Hasty Wedding

by Mignon G. Eberhart

  But not a sound of it all crept into Cary’s room, with its heat and its heavy curtains, its thick carpets, its cushioned chairs. It was a huge room, heavier, even, in appearance than Dorcas’ room, for Cary had shared it with Pennyforth Whipple—it and the gloomy dressing room lined with mirrors and cupboards and the enormous bathroom with a tub so big that Cary always, in all those years, felt lost and a little afraid in its depths. Penn Whipple had had ideas of furniture; first it should be big, for he was a big man; second it should be comfortable, for he liked comfort; third, regrettably, it should be enduring.

  So it was all three and at night when Cary was sleepless the great dark shapes standing about the walls seemed to move noiselessly as if they possessed a secret, sluggish life of their own.

  Dorcas’ room had been relieved a little of the oppressive effect of so much heavy mahogany by chintzes here and there; by wallpaper with a pleasant little design and a gayly flounced dressing table; by a frivolously pillowed chaise longue and many low, open bookshelves. She woke about nine and lay there for a moment looking at the familiar little gilt french clock on the bookshelf nearest her.

  Almost nine and there was a compulsion about getting up on that particular morning; she sat up in bed and reached for slippers before she was wide enough awake to know what that compulsion was. Her wedding.

  At noon. And it was already nine.

  The room was cold with a chill, dreary wind blowing in at the windows. She ran across, shivering in her thin pajamas, and closed the windows and automatically unfastened and let fall the green curtains which Mamie, every night when she turned down the beds, looped up away from the windows to protect them from the soot in the night air. It was a dark morning; the little bedside lamp, still burning, made a small area of cheer until she remembered why she had left it burning.

  The memory of Ronald and of the distorted little scene in his apartment gave her a moment of shock.

  It was a queer kind of shock, obscurely warning, as if, unexpectedly and entirely without warning, an earthquake had given a faint, premonitory little shake, stirring itself.

  For there was actually something premonitory about that memory. She looked at the clock again and put her finger on the bell. There were many things to do: breakfast, last-minute notes she herself must write, dressing; probably Jevan would either come to the house or telephone.

  But even then her marriage to Jevan seemed far in the future—at least Jevan seemed far in the future. In three hours she was to be married to a man she did not love, yet her common sense, her feeling for the fitness of things, induced in her a kind of detached acceptance of it. The sense of panic of the previous night had gone and she thrust aside the nightmarish experience with Ronald. It was morning, she was herself again; she was that day to make a good and suitable marriage and the man she was marrying she had known so long (and, she thought, so well) that he was at once familiar and remote.

  She thought once, however, with something sharp and acute in that thought which would not have been there on the previous day, that there was nothing at all emotional in her relationship with Jevan or in what that relationship would be after marriage. It was a subtly soothing, reassuring thought. In those weeks of what she supposed must be a kind of sensible, conventional devotion, there had been on Jevan’s part no strenuous love-making. His kiss on her cheek was cool and brief; he was pleasant, friendly, attentive in all the gestures but remote. It lulled her that morning, the grateful thought of that cool, unemotional friendliness. She did wonder once, lying back in the fragrant warmth of the huge square tub, if she had been too preoccupied during those weeks with other things, with—say it, Dorcas; admit it—with Ronald; if she had thought too little of the fact that she was marrying Jevan Locke—binding their two lives together for always.

  She thrust that thought away too. There would be time to think later—or she ought to have done it before now. Certainly the very morning of her wedding was no time to engage upon such futile speculations as those were. The thing to do now was have breakfast, be ready for Mamie to dress her hair, see her mother.

  Cary herself came in when Mamie, the elderly maid, brought in Dorcas’ breakfast tray.

  Cary was pale and nervous; her small, slender body was wrapped in a thin pink negligee and she looked cold but it was Cary’s firm belief that any negligee must be diaphanous and that all blondes wore pink.

