CHAPTER 25.
The Cathedral was palpitant with Fashion. For the moment, its dim religious light was lost in the flamboyance of smart Society’s glare. Its serene atmosphere was fractured by cross-currents that blew in from an impious world. The Flesh and the Devil walked on the feet that pressed the red carpet to save from pollution the soles of those who were bidden to the Sloane-Carmichael wedding. And there were many, for Mona Carmichael was a Minister’s daughter and the moving spirit of the Naughty Nine. Also, she was a bride extremely good to look upon. She possessed the slender body of the jeune fils, and an age-old wisdom in the advantageous exhibition of it. When not engaged in devising spectacular “stunts” for her eight disciples, she was usually enjoying masculine approbation expressed in terms that described the speaker as being simply crazy about her. She had reached the point when a modest man was the most boresome thing on earth.
No sermon that was ever preached from the pulpit of the sacred fane would have exposed the mephistophelean cynicism of the present day in its attitude towards the Solemnization of Matrimony by the Church, as did this particular wedding. It might have been a deliberate revival of some medieval mystery play, staged for the purpose of provoking a recreant world to repentance. Men in youth and age were there, whose thoughts throughout the ceremony were never lifted above the level of lubricity. Their presence at any of the matrimonial pageants of that gallant Defender of the Faith, Henry the Eighth, would have lent a distinct flavour to the atmosphere.
The younger married women among the guests recalled their own weddings, and endeavoured to convey the impression that they had relinquished themselves to their husbands with protest, if not martyrdom. They wore an unconvincingly pensive air.
The spinsters betrayed a touch of malice, although they tried to look as though feeling that any woman who married was a fool. Bitterly, they realised the transparency of their attitude, and that here and there, people were saying,
“Oh, there’s So-and-so. Isn’t it a pity she never married?”
Over all the Church, there was a restlessness, a strange suppression, louder and more definite than the syllabub of broken conversation.
Ushers, khaki-clad, passed ceaselessly up and down the aisles, wearing a manner of mixed hauteur and nervousness. They showed the effect of too much prenuptial and anti-prohibition entertainment. Groups of guests gathered, argued, accepted the places provided with scantily veiled distaste, and became part of the general unrest. Few there were who regarded marriage in the light of a spiritual concept, nor was it easy to see in these exotic social episodes any striving towards an æsthetic ideal. On the contrary, two young people came together, drained the moment of its last dram of pleasure, and separated—if not in a physical sense, certainly in a spiritual one, seeking amusement elsewhere, and with hectic sedulousness.
The family of the bride persistently referred to the spectacle as “simple”, and endeavoured to preserve the illusion of economy throughout. This was a War Wedding.
A jungle of palms crowded the chancel and reared their feathered heads against the pillars of the Church. Masses of yellow tulips and daffodils suggested the simplicity of spring. Some twenty pews on either side of the centre aisle were barricaded against intrusion by plain silken cords instead of the richer bands of ribbon that ordinarily would have been used to separate those who had presented gifts in ridiculous excess of their means and affection, from those who had blessed the happy pair with sugar spoons and bon-bon dishes. Even the gowns of the women—according to their own description—harmonised with the note of rigid simplicity that prevailed. Mrs. Long, securely imprisoned by the yellow silken cord, smiled as she watched the procession, for she had seen—by the merest accident—Miss Caplin’s advance copy on the function. Miss Caplin was the Society editress of The Chronicle. “The mother of the bride wore a rich but simple creation of dove-grey radium satin, panelled with bands of solid grey pearls. The sleeves were formed of wings that fell to the hem of the gown and were made of dyed rose point. Mrs. Carmichael’s hat was of grey tulle with no trimming save a simple bird of Paradise.”
That was the sort of thing she had been instructed to say.
Mrs. Blaine passed in review. She was gowned in a black crepe meteor, with bands of rhinestones forming the corsage, and she wore a hat of uncurled ostrich feathers.
