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 come here and try to worm a
description of this one out of me. If you wanted to know what it was
like you ought to have gone to it and seen for yourself.”
Stacey laughed, as much at his sister’s keenness as at her guest’s
eccentricity. But Miss Loeffler was vexed.
“I don’t pretend!” she asserted hotly. “I do dislike weddings. And if I
ever want to go and live with a man I shall, without making a silly fuss
about it, and then when either he or I get bored we’ll simply break
off.”
Julie sighed. “I’m afraid you’ll find it a very nervous wearing life,”
she remarked calmly. “I shouldn’t care for it myself, but then I’m—”
“Oh, perfectly hopeless, Julie! You belong back in the
eighteen-eighties. What do you think about it, Mr. Carroll?”
“About marriage?” Stacey asked. “Nothing at all. Doesn’t interest me.
But I should say you people were at least as Victorian as Julie. You’re
quite as excited about the necessity of not having a ceremony as
old-fashioned people are about having one.”
Miss Loeffler insisted angrily that this was not true, but presently
grew calmer.
“Anyway, you’re right about one thing,” she said, finishing her
high-ball, then setting the glass down on the floor and dropping her
cigarette end into it. “The whole question’s overstressed. We’ve got
other bigger things to think about. Well, I must go. Just dropped in for
a minute. See you again soon, Julie. You going, Mr. Carroll? Give you a
lift if you are.”
“Thanks,” said Stacey, getting up. He found the girl physically
attractive, and he was glad of anything that would keep his thoughts
from Marian. He followed her to her handsome run-about, and they set off
swiftly.
“Of course,” she said, “I don’t expect to have a car much longer.”
“No?”
“No. When we have Soviets in America I suppose such cars as remain will
all be in the service of the public. Of course they may put me to
driving one, but more likely I’ll have to cobble shoes or something.”
“And a very good thing, too,” said Stacey. “Pleasant occupation, nice
leathery smell, and lots of time to reflect on universal subjects.”
She frowned. “You don’t believe in me at all, do you?” she demanded,
looking at him petulantly. “You think we’re all—”
But in her excitement she had pressed her foot on the accelerator
instead of the brake, so that they dashed past a policeman who had
raised his hand to stop them, swerved madly around the front of a
trolley-car that was approaching on the cross street, sent pedestrians
flying to left and right, and returned to a normal speed only a hundred
yards farther along the avenue, fortunately not crowded, that they were
following.
Stacey sighed. “There’s not a pin to choose between you and Julie,” he
remarked patiently. “You both try to kill me the same afternoon.”
Miss Loeffler laughed girlishly. “That _was_ stupid of me,” she
admitted. “And you were quite the calmest thing I’ve ever seen. But
truly,” she went on earnestly, keeping the car, however, at a discreet
twelve miles an hour, “it’s serious. You’d be surprised to know how much
is stirring deep, deep down right here in Vernon, that you’d think was a
positive stronghold of capitalism. Come with me now, will you?” she said
eagerly, “and let me show you?”
“Show me what?”
“People who are really thinking, people who get together and see things
straight—the social revolution, Bolshevism.”
“Dear me!” said Stacey. “I knew Vernon was no longer provincial, but I
had no idea it was so metropolitan as all that.”
“Oh, you can laugh!” she returned darkly, “but you’ll see. Of course you
understand we trust your discretion.”
“Of course.”
She turned off from the avenue and stopped the car before an office
building. “We meet here,” she announced, “in an ordinary office-room,
because it’s so conspicuous that it’s perfectly safe.” And they went up
in the elevator.
The large room which they presently entered had been given the semblance
of a club. There were numerous easy chairs around the floor, chintz
curtains at the windows, and across one end of the room a huge oak table
with a vase of flowers and many books and periodicals. Fifteen or twenty
people were in the room, some standing, some sprawling in the chairs,
two or three perched on the edge of the table. The air was heavy with
cigarette smoke.
“Comrade Loeffler!” several voices shouted, as Irene and Stacey entered.
“And with a new comrade in tow!” cried some one.
“Well, he isn’t exactly a comrade,” said Irene. “I just brought him
along because he’s so aggravating and skeptical. But he’s perfectly
safe. Stacey Carroll, comrades.” And with a proprietary air she drew him
over to one end of the room. He rather liked Miss Loeffler. There was
something so girlish beneath her pose.
