Hasty Wedding (6 page)

“He committed suicide last night with his own revolver. He was found early this morning. It’s in all the papers—all over town. For God’s sake, Dorcas, if you faint, too, I don’t know what I’ll do! Open the window and lean out. Get yourself some brandy. Anything——”

Sophie leaned anxiously over Cary, holding the dripping towel to her soft throat.

“Anything,” she cried sharply. “But don’t go to pieces now. It’s only two hours until the wedding.”

That scene last night, then, had not been theatrical and cheap—it had been real. Dorcas had been blind, stupid, horrible in her selfish obtuseness.

She knelt down beside Sophie.

“I won’t—I can’t—go on with the wedding.”

A
S MAMIE OPENED THE
door the telephone began to ring. It kept on ringing during most of that chaotic morning and Sophie finally took it off the hook and left it on the table, where now and then it still buzzed dully and insistently so it was a kind of demanding murmur, queerly imperative, under all those other voices. Just then, however, it was only Mamie’s voice.

“Let me take her. Help me carry her, Miss Sophie. Take her feet, Miss Dorcas. Over there on the lounge. Now then… Put her head lower …” Mamie knew exactly what to do. Bench, the middle-aged houseman, came with brandy, his hands trembling as he poured it.

It was not a long faint. Cary sighed, sighed heavily again, opened her eyes and remembered, for she fastened those faded, lovely blue eyes on Dorcas and said weakly:

“Oh, my darling. On your wedding day.”

The telephone rang again. Sophie, her lips set, went to answer it.

“Give Miss Dorcas brandy too,” she said crisply to Bench and took the telephone. “Yes…Yes, this is Sophie. Yes, we’ve heard…Cary’s all right now.” Above the telephone she met Cary’s anxious blue eyes. (“It’s Marcus,” said Sophie in parentheses.) “Yes, Marcus. Yes, everything’s quite all right. We’re going right on with the wedding. Yes, I agree…She looked at Cary again. “He says if we need him he’ll come right away.”

“No!”
cried Dorcas. “Tell him I won’t—I won’t—there can’t be a wedding after that.”

Ronald …Ronald, as she had seen him last …Ronald …

Somebody put a glass of brandy in her hand. Her mother was sitting up now, her lips gray but color coming back to her face. She was all right then. Automatically, always, Cary was the first consideration.

“I think you’d better come, Marcus,” Sophie was saying. “Yes, right away——”

“No!”
cried Dorcas. “No. Nothing anybody can say——”

“Dorcas, the wedding! Everything’s arranged. We can’t possibly change it now.” Her mother was wringing her small hands. “You can’t mean that, darling. You mustn’t even think of such a thing. Ronald——”

“Marcus will be here in a few minutes.” Sophie put down the telephone. “You’d better lie down again, Cary…Here, Bench, I’ll have some brandy myself… Now, Dorcas, there’s only one possible course and that’s to go straight through with this marriage. As Cary says, it’s too late. We can’t possibly change our plans. We can’t postpone it, we can’t do anything. Why, it wouldn’t be possible even in this short time to telephone the guests—to do anything at all. Dorcas, you’ve got to pull yourself together and behave with dignity. You must.”

“I won’t marry. There’ll be no wedding. You may as well get started on the guest list, Sophie. I’ll do it myself. I’ll do anything. But I won’t marry the very day—the very day——”

“Look here, Dorcas, do you want everyone to say it was your fault? That you were unfair, that Ronald had some reason to kill himself? That you——”

“They’ll say it anyway. Sophie, I can’t—I can’t—I won’t
——
”

It resolved itself to that. All those reasons, all those arguments, even Cary’s sobs and fluttering little hands had just then no meaning and no weight. She knew dimly that reason was on their side; that worldliness and prudence were on their side. And she huddled in a deep chair with her face in her hands and her throat aching horribly with sobs she would not, could not, free.

“I can’t—I won’t—I can’t—I won’t——”

It became her only answer. They were right. But she was right too; how could they understand that horrible, crushing sense of guilt? How could they understand that she must get away, go off by herself, be alone altogether—that she could not possibly, of all mad things, go on with that wedding? Walk in white satin down a church aisle while Ronald, because of her …

A long, sick shudder went over her. “I won’t…”

Cary, with a despairing look at the clock, cried: “Thank God, Marcus is coming.”

He came. Fussily, energetically entering the room. “What’s all this? What’s all this? Come now, Dorcas, you must be a brave girl——”

“Oh, Marcus, thank heaven you’ve come!” That was Cary. Sophie more coolly stood aside and explained.

