Was his mother exactly what he thought she was? The question disturbed him, for he had long ago acquired the habit of studying other people, tabulating them on mental cards, and then filing them away in his mind, never to be re-studied. It saved doubts and second thoughts. The thought
came to him, out of nowhere at all: What do I really know about people? I mean, outside their pain and their surface life? He listened to the sorrowful nocturne, which seemed to express all the loneliness of life, all the blindness and wretchedness and lack of hope.
All his likes and dislikes had been set in stone for eternity, uncompromising, permitting no erasures and no additions. He did not like to think of that now, as he leaned on his elbow and listened to the haunting nocturne. He wanted to shout down to his mother, "Stop it! I'm trying to sleep, damn it!"
Then all at once he was really and profoundly asleep, but he dreamt uneasily, and his dream was of Mavis, his dead wife, as his dreams were usually in these days as never they had been before. He awoke, sweating on his bed and grimy. He got to his feet and was amazed that it was late afternoon and that he had slept so long. He went into his bathroom, shaking and empty and gaunt, and bathed and shaved, and came out dressed. His mother was waiting for him, a tall glass of eggnog, laced with brandy, on a tray in her hands.
She said with her usual tranquillity, "You come in late, or early, didn't you, dear? You didn't have your breakfast or your lunch. Do swallow this down. You seem so exhausted."
Without speaking, he sat down on the edge of his bed and drank the eggnog, making his usual taciturn faces. But it began to revive him. Marjorie never asked about his patients, for she knew that it was unethical for him to discuss them with an outsider. She said, "Young Dr. Morgan called, and I told him that you were asleep, after being out so early in the morning, and he said that everything was fine at St. Hilda's, and you weren't to worry. And Miss Meadows died." She looked at him sadly, knowing how grieved he was to lose a patient.
But he said, "Good. I was going to operate on her, but now I don't need to. I'll make the funeral arrangements." He drank the last of the eggnog. "I'll go along to the hospitals right away."
They sat together in silence. They thought of Mavis. She was, even in her death, an intruder in this house, a bright, brash intruder who should never have entered here. Neither one knew of the other's thoughts.
It was just as well. They were both thinking of Jonathan's marriage to Mavis Eaton on a hot June day several years ago.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jonathan Ferrier and Mavis Eaton had been married in the First Presbyterian Church of Hambledon, in a candlelight ceremony, when Mavis was just past her twentieth birthday.
"Not before a priest?" Marjorie had asked her son when he had told her of his coming marriage.
"Now, why should I?" His tone was irascibly patient. "I am not Catholic any longer, or rather I should say I am a lapsed Catholic, as the Church would call it. I'm not a medievalist or a mystic, and it takes both to be Catholic." Marjorie had said nothing. Nor had she made any remark to Harald when he announced wryly that he was to be his brother's best man. There are times, Marjorie had thought to herself, when it is utterly impossible to do anything about a situation except hold your tongue and smile as if all were well. Old Father McGuire had come to see her, however, under the vague impression that she was the diabla ex machina. They had never liked each other, though they had respect. He was a bad-tempered old man.
"It is true," he said to Marjorie as they sipped hot strong tea in the morning room, "that Jonathan and Harald can hardly be called practicing Catholics. I know that well! But a baptized Catholic is always a Catholic, even when lapsed."
"I never had any influence with my sons," said Marjorie, holding before him a silver plate of nutcakes, the sort he favored, flavored with rum. "I have told you that before, Father. Jon was always under his father's influence, and Harald was always alone, and I never understood him."
The fat old man lifted thick white brows, and sipped his tea contemplatively for a moment. "Adrian was a good Catholic," he remarked. "If Jon was so under his father's influence, why has he fallen away?"
"I don't know, Father. I think something happened to him by the time he was seventeen." She smiled at him. "I think he became disillusioned by humanity. Not an unusual reason for abandoning religion. Jon was always a thoughtful boy, too much so, and too fierce and strong in his responses to others. And intolerant of what he considered any trespass against something he called 'civilized decency.' By nature, I think he is really a Calvinist. Perhaps Adrian had a little Huguenot blood in him."