Stacey looked about him idly. All but five of the persons in the room
were women. He knew a few of them by sight, and the faces of others were
vaguely familiar to him; but he had been away from Vernon for so long
and so utterly cut off from it mentally that it was hard for him to
remember old acquaintances. Doubtless he had met nearly all these people
formerly—he didn’t know. Anyway, they were of a younger generation than
he—in the twenties, most of them. He observed that the majority of the
women wore their hair bobbed.
“Why so much bobbing of hair, Miss Loeffler? Is it a symbol of freedom?”
“I suppose you might call it that,” she replied, sitting on the arm of
his leather chair. “If you were unlucky enough to be a woman you’d
appreciate the advantages of wearing your hair short.”
“It’s rather becoming to you,” he observed. “Can’t say I think it is to
all of them.”
“It’s stupid and old-fashioned to pay compliments,” she returned coldly.
“They don’t interest me at all.”
“Sorry,” said Stacey, “but it’s difficult not to, with all this air of
freedom about, and you sitting so close to me.”
She jumped up angrily, but then after a moment defiantly resumed her
seat on the arm of his chair.
One of the young men, Comrade Leslie Vane, approached them. He wore a
flowing black tie beneath a very low soft collar. Stacey knew him. He
was a poet—published things occasionally in the “Pagan” and the
“Touchstone”—and the son of John Vane, the big flour man. People in
Vernon were very nice about it, but naturally at heart they felt sorry
for Mr. Vane, Senior, who was extremely well liked, and rejoiced that at
any rate his other son, John, Junior, was normal. Stacey was rather
inclined to share Vernon’s point of view in this.
“Hello, Stacey,” said Vane languidly. “Glad to see a militarist with an
open mind, anyhow. First example I’ve met with.”
Stacey reflected, as he acknowledged the greeting, that when the
Middle-West turned esthetic it became mournfully old-fashioned.
Positively Leslie Vane was going back all of twenty-five years in search
of a style.
“Sure!” he said. “I’m open to conviction, but what do you want to
convince me of?”
“Oh,” drawled Vane, “the papers have all been read; you’re late. There’s
only just general talk going on now, but it may do you some good if
you’ll listen.”
A little group had gathered around them, and the smoky air became full
of words, among which “Soviets,” “proletariat,” and “Bolshevism”
predominated.
Stacey, too bored to listen, fell to wondering for a moment about real
Bolshevism. He shook his head. No use, that either. He didn’t care if
change did come. In a way he would be furiously delighted if order was
upset,—things were so silly. But he didn’t believe in any millennium or
even in improvement through change. What had the war accomplished?
“—and so that, most of all,” some woman was saying, “is the true lesson
of Holy Russia. What do you think of it, Mr. Carroll? I _won’t_ call you
Captain.”
He started. “Of Bolshevism? The—er—coming social revolution. Oh,
you’ll all be raped, then cut in little pieces, and Comrade Leslie will
have his throat cut. Not because Bolshevism is so especially worse than
anything else, but because that’s what always happens when any kind of
violence gets loose. And, do you know? I don’t care a damn whether it
comes or not!”
He meant what he said, as much as he meant anything at all in respect to
these futile idiots, but, since there was no passion in his words and
his face remained expressionless, his remarks were delightedly deemed a
skilful evasion of the question (“My dear, how _could_ he say what he
really thought—he a captain and a Carroll?”) and an amusing pleasantry.
His bold use of the word “rape,” too, was much appreciated.
But such comments were made after his departure. For neither Miss
Loeffler’s physical attractiveness nor conversation with the fashionable
followers of Lenin could any longer distract his mind from Marian. She
and Ames would be sitting close together now in the drawing-room of a
Pullman car. . . .
He escaped from the club and went home.
However, he felt an amused curiosity to know what his sister’s attitude
had been toward her impetuous visitor, so he called Julie up on the
telephone.
“What do you think about that wild creature that broke in on us to-day?”
he asked.
“Irene?” said Julie’s calm voice. “Oh, she’s just a goose, but she’s
really quite nice and sweet and young at heart.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” he assented. “Occurred to me, though, that
I’d better call you up and let you know that she hadn’t eloped with me
or done me any real harm—though she nearly ran us into a street-car.
Quite a good time.”
“Now, Stacey, listen!” said Julie anxiously. “You won’t go and fall in
love with Irene, will you?”
He laughed. “I won’t do anything without asking you about it first,
Jule. I lean on you, you know.”
And the odd thing about it was that in a way he did.