“She says she won’t be married today. We can’t do anything with her.”

“Not marry! Good God, Dorcas, you can’t back out now.”

“I won’t—I can’t——”

He was already dressed for the wedding; it was his place to give the bride away. Sole trustee and nearer the family than any relative, he had been the obvious choice. He was a tall man, gray haired and gray mustached, with light, worried blue eyes and deep bags under them. His morning coat was a marvel of tailoring; his neatly striped trousers impeccably creased. He carried a gold-handled cane and a silk hat and gloves which he put down on a chair as he came to Dorcas. He pulled the dressing table bench nearer her and sat down, puffing, and took her hands in his own.

“There are already reporters here,” he said over his shoulder to Sophie. “Go down and tell them—tell them anything. No, wait.” He frowned, holding Dorcas’ hands tightly. “Tell them the family is grieved at the shocking and unexpected news of Mr Drew’s suicide. Then they will ask if the wedding is to take place. You say, Sophie, this: ‘The wedding will take place as arranged.’ Say only that. Not a word more. They can make a column out of an adjective… Now then, my dear …”

Sophie went quickly downstairs. The telephone rang and was ignored. Cary, wringing her small hands, cried: “Marcus, talk to her. Explain to her.”

“Leave her to me, Cary. Now, Dorcas, my dear, I know how you feel. It’s a horrible thing to have happened. Good God, if I had known he had any such idea in his mind I’d have put him under guard. At least until after the wedding. It’s—it’s hideous. It’s a dreadful shock to you. But you mustn’t hold yourself responsible. You——”

“But I am responsible. He did it because——”

“He did it because he was weak. Cowardly. Nobody is responsible for any other adult in the world. For your own sake, for Cary’s sake, you’ve got to go on.”

“I can’t.”

At eleven o’clock Sophie came back into the room; she carried a tray with black coffee and sandwiches on it. Cary by that time was walking up and down the rug, her pink chiffons trailing around her, the gold french clock clasped to her breast. Marcus, shouting, purple, was pacing, too, in circles around Dorcas.

Sophie, also, was dressed for the wedding. Beautifully, in brown with fur and a small, smart hat.

She put down the tray and took the clock from Cary’s hands. “Go and get dressed,” she said sternly to Cary. “Do you see this clock, Dorcas?”

“Won’t you go away? Won’t you leave me alone? … I’ll talk to Jevan. I’ll telephone now and ask him to forgive me—I’ll do anything. Please leave me alone.”

Marcus stopped abruptly in his pacing.

“Look here, Sophie,” he said wearily. “I can’t budge her…Do you suppose—well, if she won’t marry she won’t. I’m willing to do everything in my power but I can’t drag her to the altar.”

“Dorcas is twenty-four,” said Sophie. “After all …” She stopped, poured coffee and took the cup to Dorcas. “Drink this, Dorcas. Jevan has been on the telephone. Jevan as well as practically everybody we know,” interpolated Sophie bitterly. “But Jevan——”

“Jevan. I must talk to him. I must explain. He’ll understand.”

“Oh, will he,” said Sophie. “Well—you’ll have a chance to talk to him, Dorcas. He’s here.”

Dorcas turned quickly. Jevan stood in the doorway. He came instantly into the room. He was dressed and ready for the wedding. What the well-dressed bridegroom will wear, he had thought grimly, hurrying, with young Willy Devany trying to help and getting in the way. Willy was waiting now—frantically, probably, watch in hand—at the church.

He looked at his own watch swiftly. He was tallish and rather well built; he had straight black eyebrows and a straight mouth which then looked angry. He was a little pale below brown skin but Dorcas didn’t see that.

“Jevan—Jevan, I can’t! Forgive me——”

Jevan’s narrowed gray eyes—dark eyes with a spark of light in them—flickered once at Sophie and at Marcus. He jerked his chin toward the hall.

“I’ve done everything I can. I’m terribly sorry, my boy——”

“Thanks, Marcus. If you’ll get out …”

“Why, by all means, Jevan. By all means.”

Sophie, at the door, said: “It’s ten after eleven.”

Jevan himself closed the door. Closed it, looked at Dorcas and came to her. He sat down on the dressing table bench near her.

“Drink the coffee, Dorcas.”

“Jevan, I must explain——”

“Drink it.”

She did, one hot gulp after another. He got up, went to the tray and brought it back, placing it on the dressing table. There was another cup on the tray and he poured some coffee for himself, sugared it and took a sandwich.

“Jevan——”

“Finish your coffee.”

