He turned—and saw Harald, his brother, standing a little apart in all his hazel handsomeness, and Harald bowed to him ironically and silently toasted him with the champagne. For the first time Jonathan was aware of something a little disagreeable, and he frowned vaguely and walked off looking for Mavis again in her clotted group of worshipful friends. But Flora Eaton appeared out of nowhere, somewhat feverish, her narrow face quivering. She caught his arm in her dark tense hand.
"Jon! Jon! Be good, be kind! Love her, Jon! She is so tender, so young, so inexperienced, such a child! She is a daughter to us, Jon, a daughter to us! Oh, no one deserves our child, no one! Guard her sacredly."
"I will," Jonathan actually said, and went looking for his bride again. Marjorie heard this exchange and she closed her eyes briefly.
Harald appeared at her side, smiling, and she started. He lifted his glass and said, "To the Golden Girl." He laughed a little, his eyes dancing. "And to Jon, who is going to need it."
"Why?" asked Marjorie.
"He's a silly damned lamb," said Harald. "Our charmer is going to teach him a thing or two. Listen to her laugh! Or is it a bray?" He considered. "A bray," he repeated.
"Don't be nasty, Harald."
"I'm not. I'm factual. Jon is always talking about 'stick to the facts.' He wouldn't recognize a fact if it kicked him in the —well, in the teeth." He was very tall and handsome and he smiled at his mother as if trying to draw her into a mutual joke. Marjorie was not amused, and she moved away, full of foreboding. Harald said, "I don't know whom I pity most."
Japanese lanterns were lit at dusk in the gardens, and there was music over the long lawns, for Marton Eaton had hired the Hambledon German Brass Band for the occasion, without the brass overpowering the violins and the cellos. The first dance, on stiff green carpet laid on the grass, was claimed by Martin and he and Mavis whirled together in a sprightly waltz, Mavis' train over her white kid arm, and her head thrown back so that her big white teeth glowed and glittered in the lantern light, and her veil flew behind her and her full and lovely figure gleamed in its white satin tightness. Next, she danced with her bridegroom, and she kissed the side of his face cheerfully and squeezed his shoulder affectionately in her gloved hand, and grinned up at him. He recalled with happiness that never had he seen Mavis in a "mood," or otherwise than her charming, bouncing self, in a cloud of laughter and scent. She was enormously healthy, too, a most desirable trait in a wife, and health had its own enchantment. Her rosy face was damp with heat and exertion, but she did not pause to wipe away the little drops but let them shine on her vibrant skin. Her sleek golden pompadour loosened, and a few ringlets fell from it. Jonathan could feel the soft but vigorous movements of all her muscles, and he thought of the young mares on his farms, silken and fresh and trembling with eager life. He looked down at Mavis and tried to see her eyes, but as usual they were crinkled with mirth and pure animal enjoyment and the awareness of her beauty. Her translucent flesh appeared to palpitate.
At length it was time for the bridal couple to leave for the Quaker Hotel, and Mavis disappeared with her running bridesmaids and her matron of honor and her Aunt Flora, and there were screams of joy from the lighted house when she threw her bouquet from the stairway. The band continued to play and the guests continued to drink and eat and dance and joke and laugh, and this would go on for hours after the newly married pair left. A little later Mavis reappeared, still vibrant but now cool and softly powdered, and dressed in a white silk suit with a flow of exquisite white lace tumbling from her neck down over her bosom, and a broad white straw hat covered with pale blue roses of silk. The hem of her suit just daringly lifted over the arch of her white stockings and hinted of fragile ankles, and she was dazzling and fresh and shining like the moon.
She never stopped smiling for a moment, her great white-toothed smile, and she kept throwing back her head in a boom of laughter and everyone, as usual, was fascinated and forced to laugh helplessly in return. She stood with Jonathan, her hand on his arm, and cajoled, and affectionately slapped a cheek here and there, or squeezed a hand, or gave a swift kiss, and she was never still for a single second. She was all beguilement and vitality and gusto, though to some ears her laughter frequently sounded like a screech, and it rose even above the music and the loving babble of the many guests.