Mrs. Pratt’s idea of economy was expressed by a royal purple chiffon velvet, trimmed with ornaments of amethyst and pearl.
Lady Elton had managed to pick up an imported creation at a figure that was reduced no more than her own, but she called it a “simple frock” of Delft georgette over silver cloth. Owing to some unfortunate confusion in the composing room, a few lines reporting work on the Civic Playgrounds crept into the account of the wedding, and the following extraordinary announcement appeared:
“Lady Elton looked exceptionally charming in a dull blue chiffon over three lavatories and two swimming baths.”
A trembling usher, green-white from fatigue and dissipation, bowed Mr. and Mrs. Hudson into the pew. Mrs. Long’s practised eye noted that the latter wore a sapphire charmeuse, relieved by old Honiton and showing a motif of fleur-de-lys done in hand embroidery.
“I don’t know whether I’m all here or not,” panted Mrs. Hudson. “Such a scramble at the last minute!”
“There doesn’t seem to be any of you missing,” murmured Mrs. Long.
“Oh, how do you do?” she bowed, as Sir Eric and Lady Denby crowded in.
Commonplaces were exchanged.
“I haven’t seen you for some time,” observed Lady Denby, leaning across the Hudsons.
“I’ve been keeping very quiet,” returned Mrs. Long. “In fact, I’m going into the hospital to-morrow for rather a beastly operation.”
Vague expressions of sympathy were dropped into the subdued noise about them. “I’m so sorry . . . No, you don’t look well . . . Oh, there’s Mrs. . . . I hope it’s nothing serious . . . What has Eva Leeds got on?”
“That’s the dress Haywood made for Lady Elton and she wouldn’t accept,” volunteered Mrs. Hudson. “They say he gave it to her. . . .”
Lady Denby interrupted. “What hospital have you chosen?” she asked, making a mental note of the fact that the event called for floral recognition.
“St. Christopher’s.”
“Oh, how perfect!” breathed Mrs. Hudson, indifferently. “You’ll love it, there. The nurses are so good to your flowers!”
The recently-created knight, Sir Enoch Cunningham, lumbered up the aisle in the wake of his wife. Sir Enoch had established a record for patriotic service by charging the Government only four times a reasonable profit on the output of his mill. He was prominently listed in the Birthday Honours and on this, his first public appearance, was profoundly self-conscious.
“There go the Cunninghams,” whispered Lady Elton from the pew behind Mrs. Long. “Aren’t they sickening?”
“When Knighthood was in Flour,” murmured Lady Denby, over her shoulder.
“He always reminds me of a piece of underdone pastry,” said Mrs. Long.
“Well,” remarked Mrs. Hudson, with a giggle, “they’ll be pie for everyone now.”
Across the aisle, Pamela de Latour was agitating herself over the fact that Major and Mrs. Beverley were sitting amongst the intimate friends of the groom.
“Why, in heaven’s name, do you suppose they have been put there?” she demanded of Miss Tyrrell and the Angus-McCallums, who shared her pew.
“Didn’t he and Sloane fly together?” suggested one of the latter. “Or did he save his life . . . or something?”
“I don’t know. But it seems odd to put them away up there. I heard he’d lost his job,” said Miss de Latour.
“I heard that, too,” agreed Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum.
Miss Tyrrell couldn’t believe it. She urged her companions to recall everything that looked like corroborative evidence, and even then cried skeptically,
“But are you sure? May he not have taken on something else?”
Miss Latour didn’t think so. She had the news on pretty good authority. She regretted, however, to have caused Miss Tyrrell such acute distress, and hoped the report might be incorrect.
“Although I doubt it,” she said. “Colonel Mayhew told me that they were going back to England.”
“I had no idea they were such great friends of yours, Lily,” whispered Miss Mabel Angus-McCallum. “In most quarters they were not very popular.”
“Friends?” echoed Miss Tyrrell, indignantly. “They were no friends of mine, I assure you!”
“Then why—” began the other three “—why are you so upset by hearing that he’s lost his job?”
