’t——”

“You can. You must. I’ll be there, darling. At eight. Oh, Dorcas, it’s so little I’m asking; only a crumb. To last me for the rest of my life.”

The telephone clicked and was silent and he was gone.

She put it down slowly. She was excited, filled with a confused sense of exultation, dismay, guilt. And mainly of acute perplexity. She had, she knew now, longed for him to telephone, longed for him to make one last effort to see her. Now that he had done so she realized that to meet him would be the very height of folly.

She had seen him only once since her engagement was announced, so it was strange that her feeling toward him had so changed as her wedding drew near. But it had changed, for lately he haunted her thoughts, walked in her dreams, smiled at her, pleaded with her. Loved her.

But she couldn’t meet him.

She found herself again at the window, shading her face with her hands and peering down at the street. He would be at that corner at eight; waiting in the shadow of the great oak trees in the rain. How long would he wait? An hour, perhaps, and turning hopefully at every sound.

She went back to the chaise longue and was sitting there, huddled tightly in her flannel coat, staring at the carpet when Sophie came in with a tray.

“I brought your dinner, honey,” she said. “I’ll finish packing while you eat. Then you can have a hot bath and go straight to bed and no one will bother yon till morning.”

She set the tray on a table and pulled it close to Dorcas and took the cover off a soup dish.

“Now then, eat your dinner,” said Sophie briskly. “And tell me what to put in your bags.”

Later Dorcas remembered that hour of indecision. Thinking of Ronald’s words, of his voice; replying to Sophie’s questions. “I must see you … darling … a crumb. To last me the rest of my life.”

“Powder, Dorcas? This box? Rouge?”

“That’s right. No, not that lipstick, it doesn’t suit me. The blue eye shadow.” Her own voice replying while Ronald repeated almost as if he were there: “Are you afraid—are you afraid—are you afraid——”

And all the time she was eating her dinner and listening for the gusts of rain against the glittering black windows. Once Sophie paused and went to the window and put her hand on the rope to pull the curtains and Dorcas stopped her sharply. “No, don’t. I—I like the sound of the rain.”

Sophie paused, gave her a surprised look, shrugged and went back to packing. Dorcas nervously touched her lips with her napkin; Ronald when he came would see the light from her windows. Ronald …

“Never mind packing the green suit,” she said “I’ll leave some things here for you, Sophie, if you can make anything of them.”

“Of course.” Sophie glanced at the green tweed suit. “I can do with that suit, Dorcas. Thanks… Well, that’s about all.”

The little clock on the dressing table said twenty minutes to eight when Sophie at last closed and locked the trunk. Dorcas’ eyes were drawn to the clock again and again as if it were a magnet, and she was possessed by consuming impatience for Sophie to finish and leave. She wasn’t going to meet Ronald; no. But it was important for her to be alone.