Marian was married at Saint Grace’s early in September, and Stacey was present at the wedding. A number of people looked at him curiously, for it was known to some that he and the bride had formerly been engaged; but they found nothing in Stacey’s face or bearing to reward them. There was general interest in the wedding, since Ames Price and Marian Latimer were both prominent; there were no excited whispered comments. No gossip linked Stacey’s name with Marian’s. And, indeed, it is an odd fact that it was difficult for a man and still more difficult for a woman to get talked about adversely in Vernon. This was particularly true if they were socially prominent. In that case they must do something almost publicly scandalous, must literally be “asking for it.” Which unfortunately does not signify that morals were any higher in Vernon than elsewhere.
Stacey’s sensations were as mixed as ever. He was able to perceive the smooth elegance of the show, made up of the flowers, the soft light creeping through the stained glass windows of the handsome church, the rustling of costly dresses, the low murmur of fashionable voices, the smiles, the easy greetings, the ushers, and the discreet music of the organ. And he was even able to note that, though Marian was fetching enough to arouse at her appearance on her father’s arm a sudden hum of admiration before silence fell softly, she was not really at her best in that trailing lace-and-satin wedding gown. No, she was more beautiful in a plain tailor-made suit with a short skirt. She would have looked best of all with her fair hair drawn back simply and bound with a ribbon, bare armed, and with a kirtle falling only to her knees. But beneath the surface calm of Stacey’s mind fire smoldered. He was angrily stirred, angrily jealous; for he had not freed himself completely from desire of Marian. Had he, after all, been a fool to renounce her? he wondered. He might have stood there by her side in Ames’s place. But at this he caught himself up scornfully. What? he thought brutally. Deliberately chain himself and her to a life of hopeless incompatibility because he desired to possess this girl’s beautiful body? Was the craving of his whole soul for freedom less passionate than the mere craving of his senses for satisfaction?
Poor Stacey! Contradictory, stormy, inharmonious! Made up of dissonances. Repelled by Marian, yet desiring her; avid of freedom, but avid, too, of hate—an enslaving bond if ever there was one; more passionately and truly in love with beauty than ever before, yet destructive of it in himself; full of power with nowhere to direct it; hard and bitter, yet honestly anguished by the pain in the world.
The ceremony over, he made his way out of the church as quickly as possible, but paused for a moment on the sidewalk to glance at the interminable line of handsome waiting motor cars. The irony in their expensive patronage of one of Christ’s churches made him suddenly smile. Then he set off on foot for the Latimer house, where the reception would be held.
It was very well done, he thought,—adequate, handsome,—er—elegant, without being vulgarly lavish; roses enough, but not “bowers” of roses—though “bowers” was what the paper next morning would say there had been; champagne punch, but not tubs and pools of it; decent air of gaiety, but no riot. Well, you could count on Mr. Latimer to carry the thing off in the right way. It was what he was for. Fifty-odd years of careful training, with never a moment wasted, had fitted him for the task.
Stacey wondered what Mrs. Latimer thought about it all. Oh, she would probably be as detached as always, humorously but not unkindly amused by it. However, he had no chance to find out. Mrs. Latimer was much too busy receiving.
His one real curiosity was to know how Marian would look at him when, in the line, he shook her hand and Ames’s. He decided that she would be candid, simple and virginal, as became a bride, with no hint of anything in her greeting. But he was wrong. He was unfair to Marian, fancying her far more deliberate than she really was. The swift look she gave him was strange and enigmatic, and stirred him. There was a touch of defiance in it, as though she had said: “Well, you would have it this way! Do you like what you’ve done?” And he could not blame her if the words she spoke were merely the proper words. There were people all about.
Later he came upon his sister, Julie.
“Oh, Stacey,” she said, “why couldn’t you be nice and go with me to the wedding? Jimmy’s out of town, so I went all alone. I saw you across the church from me and thought I’d pick you up afterward, but when I came out I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
He smiled at the protective solicitude in her tone. “Oh, well,” he returned, “I’ll drive back with you to your house for a little chat when you’re ready to go.”
“I’m ready now,” she said quickly, and they went out to her electric.
No one else had ventured to make any comment to Stacey when Marian’s engagement to Ames Price had been announced; even Mr. Carroll had only looked at his son in an odd puzzled way. But Julie had ventured. She had asserted loyally that Stacey was much too good for Marian, and that Marian didn’t care whom she married so long as he had money. He had reflected at the time that, though Julie simplified things down to bare essentials, it was essentials that she selected. She was not unlike their father in this, he thought. She returned to the subject now, as they glided along the city streets.