“Because,” answered Miss Tyrrell. “I was afraid it wasn’t so!”
Several rows behind them, Azalea Deane sat crushed against the ample folds of Miss Leila Brant. She had refused to accompany Marjorie Dilling, despite the latter’s threat that she would stay at home rather than go alone.
“I know you are not serious,” returned Azalea, in her gently insistent way, “for, of course, you should be there. A special seat will be reserved for you, and you must pretend to enjoy hob-snobbing with the notables.”
Miss Brant fidgetted, fretting at her failure to impress Azalea with a sense of her importance. Like Mr. Sullivan, her activities were conducted largely and with a certain grandeur that was pleasing even to those who recognised its intense untruth. She adorned the cheap and commonplace, and had really a shrewd eye for transforming simple articles into pieces of expensive and decorative uselessness. Furthermore, she shared with Dilling a perfect genius for discovering clever assistants—artisans—whose ideas were better than her own, and whom she never tried to lead, but was content to follow. Moreover, she learned long ago to cultivate none but the wealthiest of patrons. Her shop, her wares, even she, herself, exuded an atmosphere of opulent exclusiveness. To be a regular patron of the Ancient Chattellarium was to attain a certain social eminence, to share the air breathed by Millionaires, Knights and Ladies—by Government House. One never stepped into the shop without meeting somebody of importance.
At the moment, however, she was not entirely happy. She had a vast respect for Azalea, but didn’t like her. Azalea always made her uncomfortable. She was conscious of secret amusement, perhaps a tinge of contempt behind the enigmatic expression in her etiolated eyes. Whereas Dilling, in Azalea’s presence, felt himself the man he wished to be, Miss Brant recognised a very inferior person hiding behind the arras of her very superior manner, and she felt that Azalea saw this creature plainly, penetrating its insincerity, its petty ambitions; in short, that she perceived all the weaknesses that Miss Brant hoped none would suspect.
“There’s So-and-So,” she cried, incessantly. “In strict confidence, I will tell you that they have just given me rather a nice commission to do their—Oh, and there’s So-and-So! Where in the world, do you suppose they will seat all these people?”
Azalea smiled and shrugged. Miss Brant felt snubbed, as though her companion had said, “Why bother? It’s not your affair. You always take such delight in meddling in other people’s business.”
She took refuge in that too-little used harbour, Silence. But briefly. She left it to remark,
“Oh, there go the Prendergasts! How do you do?” she bowed, with extreme affability, catching Mrs. Prendergast’s eye. Then she flushed. Azalea was regarding her with a smile that seemed to strip every particle of cordiality from her salutation and reduce it to a medium of barter exchanged for the extremely expensive gift Mrs. Prendergast had been cajoled into buying for the bridal pair. Miss Brant felt somehow that Azalea was thinking,
“If she hadn’t made a satisfactory purchase, you wouldn’t even bother to nod your head. You never used to.”
“You may not believe it, Azalea,” she said, as though moved to self-justification, “but Mrs. Prendergast is really rather a dear. It sounds stupid, but one can’t help seeing that her intentions are good.”
“Really! Aristotle said that Nature’s intentions were always good. The trouble was that she couldn’t carry them out.”
“But they really are getting on,” protested Miss Brant, watching the ostentatious progress of her patron down the aisle. “Don’t you think they are acquiring quite an air?”
“I think the Dawkter is acquiring quite a pragmatic walk. And it’s especially conspicuous in church.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” assented Miss Brant, hastily, and wondering if Azalea referred to some physical disability that had resisted the effects of Anti-Agony. “There! They’ve been put with the Pratts. Confidentially, I’ll tell you that she bought rather a good bit, too . . . didn’t want to be eclipsed by the Prendergasts, you know. Isn’t their rivalry amusing?”
“And lucrative, I should say.”
Miss Brant veered away from the sordid business angle. “Look at them, now,” she cried. “Mrs. Pratt has the floor. She doesn’t even pause for breath. Azalea, what can she be saying?”
