VI
Jane stood at Isabel’s side in the front row of the little congregation that had gathered in the rose garden. On her other hand, pressed close against the tightly drawn white satin ribbon, stood little Steve. Little Steve, at fourteen, was taller than his mother and looked exactly like his father. He was wearing his first long white flannel trousers, and Jane knew that he considered the occasion of the double wedding mainly important as his début into man’s estate. Behind Jane stood Mr. and Mrs. Ward and Alden Carver, the only representative of the Carver family who had come West for the wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Carver no longer cared to undertake transcontinental travel. They were both over seventy. Silly had stayed at Gull Rocks to look after them.
Across the grassy aisle, Muriel, radiant under the new mauve hat, rested one graceful mauve arm on the back of Mrs. Lester’s wheelchair. Rosalie and Edith, once more imported from Cleveland for a family festival, supported their mother on the other side. Mrs. Lester, herself, colossal in shiny black taffeta, blinked like a wrinkled sibyl in the brilliant June sunshine. There was something a little sinister about her massive, motionless figure. Her aged face, under her mantilla cap of black lace, looked like a mask of tan wax. The wrinkles, the salient nose, the cascade of double chins might have been a clever sculptor’s effigy of old age. Only the eyelids moved. Her bright dark eyes glittered behind them with a gleam of helpless intelligence that seemed imprisoned in the motionless mask. Mrs. Lester had deplored these marriages.
Behind the two families the garden was filled with guests. The orchestra beyond the clump of evergreens had just slipped from the riotous strains of “Tipperary” into the first sentimental notes of the Barcarolle from the Tales of Hoffmann. Muriel had requested it. It had been played at her wedding. Jane and Isabel had thought that the less this wedding was like Muriel’s the better. Nevertheless, they had conceded the Barcarolle.
Jane stood motionless, her eyes on the arch of Dorothy Perkins roses under which the clergyman would soon appear. It was outlined against the pure blue of the June sky. High overhead one white cloud floated, a flying dome of alabaster, above the improvised altar. The clergyman was in ambush, behind the hedge with Jack and Albert and their attendant groomsmen, waiting for the bridal party to appear at the other end of the garden. Jane wondered why they did not come. She had kissed Cicily and arranged her train, just before walking up the aisle. She wished she could lean out, like Steve, over the white satin ribbons, and see whether anything had gone wrong.
As she was wondering, the orchestra, in response to some hidden signal, swelled into Lohengrin. The clergyman, with the promptness of a marionette, swung out in white vestments under the arch of pink bloom. The four young men in khaki followed him. Jane heard Isabel catch her breath sharply at the sight of Jack. She saw Albert smile in self-conscious reassurance at Muriel across the aisle. Jack was staring straight down the grassy path, waiting for his first glimpse of Cicily. The first pair of khaki-clad ushers passed slowly by Jane. Then the second. Then the third. Then Jenny, successfully quaint, in her ridiculous hoopskirt. Her pale, plain little face was barely visible in the depths of Flora’s poke bonnet. What Jane could see of it looked intensely serious. Her hands shook a little as they gripped the 1860 bouquet. Her knuckles were white. She turned to face the congregation just as Belle passed by, a cloud of floating tulle, on Robin’s arm. Albert stepped out to meet her. Then Jane saw Cicily, another cloud, her head held high, her feet spurning the earth, her hand on Stephen’s elbow. She must have smiled at Jack. His funny snub-nosed face reflected the radiance of that smile. The Lohengrin faded away into silence. The clergyman took up the ritual.
“Dearly beloved brethren, we are met together in the sight of God and this company—”
In the sight of God. Was God really present, thought Jane, this sunny June afternoon, looking at them all, in her familiar Lakewood garden? Did God have time to take in all the weddings, or did He pick and choose? Did He sometimes withhold His blessing? Could God be summoned peremptorily to any altar? Did He never have another engagement? Was He not too busy this afternoon, for instance, on the battlefields of France, to look in on this little ceremony in a Lakewood garden? The clergyman’s voice droned on.
“—the holy estate of matrimony, which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocence—”
In the time of man’s innocence. That was, of course, the time for weddings. Jane thought fleetingly of André. Of herself in his arms. These four children were innocent enough. Too innocent. That was the difficulty. Too innocent to enter into that holy estate reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God. The modern generation was neither reverent, discreet, advised, nor sober. They were in fear of nothing. Certainly not of God. Certainly not of their parents. Robin and Stephen, standing side by side in that khaki-clad group of striplings, a little bald, a little grey, a little stooped, a little paunchy in their formal black broadcloth cutaways, waiting to give, reluctantly, these women to be married to these men, were the only reverent, discreet, advised, and sober individuals before that improvised altar. They were in fear of God. They were in fear of everything—for their children. But fear was foolish. Fear was, perhaps, hysterical. They were all good children. Isabel’s sobs recalled Jane’s attention to the ritual of betrothal.
