Hasty Wedding

by Mignon G. Eberhart

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 s
tronger 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.

  And she was to say something—repeat—but she couldn’t speak.

  Jevan, so only the bishop saw, put his hand upon her own so tightly it hurt and she repeated: “I, Dorcas Mary …” in a whisper.

  Jevan’s voice was low too. Everything was very still except the low, mellow tones from the organ which seemed to move quietly but almost tangibly about her.

  There was a ring—Jevan’s hands and the bishop’s and her own—now they were putting it on, slipping it firmly on the bare finger, and she remembered Cary slitting that left glove and her small, intent face bent over the task. That was only yesterday.

  They were to kneel. She did so, Jevan again beside her.

  The prayer was short. Were they to stand now? Yes, only she couldn’t. Jevan helped her. Jevan turned and took her hand firmly on his arm and great waves of melody swam about the church and lifted them out along the swelling tide, past faces, past bridesmaids, past everyone.

  He was taking her swiftly through the vestibule. Willy Devany was holding the great outer door against the wind. His face was very white and he was crying, strangely and instead of congratulations, “Hurry—the car’s waiting—hurry.”

  Grayson was at the door with the car. There were more faces, people along the sidewalk. Wind flapped the awning sharply over her head. Jevan gathered up her veil and she was in the car and a newsboy wriggled under somebody’s arm and shouted: “News—news—all about …” and thrust a paper at them.

  There were black headlines on that paper, too, and Dorcas saw them and they said: RONALD DREW MURDERED.

  “Hurry, Grayson. Never mind the cops. Get going,” cried Jevan and jumped into the car beside her.

  He jerked down the rear shade and put his arm tightly, brusquely around her and pulled her close to him, so his mouth was at her cheek.

  “Don’t say anything,” he said, watching Grayson. “The chauffeur will hear. I know you killed him.”

  CHAPTER 6

  THE CAR MOVED SMOOTHLY and rapidly ahead and his arm held her so tightly against him that she couldn’t move. In a queer little top layer of her mind which went right on thinking about the small surface things such as the rain against the car windows and Grayson’s stiff neck and neat cap, and the long two-noted whistle of the traffic policeman at the corner—in that top layer she had an odd notion that if she spoke he would stop her, cover her mouth with his hand if need be.

  It was, in that first instant or two, her only recognition of the thing. Ronald, said the newspapers, was murdered. It wasn’t suicide, it was a murder. And Jevan had said he knew …

  “No, no, no——”

  “Stop that!” He thrust her back against the seat and leaned forward toward the dividing window, which was open. “How does this thing work?” He found the lever and turned it rapidly. A sheet of glass lifted smoothly between the driver’s seat and the tonneau of the long, gliding car. He sat back again beside her, glanced at her once and said: “All right. He can’t hear unless you have hysterics or something. Now listen, Dorcas. I know you killed Ronald. I don’t blame you; he was a scoundrel and you—never mind that. I only want you to know——”

  “I didn’t kill him. He was alive when I left the apartment. He—he pushed the telephone off the table. He was alive——”

  “Does anybody else know you were there?”

  “No. Yes—that is, there was a doorman, I think…You don’t understand. I knew nothing of this. I——”

  “The doorman! Did he know you? I mean, had you—had you been there often enough for him to know and recognize you?”

  He wasn’t looking at her now; he was watching the traffic ahead grimly, his mouth tight, his profile remote and enigmatic. There was a sweet heavy fragrance from her bouquet in her lap. Her satin train was over her knees, her white veil floating around her, obscuring her vision; there was the small sprig of lily of the valley in his buttonhole. His silk hat and gloves lay on the seat beside him. The car stopped for a traffic light and all around them other cars in the heavy noon traffic along Michigan stopped, too, and waited, engines throbbing, people inside the cars at either side of them turning to stare at a bride. Pavements glistened; lights glimmered palely from store windows; the traffic policemen in shining wet mackintoshes strove to direct that throbbing, pushing stream of cars and blew whistles frantically.

  It was a world gone completely fantastic. In just twenty-four hours it had changed itself entirely, as if it had been overtaken by a new and strange dimension which distorted even familiar things—a well-known street, weather, faces she knew. And it wasn’t a nightmare, for it was too real.

  “Well—had you been there often?” said Jevan again, crisply.

  “No. The doorman couldn’t have recognized me. No one knew I was there.” Too real; altogether too real, for it was happening and Ronald was murdered and she had been in his apartment just before that murder and the police would question her.

  “I knew you were there,” said Jevan. “I was there too. Later.”

  He paused but as she said nothing he went on swiftly: “You’d better know what I did.”

  The traffic policeman’s whistle pealed weirdly through the rain and wind, through the hum and rush of tires and grinding of gears.

  “You see, I got there just after you’d gone. In fact the cigarette was still smoking. I—well, I saw at once that he was dead. There was no question but that he died almost instantly. There was no use to call a doctor; I couldn’t possibly have done anything for him. He must have died the moment the bullet—entered his forehead.”

  Sh
e was going to faint. For the first time in her healthy young life she was going to faint, for things all around her were dim and moving erratically out of focus and she felt very sick

  “Jevan!” It was a little, sick gasp. He heard and turned and took her quickly in his arms and put her head on his shoulder and rolled down the window beside him.

  Dimly she knew he was fumbling with the veil over her face, finding the edge at last and pushing it back so fresh, cold air blew upon her face.

  “You can’t faint,” he said sharply. “Listen, Dorcas. You can’t. You’ve got to talk to me—there’re only a few minutes to arrange everything.”

  His voice wavered in Dorcas’ ears as humming blackness threatened to submerge it.

  “Dorcas—Dorcas! Listen. You’ve got to pull yourself together. We’ve got to go through this day as if nothing had happened. Understand? You must do it!”

  The compulsion in his voice reached her through those engulfing waves. His arms supported her; his cheek was against her head. Grayson saw it in the mirror but did not smile. He was too well trained and besides, that morning he was uneasy. He had seen the papers; the whole household knew of the trouble upstairs. But he knew, too, that young Mr Devany had been very queer and insistent about making sure that the car was exactly at the door the moment the ceremony was over; that young Mr Devany had been very nervous. And he, too, as they left the church had glimpsed the headlines.

  Murder.

  He looked quickly in the mirror again and away as quickly when he met Mr Locke’s eyes. Involuntarily, under that look, he trod harder on the accelerator.

  Dorcas felt the car gain in speed. Jevan was talking again, steadily and with sharp compulsion in his voice.

  “I found Drew dead. I knew you had just gone. I—did everything I could. There was no use, as I said, to try to do anything for him. He was dead. Are you listening to me, Dorcas? Do you understand?”

  Blackness was receding. She became more fully aware of his arms, holding her tightly but without warmth or tenderness.

  “Answer me, Dorcas.”

  “Yes. Yes, I understand.” Did she?

  There was an instant’s silence. His arms were tight and motionless. Then he said calmly: “Can you sit up now? Are you all right? …That’s good.”