“Words—words—words! I’m afraid Mr. Pratt frequently regrets ignoring Nietzsche’s advice.”
“Whose?”
“Nietzsche’s. Don’t you remember, he said, ‘Before marriage this question should be put—Will you continue to be satisfied with this woman’s conversation until old age? Everything else in marriage is transitory’.”
Miss Brant cast an inward glance upon her own conversational powers, and wondered if there was anything personal behind Azalea’s remark. Aloud, she said,
“How clever of you to remember all those quotations, my dear! I always wish—Oh, there goes Mrs. Dilling! Heavens, doesn’t she look like a ghost?”
Azalea had already noted the haggardness of Marjorie’s appearance, and, knowing nothing of her encounter with Mr. Sullivan, attributed it solely to the over-strain of War Work.
“She doesn’t know how to save herself,” she said.
“Yes, she really has been rather splendid, hasn’t she?” assented Miss Brant. “Everyone says so . . . I remember the first time I ever saw her. She wanted a terrible what-not-thing repaired. Little did I imagine, then, that some day she would be the wife of a Minister of the Crown. And have you heard a rumour about the Premiership? It makes me feel quite weepy. Only—only—I wish she wouldn’t wear such awful hats!”
“What do people say?” asked Azalea, ignoring the latter remark.
“Oh, you know the sort of thing—that she has done so much more than lend her name to patriotic functions and sit on platforms; that she has actually worked in the War Gardens, packed boxes, sewed, cooked and visited the soldiers’ wives. You know, it is rather splendid!”
Azalea nodded and raised her eyes to the stained glass window memorialising another Gentle Spirit who found His happiness in ministering to the needs of the humbler folk. “It is rather splendid,” she agreed.
“It must be very late,” said Miss Brant. “I wonder if that little minx, Mona, has been up to some of her tricks. By the way, have you heard about the Trevelyans?”
“Mercy, no! Not already?”
“Positively!”
“Why, it seems only last week since we were watching them get married. Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Both! And the screaming part of it is that the instant Mona heard the news, she had herself insured against twins!”
“You’re joking!”
“It’s a fact. Lloyd’s took her on. I say, Azalea, doesn’t Mrs. Dilling look ghastly?”
Marjorie sat next Mrs. Blaine and Lady Fanshawe, feeling more ghastly than she looked. She had never been ill in her life, save when the babies came and that, of course, didn’t count. One just naturally had babies and made no fuss about it. But this was different. She had no particular pain. She wasn’t quite sure that her head ached. But she felt strangely weak and uncertain of herself.
Lady Fanshawe and Mrs. Blaine were complaining of their servants. Neither would admit the other’s supremacy in having the worst the Dominion afforded.
“But you have a very good cook,” Mrs. Blaine protested.
“My dear, how can you say so?” cried Lady Fanshawe. “Twice, she has nearly poisoned us!”
“Well, the dinner I ate last Thursday at your house couldn’t have been better.”
“A happy exception, I assure you.”
“Why don’t you get rid of her?” asked Mrs. Blaine.
“I shall . . . but not at once—not until I have some one else in view. However, if you need a cook, dear,” she went on, “why not try Mrs. Hudson’s Minnie? She is really an excellent woman, and can always be tempted with higher wages.”
Mrs. Blaine turned away with a fine assumption of indifference, and Marjorie ventured a sympathetic word in Lady Fanshawe’s ear.
“It’s very bothersome, isn’t it?” she murmured, “especially when one does so much entertaining. You always seem to have such bad luck with your servants. I believe I could send you a cook.”
The older woman flung a peculiar look at her, and whispered, “You dear, simple soul! I’ve a perfect treasure! But I don’t dare say so; every one of my friends would try to take her from me!”
Outside, the handsome departmental car drew smartly to a standstill, and the Hon. Peter Carmichael assisted his daughter to alight. She tripped up the carpeted stairs with no more concern than though she were going to a Golf Club Tea.