"No. Adrian was most pious. I knew him well, for twenty years." He paused. "I have tried to talk with Jon. He has refused to come to see me in the rectory, though he has always been very generous with charitable donations. Mrs. Ferrier, did you know that Jon is at war with humanity?"
"Yes, I know."
"And so, he is at war with God. I've known Jon since he was a child. I've known Hambledon for many years. There has always been an animosity toward Jon here."
"I knew that," said Marjorie, with some surprise at the old priest's intuition, which she thought was hers alone. "Jon's character is too definite—"
"True. Definite characters are uncomfortable ones in this world, whether they are criminals or saints. People don't like others with strong opinions unless they are opinions they hold themselves, and even then they don't admire vehemence in speech. They don't like vehement actions, either. That's very strange in so young and strong and vital a country. And perhaps ominous. Republics are usually manly and forthright."
"You don't think America is manly?"
He shook his head and thought for a few moments. "I come from a manly country, Ireland. But America is not manly in that fashion, and that is dangerous. Republics are usually masculine, but lately I have suspected that America is beginning to show feminine traits, and that usually means a nation is declining into democracy. What is it Aristotle said? 'Republics decline into democracies, and democracies degenerate into despotisms.' Yes. Populism is becoming popular in America—an old doctrine, though its adherents invariably think it is a new one, age after age. Thank you, Mrs. Ferrier, these cakes are delicious as always. I have a sweet tooth."
"You were saying, Father?"
"Well, America is too fervid over inconsequential things, and she likes William Jennings Bryan and other novelties. Such childishnesses. And that's effeminate. She also likes fads and frivolities. That, too, is effeminate. There is nothing really stable about America, and her politicians are always talking about 'becoming.' I love this country. It has given my people their greatest opportunity, but still I am afraid. Let us come back to Jon." He smiled at her charmingly, his big flushed face very youthful under his white hair.
"The present animosity I detect here against Jon did not come suddenly with his twenty-first birthday. It was not like a clap of thunder, nor is it motiveless malice. Not entirely. It was there, that hostility, for many silent or whispering years. Jealousy of his merits and talents, his family, and his money. Fury that he is exactly what he seems, and that he is uncompromising and loves excellence. He hates mediocrity, and we must confess that most men are mediocre, though considering themselves exceptional. Jon also hates farce and incompetence and even the polite, social hypocrisies. He is also very brave, and men suspect true bravery, being, in the majority, not brave at all. I fear that the town is only waiting its opportunity to crush him and express its resentment of him."
Marjorie looked with melancholy at him, and with a little fear.
"Let us hope," said the old priest, "that he will never do something rash enough to expose himself to the malice of the community. I wish he would leave Hambledon and go to a larger city. Not that larger cities are more tolerant of the confirmed individualist, but such men are less likely to be conspicuous in big cities. I wish," he continued, with the somberness of his race, "that men like Jon were more appreciated and more honored, and understood,
for they are rare, even if a little terrible. That's too much to ask, of course."
"Perhaps Jon will be appreciated as time goes on."
"I doubt it, Mrs. Ferrier. Jon has set himself against human nature, and human nature is not going to accommodate itself to Jon's glorious inner picture of what it should be. He will have to learn to compromise without disgust, and at least to endure." He looked at her. "Do you like Miss Eaton?"
The question was unexpected and shocked Marjorie, and she winced. She made her handsome face smooth, but the sharp old priest had seen her shrinking. She said, "I am not the sort of woman who interferes with her adult children."
Ah, yes, thought the priest sadly. A proud woman it is, and a reticent one. Her children may respect her but hardly love her. Still, respect is often more valuable than love. Unrestrained love can be very destructive; at the worst, it is maudlin.
When he had left, after some courtly compliments concerning her garden and her beautiful subdued house, Marjorie was beset with anxious and premonitory thoughts. She had prayed that some miracle would occur to keep Jon from marrying Mavis Eaton, but no miracle came to his rescue. Ardent in nature, and indeed fierce, as the priest had commented, and she herself, he was unable to detect the slightest flaw in Mavis. He had lived, during the past few years, in a state of bemusement over her, and with a kind of joyful surprise each time he had seen the girl. What did she represent to him?