The bridal couple drove off in Flora's own victoria and with her coachman, and to the last Mavis waved and laughed and called back to the guests who gave them Godspeed. Jonathan, beside her, thought it was like sitting next to a dynamo, scented and breathing and strongly pulsing. Once on the street, Mavis apparently became aware of him, and she squeezed his arm gleefully, and said with immense cheer, "Wasn't that a lovely wedding, Jon?"
"Yes, darling," he said, and lifted her hand and kissed it and she looked down on his thick black hair with affection. "I love you," she said. Jonathan lifted his head, deeply moved, and suddenly remembered that never before had she said that to him. He pulled her into his arms, in a cloud of rose fragrance, and kissed her lips with passion. She purred against his lips like a big, contented kitten, then drew away. She said, "I wish we were going to Europe, though, to Paris."
"I told you, darling, that I have several operations in two weeks."
"I know." Her voice was husky and a little hoarse always, but now it was more so. "Uncle Martin and Aunt Flora have told me what it means to be a doctor's wife." Then he saw her deep dimples in the flare of the lamps on the street. "But I'm not going to let you become dull and smell of ether all the time, like Uncle Martin, and never having fun again."
"Perhaps next summer we will go to Europe," said Jonathan. He was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time, and he thought of his coming night with his wife.
"Urn, um," Mavis crooned, and patted his cheek, and began to hum the Wedding March half under her breath. "A lovely wedding," she said again. "I'd like to get married every day."
"Why?" asked Jonathan, with adoring fondness.
"It's such fun," said Mavis, again gleeful. He did not know why he felt a touch of disappointment. He looked at Mavis' pretty face, glowing beside him, and there was no shyness on it and no nervousness. When he kissed her again, she responded absently, and her lips were smiling, and he felt that she was hardly aware of him but was indulging in some delightful thoughts of her own, far removed from him.
The bridal suite shone resplendently with crystal chandeliers and was heavy with the fragrance of hundreds of flowers. Mavis had the gift of flattered gratitude, and she went from room to room, exclaiming over the kindness of friends who had sent silver baskets and bowls of rich fruit and bouquets and heaps of little parting gifts. "Everyone loves me," she said, and looked at Jonathan eagerly.
"No wonder," he said. "And I do, too. Remember?"
But she whirled again through the rooms, singing loudly and laughing over some little note among the gifts, and chortled deeply. She had thrown her hat on a blue damask love seat, and her gloves on top of it. Her luggage, and Jonathan's, was in the great bedroom with its enormous brass bed and lace counterpane. He began to tremble. He called to Mavis, "It's nearly ten, darling, and we must be up at six to catch the Saratoga train at eight in the morning."
She came running to him, and she grasped his arms and looked up into his face, winsome and rosy. "I am hungry!" she declared with pleasure. She pressed her cheek briefly but strongly against his chin. "Hungry as a wolf. Getting married did that to me, but I can always eat, anytime."
"You mean—now?" asked Jonathan. She nodded with that immense good nature of hers, and laughed her exultant laughter. "Yes, yes," she said. "I had hardly a bite at home, just half a plate of cream chicken and a slice of ham, and some rolls and cakes. And," she continued with astonished joy and animation, "I want some more champagne!"
So a little table was brought up to the suite with covered silver dishes, steaming, and a bucket of ice with champagne, and Mavis, still in her white silk suit, hovered over the place settings lustfully, and smiled
and smiled and smiled and made little joking comments to the infatuated waiter. "Oh, how delicious it all smells!" she exclaimed, sniffing loudly and lifting the silver covers of dishes, and then humming with anticipation. Her golden head bobbed emphatically, and she looked at Jonathan, grinning, and he saw the glittering slits of blue between her yellow lashes. He could not help it. He laughed back. He remembered that she was very young and extraordinarily healthy. And innocent. Innocent, above all. He must be patient and tender to one who knew nothing of marriage and what marriage meant. She was a child.