  “Good morning, darling,” she said nervously. “Did you sleep, Dorcas? Mamie, you’d better light the fire; it’s terribly cold in here. I suppose you’ve had every window in the room wide open all night. How can you stand this horrible smoky, damp air? Risking getting pneumonia on your wedding day! There, there, dear, I didn’t mean to scold.”

  “All right, Mom. I know.”

  She kissed her mother’s soft cheek, put her feet again into warm, sheepskin-lined slippers and went to the tray. There was the pleasant, homely odor of hot coffee and muffins.

  Mamie, kneeling, lighted the old-fashioned gas log in the grate which, as always, sputtered and hissed. In a few moments it would be desperately hot in the room; fine blue points danced before Dorcas’ eyes. Cary sat down in an easy chair before the fire.

  “Coffee, Mom?”

  “No. Thank you, dear. I’ve had breakfast—quite early. I couldn’t sleep.” She sighed. Mamie gave her a practiced look and went briefly away to return at once with a woolen shawl which she put about her mistress’s slender shoulders.

  “Thank you, Mamie.” Cary huddled in the shawl. “Such a wretched day, Dorie, for your wedding. I did so hope the sun would shine.”

  “Never mind,” said Dorcas consolingly. “The church will look nice; yellow calla lilies and jonquils along the rail will be bright. And the yellow bridesmaids’ gowns will look cheerful too. And the lights. Nobody will ever think about it being a dark day. Yes, Mamie?”

  “What time will you want to dress, Miss Dorcas?”

  What time? Dorcas ignored the sudden little stab the question gave her. Too late to back out now; too late to start worrying, too late to do anything but go ahead. Dress, go to the church, stand there in white satin and make promises she must keep.

  “Ten,” said Cary quickly, answering for her, and Dorcas nodded. That gave her two hours to dress and get to the church—too much time for dressing, but then, it was better not to have too much time of her own.

  Mamie went quietly away. Cary moved, sighed, touched her carefully waved gray hair with unsteady, slender fingers and said: “Dorcas, is it all right? About your marriage, I mean. I”—she hesitated, leaned forward and spoke in a jerky little rush as if what she said had been pent up for a long time—“I wouldn’t want you to marry anyone you really don’t love, my dear. I’ve been afraid I urged you too much. Afraid I had no right to—to interfere about Ronald. Tell me, Dorcas——”

  Ronald. Dorcas took a muffin and applied herself to butter and marmalade and wouldn’t look at her mother.

  “It’s all right, Mother. Don’t worry, please. I know as well as I could ever know anything that you only want me to be happy and well cared for.”

  “Oh, Dorcas, are you sure?” There was an appeal in her mother’s soft voice that was touched with desperation. “Are you sure Ronald means nothing to you now? If I could only be certain of that.”

  Something inside Dorcas winced. She thought tersely that she was certain about nothing.

  There was a little silence and she tried not to see Ronald’s face as she had seen it in that last second with the white door behind him about to open … No, that was her dream. But Ronald’s face above the light was not a dream.

  She must reply, for her mother was leaning forward, pale with anxiety, dark circles under her eyes, her mouth tremulous, her small thin hands clutched together. Dorcas forced herself to look straight into her mother’s eyes.

  “Listen, dear,” she said steadily. “I was upset yesterday. Uneasy, nervous—as if something was going to go wrong. Some catastrophe—some—”A dark, quick fear lea
ped into her mother’s eyes. Dorcas went on hurriedly: “But it was sheer nervous apprehension. This morning I’m—I’m myself again. Common sense—you know, Mom, you’ve always said I had that——”

  “You are very like your father,” murmured Cary automatically.

  “Whatever it is, anyway, has come to my rescue. I have known Jevan for a long time, remember. There’s no reason why it can’t be a successful and reasonably happy marriage.”

  “That’s not enough, Dorcas,” said her mother suddenly. “I was wrong—oh, I was wrong, my dear! If you loved Ronald——”

  Dorcas got up and walked quickly to the window so her mother could not see her face. She said over her shoulder, a little crisply, trying to cover any betraying emotion in her voice: “I do not love Ronald.”