Marjorie did not know. It still seemed incredible to her that Jon, who saw flaws in everybody and was eloquent in denunciation, could find nothing wrong with Mavis Eaton. Was it the lure of her pretty flesh? But there were scores of pretty girls in Hambledon, fine young women. Marjorie thought of her old aunt, the Laughing Girl, as Jon had called her kind. However, many men felt no attraction for them. Why had Jon? Jon, above all?
The big fieldstone church, austere and dark even in the hot bright afternoon, flared with shadows and candlelight, and the air was stifling and rustled with fans. Those who had been invited to the wedding filled every pew, and the sultry atmosphere became more oppressive with women's scents and the fragrance of banked flowers everywhere. The mayor was present, and Senator Campion and State Senators, and the Governor himself, and other dignitaries, and their wives. It was a gala occasion.
Jon waited with his brother, sweating with embarrassment and expectation, his dark face clenched. He seemed to be frowning. "Quiet," Harald whispered with amusement, and Jon glanced at him irritably and flushed. Then the organ, and the triumphant voices, rose to the entrance music, and there was Mavis on her proud uncle's arm, and she was floating down the aisle to her bridegroom.
Of less than usual height for a woman, she seemed taller today, for her long gown flowed not only to the red carpet of the aisle but had a long train, held by two young boys, distant cousins, pages in blue silk. A little flower girl preceded her, and eight bridesmaids clad like autumn flowers in gold taffeta. But Jon saw only his bride. Her gown was demurely high in the neck, tight lace and pearls upheld with whalebone about her throat, and the same material partially covered her full breast. The white satin of the gown clung to her delectable figure in all its virginal though mature curves, and enhanced the smallness of her delicate waist and her feminine hips, a trifle broad but very stylish. The satin quivered in the candlelight, and there was something both enticing and innocent, though faintly lewd, in that smooth exposure of her body in the gleaming rich fabric. It was a Worth gown, purchased in Paris, and the ladies in the church gasped both in admiration and envy. It was strewn, at the curve below the hips, with sparkling stones and pearls, and the train, heavily jeweled, glittered like sunlit rain. She wore white kid gloves and diamond bracelets, and there were diamonds in her ears. She was one shimmer of light, exquisite, softly pliant, alluring.
A small tiara of pearls and sparkling stones rode high on her golden pompadour, and from it fell her lace veil to far below her knees. The veil covered her virgin face, so that one caught a glimpse only of a faintly pink lip, a glimmer of eye, a shadow of gilt which was her hair. She carried a bouquet of yellow roses with a trail of green ivy.
Jon watched her, stiff and entranced, as she swayed on her uncle's arm and the Wedding March made the hot and scented air tremble. He felt both exultance and joy, and he also felt intoxicated. It was not only Mavis' beauty which fired him, which made him breathe heavily—to Harald's fresh amusement. It was the promise the girl held for him, the hint of new life, of delirious adventure, of some deliverance from the strange and heavy torment which had bedeviled his life from his very early consciousness. He felt that he was on the threshold of being reborn to a more joyous world, to a world of infinite variety and innocence and promise. To a lightheartedness he had never known, to a sort of delirious abandon, and new concepts. With Mavis he would be released from something that had made his existence somber and gloomy. He would be free, finally, from himself.
With Mavis he would be carefree as he had never been carefree, and he would be young as he had never been young. She would laugh away many of his intensities, and her humor would make him smile, and he would be unburdened. He would, in short, play and be refreshed, and he would even laugh, himself, at some of the things which he now found intolerable. Life would become, not a conflict as it had been all his life, but light and airy and gay, and their mutual love and adoration would be like a garden to him, restful and full of color, serene and youthful, bright and exciting. He might even become innocent, himself, and accepting.
He knew nothing whatsoever about Mavis Eaton, standing demurely at his side, with her beautiful head bent reverently, and her profile hidden from him by her veil. He endured the long ceremony, and his knees shook, and Mavis' scent, also imported from France, was in his nostrils and he felt that it was the natural odor of her youth and beauty and the wonderment she was keeping for him, alone. When her veil was lifted by her matron of honor, and he saw her face in the candlelight he was stunned with his rapture and his delight and his passion and his love. He dared—he felt he was very daring and irreverent—to kiss her soft cool lips, and he tried to look into her blue eyes. But they were only crescents of thick golden lashes, and he thought it was maidenly reserve and maidenly fear.