She did that, too, helplessly, wearily. He ate several sandwiches. The little french clock ticked away on the table where Sophie had left it. The telephone buzzed again and stopped.

Dorcas put down her cup and leaned forward; she must explain, she must make him understand, he would understand.

He turned instantly.

“That’s a good girl. Now then, Dorcas, get your clothes on.”

“Oh no. You don’t understand. I can’t——”

“Hurry up.”

There was a queer, quick little clutch at Dorcas’ heart. He couldn’t possibly mean to …

“Jevan, you’ve got to listen to me. Ronald did that because of me. It’s all my fault. Last night——”

“It’s a quarter after eleven. It will take at least twenty minutes to get to St Chrystofer’s, maybe longer with the noon traffic. Hurry.”

“I cannot marry. Not with Ronald——”

He got up. He seemed very tall. There was a flash back in his slate-gray eyes like lightning in a storm.

“There’s no time for talk. Get dressed or, by God, I’ll carry you down to the car as you are.”

“Jevan——”

He gave a swift glance about the room and went to the mirrored doors of the long wardrobe and flung them open, one after the other, until he came to the wedding dress, hanging there with its train draped over it and the misty, floating white veil, incredibly crisp and lovely beside it.

He took both out and put them across the tumbled bed.

“Stand up.”

“Jevan——”

He took her hands and pulled her on her feet. It wasn’t any use trying to hold to the arms of the chair.

“Will you put on that dress or must I put it on you?”

“Please only listen. Let me explain——”

He went to the bell and put his thumb on it. Mamie came, panting, eyes bulging and worried.

“Put on Miss Dorcas’ wedding gown. Hurry.”

“But, Mr Locke——”

“Put it on her. I’ll give you five minutes. Where are her stockings and slippers?”

“But, Mr Locke—I—” Mamie stopped short as he looked at her, said hurriedly: “In that drawer, sir. I’ll get them.”

“No—no,” cried Dorcas.

He had his watch in his hand. He turned his back and walked over to a window and stood there looking down upon the gray, wind-swept world.

“Hurry up, Mamie,” he said over his shoulder.

“The other foot, Miss Dorcas,” said Mamie. “Let me get the seam straight.”

There were mad, frantic possibilities. She could scream, she could struggle, but unfortunately Jevan was very much stronger than she. She saw herself nightmarishly being carried downstairs in her flannel housecoat and flat little bedroom slippers—being thrust into the car.

He meant it. There was no possible doubt of that.

Mamie, muttering, casting half-outraged, half-sympathetic, wholly frightened glances at Jevan’s back, hurried. Her fingers flew. Stockings, little satin girdle. “Hurry, Miss Dorcas,” whispered Mamie. White satin at last being slipped over her head and fastened. “Turn around, Miss Dorcas—there. Now your hair …”

“Make my bride beautiful, Mamie,” said Jevan suddenly from the window, with something harsh and rough in his voice.

Going through the hall with Jevan’s hand painfully tight on her arm, Dorcas had a glimpse of Cary’s face, small, pale, but terribly thankful.

She thought of it—if she thought actually and with awareness or anything all the way to the church—with Jevan holding his watch in his hand and leaning forward, swearing, telling Grayson to hurry. Comparing his watch with the huge hands of the Chevrolet clock and frowning.

There was a small crowd around the church. There was a strip of red carpet. There was the sound of an organ—great, swelling tones which changed, just as a fluttering yellow cluster of bridesmaids surrounded her, into well-known, well-remembered, indescribably familiar and solemn tones.

Here was Marcus again. Jevan leaned above her, putting a white, fragrant bouquet in her hands. There were satin ribbons and the scent of gardenia. “I have no flower,” he said. “May I have one from your bouquet?”

He waited an instant, dark eyes plunging into her own, then looked at her bouquet, broke off one delicate stalk of lily of the valley and vanished. Somebody turned her so she faced the church. Somebody—Marcus of course—put her gloved hand on his arm. There were people, swaying to look, rustling, silent as the measured peal of the organ became a march; there were yellow chiffon bridesmaids fluttering slowly ahead. There was the long church aisle and white ribbons and faces and away ahead a candle-lighted altar and a man robed in purple and white with a book in his hand amid massed yellow calla lilies.

And Jevan. She was all at once standing before that altar and Jevan had come from somewhere and was standing beside her. The music was softer; you could hear words—slow, solemn words. Deliberate words. Marcus Pett replied and stepped back. Jevan’s shoulder touched her own; even if she turned and ran, stumbling in her train, he wouldn’t let her go.