“I don’t care!” she broke out hotly. “I think she’s horrid! Of course I know it must have been you who broke off the engagement—now wasn’t it, Stacey? Why won’t you admit it? Why, anybody would be proud to marry you!—but then for her to go and marry a stupid person like Ames Price, old enough to be her father, too, less than three months later,—why, I think it’s cheap! That’s what Marian is—cheap!”
Stacey laughed, amused at her desire to comfort him. He enjoyed being with his sister; nor was there anything patronizing in his feeling for her. He was not doing so admirably with a complex mind that he could afford to look comfortably down upon Julie for having a simple mind. And she was not stupid. He thought she did rather well with life.
“Oh,” he observed, “Ames isn’t as old as all that! He’s only forty or thereabouts. I’m almost thirty-five.”
“Well, he looks hundreds of years older—”
“Here! Take care!” Stacey interrupted, stretching out his hand toward the lever, as the car barely grazed by a heavily laden motor-van. “Julie, you’re a public menace!”
“—than you, and he can’t do a thing except play golf.”
Stacey laughed again, this time at Julie’s imperturbable calm. “Everything’s all right, old girl,” he said, “and you needn’t try to apply balm to my bruised heart, though it’s nice of you to want to.”
And they got out, having reached the Prouts’ handsome brick residence, the plans for which Stacey had drawn.
But the maid who opened the door for them followed them into the living-room. “Mis’ Prout,” she announced tragically, “Annie’s going to leave!”
“Is she?” said Julie, drawing off her gloves. “Well, that’s a nuisance. Excuse me a minute, Stacey dear, while I telephone. Go mix yourself a high-ball. You’ll find everything on the sideboard in the dining-room.” And she sat down at a small mahogany desk and opened a tiny cupboard that concealed a telephone.
Stacey obeyed and presently returned with his glass to the living-room, where he listened to his sister call up two employment agencies to make application for a cook, and telephone an advertisement to two newspapers.
“You really are a wonder, Jule!” he said, when she had closed the desk. “Calm and efficient as they make ’em.”
“Oh,” she returned, opening her eyes wide in surprise, “that’s nothing! It happens so often that I should be a silly if I were upset by it now. Perhaps you noticed that I didn’t even have to look the telephone numbers up in the book. Now we can talk.”
But just at this moment the maid returned to announce the visit of a Miss Loeffler, who followed close upon the maid’s heels.
“Hello, Irene,” said Julie pleasantly. “Glad you dropped in. You don’t know my brother, Stacey, do you?”
Miss Loeffler gave Stacey a nod and a brief firm shake of the hand, then threw herself down on the davenport, crossed her legs, and swung the right one vigorously. She looked about twenty-four years old, had dark bobbed hair, a small pretty face with restless dark eyes and a petulant mouth, and wore a brown street suit with a very short skirt.
“Of course I don’t approve of you, Captain Carroll,” she said crisply, “because you are Captain Carroll, a tool of militarism in the late capitalistic war. No, I’m glad to meet you, but I don’t approve of you.”
“No, you wouldn’t, of course, Irene,” Julie observed placidly.
“Oh, well,” said Stacey, “even pity from you’s more dear than that from another.”
“Naturally, if you quoted any one at me, it would have to be some one hopelessly old-fashioned, like Shelley. Can I have a high-ball, Julie?” she asked, jumping up. All her movements were abrupt, like her voice.
“Of course,” said Julie. “Oh, no, Stacey, don’t try to get it for her. Irene will be cross if you do.”
Nevertheless, he followed Miss Loeffler into the dining-room and at least stood by while she mixed her high-ball.
Suddenly, in the midst of the operation, she turned to him and gazed into his eyes. “What are you really like, Mr. Carroll?” she demanded intensely.
“Awfully orderly,” he replied, reaching out to restrain her hand that held the silver water-bottle. “Can’t bear to see things spilled.”
“Huh!” she said disdainfully.
They went back to the living-room and sat down again.
“See you’ve both been to the wedding,” remarked Miss Loeffler. “You look it. Have a lingering odor of ceremony about you. All very smooth and elegant, I suppose?” And she lighted a cigarette.
Julie was crocheting. “No, Irene,” she said, “you needn’t go around pretending to despise weddings and then c............