'What's her other name?' 'Devereux. Celia Devereux.'
By twisting sideways at Warrender's desk, Holden could see the little desk calendar with the staring red figure 10. Wednesday, July tenth. It was a reminder so sharp pointed that for a moment he closed his eyes. Then, suddenly, he got to his feet and went to one window, where he stood staring down.
Despite the comparative coolness of the office, heat danced in shimmers down stolid Whitehall. After the rainiest June in a quarter of a century, July had come in with a blaze of sun which heated the blood and dazzled the eye. A red bus rumbled past, its new paint glaring after wartime shabbiness. Sandbags, barbed wire in Whitehall, had all been swept away as traffic thickened and thundered. Seven years.
Exactly seven years ago yesterday—the ninth of July—Margot Devereux, Celia's sister, had been married to Tborley Marsh in the little church of Caswall St. Giles. All Holden's thoughts and emotions centered round that wedding, as a kind of symbol.
It had been, he could not help remembering, another such hot day as this. The thick grass blazing in that remote corner of Wiltshire; the shining water round Caswall Moat House; the cool little cave of the church, in whose dimness white and blue and lavender dresses mingled with the colors of flowers.
The rustling, the occasional cough, all came from the pews of spectators behind his back. As Thorley's best man, he stood a few paces behind Thorley and to the right: with Celia, as maid of honor (how well he could remember the light of painted windows through the transparent brim of her large hat!) standing over on the other side of Margot.
Who was it who had said that churches were like 'the treasure-caves of pirates?' Confound these literary associations, which always kept twining into his mind. Yet the place had a cavelike smell and atmosphere, too, with its glimmer of stained glass and brass candlesticks. And . . .
He couldn't see Thorley Marsh's face: only Thorley's broad, thick back, straight in black broadcloth, radiating good nature like that rising young stockbroker's whole personality. Yet Thorley was desperately nervous. And Holden could see, past the gauzy white of the veil, a part of Margot’ s profile— the healthy, hearty, laughing Margot, acknowledged as the beauty of the family, to whom Celia's delicacy formed a marked contrast—with her head a little lowered, and color under her eyes.
How fond he was of both Margot and Thorley! How he knew, in his bones and soul, that this was going to be the happiest of marriages!
'I, Margot, take thee, Thorley,' the husky contralto voice could barely be heard, 'to my wedded husband.' It was in little gasps, after the clergyman's urban utterance. 'To have and to hold from this day forward. For
A wave of emotion, as palpable as the scent of flowers, flowed out from the little group of spectators in the pews. Everything was emotion, catching at the throat. He had not dared to look at Celia.
How afraid he had been, with that disquiet which always haunts the best man, that he was going to drop the ring! Or that Thorley would drop it when he handed it over. And that they would both have to scramble all over the floor for it, in front of all those people! Then the shock of astonishment at the ease with which it could be managed, when Mr. Reid in his white surplice bent forward and in a ventriloquial sort of voice murmured: 'Place the ring on the book, please.'
So neither of them could fumble it He and Thorley had looked at each other in surprise, as though this were a special new bit of business ingeniously devised by the church for their benefit
When it was all over, after what seemed an interminable amount of kneeling on hassocks—yes, that had been the high point of emotion—everybody ran forward, in a whirl of colors, and began kissing everybody else. He remembered the grandmother, Mammy Two (eighty years old, her face so whitened with age that it looked powdered) sniffing, with her handkerchief at her pale-blue eyes. He remembered Obey, in a funny hat—Obey, who had nursed both Celia and Margot—hovering in the background. And Sir Danvers Locke, who had given the bride away. And old Dr. Shepton looking on dubiously through his pince-nez. And little Doris Locke, aged twelve, one of the flower girls, for some reason suddenly bursting into tears and refusing even to attend the reception afterward.
As for Celia .. .
It was at this point that Frank Warrender's patient, common-sense voice roused him out of a dream. 'Well, old son?'
'Sorry,' said Holden. He swung around from the window, smiling, and crushed out his cigarette on the edge of the sill. Warrender, with concern, watched that lean figure against the light from the window: the thin, intellectual face, brown from an Italian sun, with its narrow line of moustache and inscrutable eyes.
'I was thinking,' Holden continued, 'about Margot’s wedding to a friend of mine named Thorley Marsh. Seven years ago, just before the war broke out'
Warrender's eyebrows went up. 'Margot?'
'Celia's elder sister. Margot was twenty-eight; Celia maybe twenty-one. There were only three of the family left: Celia, and Margot, and the old grandmother they called Mammy Two.' Holden laughed, not loudly. 'Weddings, in retrospect, are always supposed to be funny. I wonder why.'
'God knows, old boy. But...'
'I suppose,' Holden went on thoughtfully, 'because anything that involves strong emotion is afterward considered funny, from matrimony to having high explosives dropped on you. But in weddings there's a sort of (what's the word I want?) a sort of kindliness mixed up with the emotion, and ifs always remembered with a shout of laughter. 'Do you remember when you—?' And so on.'
He was silent for a moment, opening and shutting his hands.
'Margot is beautiful,' he added suddenly, as though War-render had doubted it 'I never saw her so beautiful as then: all colored up, so to speak. Rather tall for a woman; chestnut-colored hair under the white veil; brown eyes set wide apart; dimples when she laughed, which was often. And likeable. The sort of girl who's captain of the hockey team at her school: you know? But Celia—my God, Celia!'
'Look here, Don. Why are you harping so much on this wedding?'
'Because it's the keynote of everything. It went to my head with a romantic bang. And I lost my chance with Celia.'
'How do you mean, you lost your chance with Celia?'
Again Holden was silent for a moment.
'I met Celia in the evening,' he answered. 'Alone. In the path, under the trees, beside that same little church. I . . .'
And again there returned, poignant in vividness, every aspect of that day: every tinge of the sky, every fragrance of grass. The wedding reception at Caswall Moat House—with the sun making a hot cuirass of black broadcloth and starched shirt, and the dun-colored building mirrored in burning water. There had been a Devereux at Caswall ever since it had been known as Caswall Abbey, and one William Devereux bought it from the eighth Henry.
He remembered the tables set out in the great hall, which had been remodeled in the eighteenth century. The toasts, the reading of telegrams, the haste and fuss in one throb of excitement. Then, afterward, the departure of bride and groom, wearing soberer clothes, in Thorley's car... .
All over.
'Just as it was getting toward twilight,' said Holden, 'I went for a walk in the fields. I didn't expect to meet anybody: I didn't want to meet anybody. Emotion, you seel I went toward the church, which is between Caswall Moat House and Caswall village. There's a little back gate, and a little path that goes past the side of the church between it and the churchyard, with beech trees arching over it. And there I met Celia.
'I was tired. I was—a little crazy, I think. Anyway, for a second we just stood there looking at each other, maybe twenty feet apart Then I walked straight up to her and said . . .'
'Go on,' prompted Warrender, glowering down at the desk.
'I said to Celia, 'I'm in love with you, and
Warrender sat up straight, crushing out his cigarette in an ash tray.
'You blithering ass!' he almost shouted.