Before Jonathan could seat himself, Mavis had already filled a plate with heaping portions of meat and gravy and potatoes and stewed tomatoes, and was purring deeply in her throat with ecstatic enjoyment and appetite. Well, he thought, we'll never have any vapors to contend with at any rate, and thank God my darling is abundantly healthy. He could not touch a bite. He drank champagne with Mavis and watched her eat. She ate daintily, but all at once he had a thought that she was also gross, a thought he squelched immediately. Even while she ate she smiled and purred in her throat in simple animal pleasure. She drank the champagne like water, and looked over the rim, twinkling, at her husband.
"You aren't handsome in the least," she informed him, and chuckled. "Not like Harald."
"Does that matter?" he asked with indulgence, and worshiped her with his eloquent dark eyes.
"Um, um," she said. Then she suddenly stood up, raced around the table to him, and kissed him smartly on the top of his head. Before he could seize her, she was back in her chair and eating again. Part of her hair was tumbling down her back and it caught vivid gilt lights from the chandelier. She motioned to Jonathan to fill her glass again, and she laughed aloud as the bubbles tickled her nose. He had never seen such verve before, and he thought how marvelous his life would be with Mavis, how lively and gay and refreshing, after he came wearily home from the hospital. She would be like a bright effervescent pool of water, fragrant and reviving to exhausted flesh, and the house would ring with her joy in life and her husky merriment. He was so moved at this thought that he could only stare and smile at her with the most touching hope. She would teach him so many things, adventure, new insights, lightness, happiness, peace, and, above all, zest in living. He had forgotten what zest was, but he would learn again.
"I wish," she said, with a mouth full of ice cream, "that we weren't going to live in that old house of your mother's, Jon."
"I know, dear. You've said that before. But it is my father's house, and mine, and not my mother's, and it is very beautiful."
"Your mother doesn't like me," she informed him, and grinned flashingly.
"She loves you, Mavis. Who could help but love you?"
"Well, she doesn't." Mavis spoke like a malicious child. "Not that I care. I can get along with anyone, really. She won't disturb me. And I won't disturb her. I don't care a bit about running a house, and perhaps I should be grateful that your mother will continue to do that and leave me free."
"For what, love?"
She waved her white hand on which Jonathan's diamond broke in light. "Why, for so many things! All the parties we'll be giving, and accepting, and lawn fetes, and dancing, and shopping and being with friends, and teas, and receptions."
Now she was looking at him with the strangest expression, and her little eyes were sly and calculating and a little cruel. But he did not see the cruelty. He saw only her humor.
"There are more things in life than that, Mavis," he said, and thought what a child she was.
"I'd like to know what is more pleasant," she said. "Um. These lovely little cakes! Marzipan." She burst out laughing. "I remember what you called Senator Campion. A Marzipan Pear. Uncle Martin thinks it is precious. Did you know he's afraid of the Senator?"
"No. Is he? And why?"
She chuckled. "I don't know. Who cares? But he is. And the Senator is such a handsome man, and so kind and happy. I love happy people, don't you?"
"I love you," said Jonathan.
Mavis threw back her head and began to sing hoarsely. "Happiness! Happiness! It's a great wide wonderful world, it's a great wide wonderful world, it's a great wide beautiful, wonderful world!"
Teach me how it is, thought Jonathan. Mavis sprang up again and began to whirl about the room, singing, her arms thrown out, her falling golden hair swirling about her, and she was entirely unconscious of her husband's presence. She was staring sunnily at the ceiling and had her own relishing thoughts. She picked up her wide white skirts and he saw the firm and graceful calves and her delicate knees. He got up and tried to take her in his arms, to dance the dance of life with her. But she pushed him off with head-shaking impatience and danced away from him, as if she needed no one but herself for her own joy.