Then the Wedding March was resumed on a high and exalted note, and Mavis was on his arm, going down the aisle, beautiful as a dream. She did not look up at him. She smiled widely at the wedding guests and swayed expertly so that all could admire her gown and her jewels and the great diamond on her finger, which Jonathan had given her. It was her triumphant day, her hour, her glory, and Jonathan to her was only the accessory. She had married the most eligible bachelor in town, the richest, and she was a queen. If Jonathan knew nothing about her, she knew nothing about him, either. He would have been horrified if he had known of his own ignorance. But Mavis would not have cared in the least. To herself, she had no faults and no flaws. She had considered Jonathan lucky in marrying her, and, unfortunately, he agreed with her. The guests agreed also, with the exception of Jonathan's mother and brother.
The reception for hundreds of guests was held on the lawns and among the gardens of Martin Eaton's vast and hideous house. There was champagne and whiskey and a magnificent feast. Long hot shadows fell below the trees as the day swung toward evening. Beyond the lawns the river shone like a wide path of blue, and in it stood the silly island, Heart's Ease, and beyond the river and the island rose the violet mountains brilliant with the falling sun.
Mavis was gracious and ebullient, and her loud and husky laughter, so joyous and so abundant, was everywhere, as she moved among the guests and accepted their toasts. They pressed about her, stroking her gown, tenderly kissing her cheek, patting her hands. Her sparkling white gown set her apart in all that color. It was her uncle she chose to walk beside her, and Jonathan and Flora Eaton moved in her train, Flora in lavender taffeta, a color most unbecoming. Marjorie stood apart, watching and fearing and aching but outwardly serene in her gown of soft rose silk, her dark hair shaded by her
rosy hat of tulle. Her head was aching, and her heart also, and there was a tumult in her ears of congratulations and mirth and merrymaking and happiness. Above all, she heard Mavis' laughter and her sudden whoops of rough glee and it seemed to Marjorie that it was the most insensitive sound she had ever heard, totally crude and distasteful, and even repellent. Marjorie had given the girl a gentle kiss, and then Mavis' eyes, sunken and secret, had opened a little and Marjorie had seen the old blue gleam, the indifferent yet cunning gleam, as far removed from warm humanity as polar ice.
But no one except Marjorie could resist the boisterous laughter of the girl, the gaiety that was indeed coarse. Everyone was as bemused as Jon at the way she would throw back her head, unaffectedly, showing all her big white teeth in her mirth, her eyes crinkling above, her cheek glowing. Her spirits, always boisterous, enchanted them all, for they held no reticence but were bold and teasing. She slapped admirers on the arm with her white and jeweled fan, and pushed her bouquet gaily into faces, and joked coaxingly, and looked about for fresh admiration and affection. She had none of the shyness of a bride. When Jonathan would push to her side, she would stare at him and then grin deliciously.
The bridal couple was to spend the wedding night in the Quaker Hotel in its most lavish suite, waiting now and filled with flowers. Tomorrow they would leave for the races at Saratoga, and then to New York for the balance of the honeymoon.
Jonathan did not like champagne, but he thought it decorous today to abstain from whiskey. He was certain that a whiskey odor on his breath would revolt his dainty bride. The wine made him queasy, for all his delirium and his joy. He tried to keep up with Mavis, claiming her, but she slipped constantly away from him to new groups of loving friends and entranced admirers. He heard her laughter, and it seemed to him that it was the most lovely sound in the world, the sound which would be the music of his life and its refreshment. He kept smiling inanely, his dark face shining a little. He accepted congratulations and new toasts like one in a dream, and everyone remarked how enchanted he was and how so unusually amiable. When Martin Eaton said to him, his voice breaking, "Be good to my darling little girl, Jon," Jonathan could only say fervidly, "Don't worry, Martin. I am going to devote my whole life to her!" This was so unlike Jonathan that Martin blinked through the tears in his adoring eyes. He pressed Jonathan's hand, moved as he had never been moved before. "It is a sacred promise," he stammered. "A sacred, sacred promise." Jonathan agreed, and his own unusual emotion made him suddenly speechless.
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