“I, Cicily, take thee, John Ward, for my wedded husband—”
John Ward. Her father’s namesake. Isabel’s first baby was marrying her own. Isabel’s baby—only yesterday an armful of afghans—now a soldier in khaki, suitable cannon fodder, was marrying Cicily with her head like a dandelion. Marrying Cicily not twenty feet away from the site of the old sandpile where they had built their sand castles—
“I, Albert, take thee, Isabel, for my wedded wife—”
Albert Lancaster—the second Albert Lancaster—Muriel’s beautiful little boy who had grown up to look like a youthful Bacchus and to act like one, too, sometimes—Cicily’s laughing story of his behavior at the bachelors’ dinner at the University Club the night before had been really outrageous—Albert Lancaster, who was his father’s son—but only nineteen and heart-breakingly innocent in spite of the vine leaves—was marrying Belle—little Belle, with a face like an apple blossom.
When had she first thought that Belle looked like an apple blossom? Four years ago, at the foot of the stairs in the Lakewood hall, with Jimmy framed in the portieres of the living-room door. Jimmy, watching her kiss little Belle. Jimmy, whose mocking, informal ghost had curiously no place at this ceremony in the Lakewood garden. It paled before Stephen’s substantial presence. Stephen, who adored Cicily and had made the sandpile and had shared so consolingly in the worry and hurry and foreboding of the last hectic weeks. Weeks in which the sustaining sense of Jimmy’s cheerful companionship had faded ever so imperceptibly, but irrevocably, out of the foreground of Jane’s reveries. Lost in the bustle of preparation, the preoccupation of misgiving, Jane, for the first time since Jimmy’s death in France, had had no time for Jimmy.
“If I had gone away with him,” she reflected, “if I had married him, I suppose we should both be here today, watching Stephen give away Cicily. I should be feeling about Stephen just as I do now”—for after all there was only one way to feel about Stephen, standing helplessly by Cicily’s side before that improvised altar—“and feeling about Jimmy the way I did then—”
A faint shiver of repulsion passed over Jane. She felt herself suddenly submerged in an ignoble sense of relief at the realization of domestic decencies forever maintained, of vulgar complexities forever avoided. Were worlds well lost for love? Jane did not know. Jane’s love for Jimmy had presented in her life an absolutely insoluble problem. His death had placed a question mark beyond it. If he had lived, perhaps she might have arrived at a solution. She only knew, now, that she had acted in response to an inner instinct so strong that love itself had stood vanquished before it. The instinct was victorious, but the victory was barren. She had tried to preserve the happiness of others. In reward she had been left only with a feeble, futile feeling that, in any event, her own happiness could never have been attained. A barren victory. A victory that was essentially a defeat—
Nevertheless, it was impossible to think of Jimmy standing at her elbow, bound by the ties of wedlock at Cicily’s marriage. He was a phantom lover. He had to be. No other kind was possible for a Lakewood housewife—for Mrs. Stephen Carver—But should one sacrifice love to nothing more than a sense of decorum?
The orchestra swelled joyously into the Mendelssohn wedding march. Jane had not heard the clergyman’s last solemn adjuration. The bridal couples turned from the altar. The groomsmen and ushers drew their swords. Bright, virgin blades, flashing in the June sunshine. They made an arch of steel. Soon those swords would be spitting Germans. Today they formed a nuptial canopy. Swords should be beaten into ploughshares. They should not spit Germans. Neither should they make an arch, a churchly, Gothic arch, a glamorous, romantic arch, under which young warriors—too young warriors—led their brides from glamour to reality.
Cicily, radiant on Jack’s arm, threw her a sunshine smile. Belle, under shy eyelids, flashed a glance at Isabel. Jenny pranced down the grassy aisle to the rhythm of the Mendelssohn. Her nervousness was all gone. She was young and absurd and adorable. The ushers gallantly sheathed their swords and fell in to follow. Jane felt Stephen’s hand upon her arm. She knew that she was looking at him stupidly. There were tears in his eyes. Robin was blowing his nose. Isabel was frankly weeping. Muriel, beyond the satin ribbons, was powdering her tear-stained cheeks. It was over. Jane realized that she had experienced no emotion whatever during the brief ceremony. It had been routed by thought. Confused, perplexing thought. Emotion would come, Jane knew, if she looked into Stephen’s eyes. She would not look into them. She would take his arm and hold her head high and walk down that grassy aisle in the sight of that company—and God, if He were really there—as if she had approved of these weddings. Stephen read her heart. No one else should read it. Except her father—Jane caught his grave, anxious glance—and God, whose glance she could not catch.
The Mendelssohn had ceased. The congregation were nodding and whispering and smiling. The orchestra was playing “Over There.” Jane slipped her fingers through the crook of Stephen’s elbow. The ushers, already gathered around the punch-bowl under the apple tree, had begun to sing. The young male chorus swelled out joyously over the sunlit garden.
“Over there! Over there!
Send the word—send the word over there!
That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming,
With the drums rum-tumming everywhere!
So prepare! Say a prayer!—”
Jane moved with light step down the grassy aisle to the rollicking rhythm of the war song. If God were in that garden, He knew her misgivings. He knew that she was praying He had blessed those marriages. If there was a God. And if He was in that garden.