  There was a long silence. Outside the bare trees bent under the wind; the gray sky hung almost as low as the housetops, holding dark swirls of smoke close and heavy. The pavement below was black and wet. In another hour or two she would be crossing that pavement, holding up her satin train with something put down to keep her silver slippers dry. Entering the car, riding with her mother and Sophie and Marcus Pett to the church.

  Cary, behind her, was crying tremulously, in little gasps. Dorcas turned but her mother put up her hands as if to ward her off.

  “Never mind, darling,” she said shakily. “Don’t bother—I—it’s only that I’m terribly glad.”

  “Glad——”

  “Glad you don’t love Ronald. You were telling me the truth, weren’t you, Dorcas? You were telling me the truth? I lay awake all night——”

  Dorcas knelt beside her mother and took her frail little figure in her arms. She felt strong and young and competent.

  “There now, Mom dear. I mean it. Understand? You can count on that, and I’ll do my very best to make my marriage—happy,” finished Dorcas. “Happy” wasn’t the word but it satisfied her mother.

  “I’m sorry, Dorcas. I didn’t mean to—to cry. But you’re my baby.”

  “I know, dear.”

  “I want you to be happy. But you—you couldn’t have been with Ronald.”

  Again something cold and ugly stirred in Dorcas. She remembered the sick revulsion she had felt at Ronald’s touch. Well, Cary didn’t know and mustn’t know.

  “There now, Mom. Pull yourself together, dear. Everything’s all right and you have to get dressed, too, you know. I won’t have my pretty mother sitting there in the pew with red eyes.”

  “No, of course; I’m so silly. I must look nice. You do like my gray chiffon, don’t you, Dorcas?”

  “I love it. And you in it. Pink your cheeks a little and—”

  “Your father would have been so proud today. Proud and sorry to give you up. As I am, my daughter.”

  “You won’t be giving me up. I won’t give you up.”

  “No, that’s right; you’ll be gone only two months. Is everything packed?”

  “Everything. Sophie will see the house is properly closed and you and she are to go straight off to Sulphur Springs for six weeks. Then when you get back I shall be here and you must help me furnish our new apartment. We’ve done nothing yet.”

  “It would be nice if you were going to live here,” said Cary wistfully. “But then it’s better to have your own place. Although it’s a good thing Jevan is closing and selling the old Locke house: it has served its time. You will stay here until you find just the place you want, won’t you, dear?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Cary, smiling mistily at her daughter, dabbed her eyes with her soft little hand.

  “You’ve been a good daughter.”

  “Now, Mom—I mustn’t cry too.”

  “No. Oh, dear no, you must look lovely. You are so pretty, dear. I know I’ve never seen a more beautiful bride. If only your father——”

  “Mother, all this trust fund business—I mean, when it’s turned over to me I’m going to try to help Jevan manage it.”

  A faint worried frown went over her mother’s face. Business to Cary was mysterious and dreadful and terrifying and it was altogether something which only the broad shoulders of men were fitted to bear.

  “Yes, yes, Dorcas,” she said. “But Jevan is so capable. It will be better just to turn things over to him.”

  “Oh, I shall. I can’t do anything else now. But eventually, when I know more about it——”

  Sophie came into the room.

  She didn’t knock; there was no announcement of her coming. She simply opened the door and walked in and stood there, closing the door slowly behind her.

  “Dorcas——”

  Her face was as white as the newspaper she held. There were black headlines. She said: “Ronald Drew committed suicide last night … Oh, good God, Cary, don’t faint.”

  But she did. Neatly, immediately at Dorcas’ feet, a little huddled heap of pink chiffon sliding slowly out of the chair.

  “Mother!”

  “Get the salts. Ring for Mamie! Get water——”

  Sophie was kneeling, holding that ashen-faced, limp little heap in her arms. Someone—not Dorcas but someone who took charge of Dorcas’ body—was running. Pressing the bell frantically, shouting for Mamie, bringing dripping wet towels.

  That someone said in the voice of a sleepwalker: “Ronald …”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 5

  AS 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 …