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