But Jonathan did not know that now, though the faintest coldness touched him as he watched his young wife whirl alone and dance dizzily through the rooms, singing only to herself. He watched her with passion, exulting in her beauty and vigor.
I don't deserve all this, thought the proud young man with rare humility. I don't deserve all this beauty and youth and sheer exultation in living, and all this hope and happiness.
Mavis stopped suddenly, across the room from him, and she shrieked with mirth, bent and clasped her hands between her knees, and shook with her delight and exuberance. She flung back her hair and raced to him, seized him by the shoulders and kissed him heartily. "Oh, what an old man you are, to be sure!" she cried.
He seized her and held her, vibrating, against his chest. "Teach me how to be young, Mavis," he said, his hps in her fresh and scented hair.
But she was moving restlessly in his arms, like a cat. She danced away again. It was hot in the suite, and the odor of flowers and food was overpowering. He caught a glimpse of Mavis' face and he was surprised to see that it was no longer smiling and that she was sullenly pouting even as she danced. Her small eyes, as usual, were hidden in their arched lashes, and she seemed to be thinking furiously.
"Mavis!" he called to her.
She stopped at once, panting, and pushing back her hair. She stared at him.
"What?" she asked, as if disagreeably reminded of his presence.
"It's half-past eleven, almost."
"Oh, who cares?" she cried. "Are you so old that you can't miss an hour or two of sleep without being ill, or tired, or something? Can't you enjoy anything?"
He was startled. He, as a doctor, was always aware of time and its pressing. He was disturbed. Then he thought, I must get used to this, to having someone near me who isn't harassed all the time and can enjoy the passing moments and live in the present. I've been so immured, so shut in.
"Yes, I can enjoy, Mavis," he said in a humble voice. "But I thought you must be tired, after the wedding and everything."
"I'm never tired!" Her hoarse voice was emphatic. "I don't know what it is to be tired! And I hate tired people! I won't have them around me, ever!" She shook her head with such vehemence that her hair flew. "I detest serious people, such slugs!"
Half alarmed, half pleased, he teased her: "But I'm a serious person, Mavis."
Again her eyes shut cunningly. "Yes, I know," and then she laughed as at some enormous joke. "I don't mind you being serious, Jon. It helps you make such a lot of money, and don't you just adore making lots of money?"
She is only a child, he reminded himself, as yet unaware that women like Mavis are never children.
"Such a lot of money, a lot of money, a lot of money!" sang Mavis, and kicked up one leg like an expert dancer. She whirled on the other. There was something frenzied in her movements.
Then she stopped abruptly and again stared at Jonathan, and again her gaze was cunning and thoughtful. "All right, old man," she said. "I'll tuck you in your bed so you won't be too tired to make money!"
"But you have a lot of money yourself, darling," he said, "and you are your uncle's heir—"
"Nobody has enough money!" she shouted pettishly, then ran past him into the bedroom and s
lammed the door behind her. He sat down, and the air in the suite seemed fetid to him, as well as hot and stinking with the smell of rich food. He stood up and pushed the table out into the corridor. The champagne bottle was empty. He was conscious, all at once, of the need of a drink of whiskey, several drinks. He was also, he admitted, very tired, and then he was aware of a kind of hollow emptiness and disorientation. The lights in the parlor of the suite stung his eyes and he got up heavily and turned off all but one lamp. Now there was an odor of gas in the suite. He opened the windows and leaned out and drew in the hot air, burdensome with the smell of heated pavements and brick and dust. The lights of Hambledon winked at him, and he yawned, then rubbed his eyes. He saw the far glitter of the river and the dull shadow of the mountains against a dark but burning sky full of stars. There was a rumble of thunder somewhere, and a little dusty wind blew over his sweating face.
Then he became aware that he had forgotten he had a bride in those brief seconds. He looked about him, somewhat dazed. He felt no passion any longer. He was too tired.