The trembling, green-white usher came forward to meet her. A group of bridesmaids stood near the door.
“Well, old thing,” cried Mona, “how’s the silly show, anyway?”
“Full house,” returned the usher. “S.R.O. as the theatres say. At five dollars a head, you’d have quite a tidy nest egg, y’know!”
“Rotten business—ushing,” cried Mona. “You look all in, young fella me lad.”
“I am. A company of duds, I call ’em. Balky as mules. Nobody wants to sit with anybody else.”
“Do you blame them?”
“My God, no! As the poet sang, ‘I’d rather live in vain than live in Ottawa’!”
“Come, daughter,” said the Hon. Peter, fussily crooking his elbow.
“The lovely bride entered the church on the arm of her father,” simpered Mona, pinching his ear. “Forward, everybody. We’re off!”
Four little flower girls led the way, four being a simple number, much less intricate than forty-four or ninety-four and a fraction. Their costumes were beautifully simple—flesh-coloured tights and a pair of wings, in cunning imitation of Dan Cupid. They carried bows and a quiver full of arrows, the latter tipped with yellow daffodils.
They were followed by the six bridesmaids, who also carried out this note of extreme simplicity. Their costumes were composed of yellow tulle, sprinkled with a profusion of brilliants, and were supposed to suggest early morning dew upon a field of tulips. In place of flowers, they carried simple parasols of chiffon, and each wore the gift of the groom—a gold vanity box bearing a simple monogram in platinum.
The bride was gowned in plainest ivory satin. She had dispensed with the conventional wreath of orange blossoms, and her brow was crowned with a simple rose-point cap, whose billowy streamers fell to the tip of her slender train. She wore no ornaments save the gift of the groom—a simple bar of platinum supporting thirty-two plain diamonds.
At the sight of her, a ripple of admiration ran through the crowd. She felt it and was pleased in her youthfully insolent fashion. She bore herself with none of the modesty that characterised the bride of fifty years ago. Rather was she suggestive of the mannequin on parade.
The bridal party was just turning from the altar to the inspiriting strains from Mendelssohn, when Hebe Barrington entered the church with Mr. Sullivan.
“Oh, Lord, we’re late,” she muttered, pulling him quickly along the aisle. “We’ll have to find seats somewhere before the parade reaches us.”
“Not so far forward,” protested the Hon. Rufus, trying to hang back.
“Don’t be so bashful,” returned Hebe. “We’re creating quite a sensation and stealing some of the limelight from the bride. ‘La vice appuyé sur la bras de crime,’ ” she whispered, enjoying herself enormously.
“This is a damned awkward mess,” growled Mr. Sullivan, under his breath. “I can’t see a seat, anywhere.”
“Nor I, and they’re nearly upon us. We’ll have to stop here.”
The location selected for the enforced halt was not a happy one for Lady Denby—nor, indeed, for any of the occupants of that pew. In order to prevent confusion and a disarrangement of the procession, Mrs. Barrington and her escort were obliged to disregard the silken cord and squeeze in beside Sir Eric, and thus cut off quite successfully the view of the spectacle from his diminutive and enraged wife.
She accepted their apologies frostily, and made an obvious effort to escape from the offending pair, but the density of the crowd frustrated her design. She found herself impinged upon Mrs. Barrington’s scented shoulder, and absolutely unable to free herself. The colour mounted hotly to her delicate cheeks. Her eyes sparkled dangerously.
“You must come to some of my parties, dear Lady Denby,” Hebe said, sweetly. “You, and Sir Eric . . . just simple affairs, you know, where we can snatch an hour’s relaxation. A little drink . . . a cigarette, a game of cards—er—do you dance?”
“I do not,” said Lady Denby.
“Ah! What a pity!”
“Nor do I smoke.”
“What?”
“Nor drink, nor gamble.”
“Perhaps you swear,” suggested Hebe, with elaborate mischievousness. “One must have some vices.”
“I don’t agree with you,” snapped Lady Denby, relieved to find that they had almost reached the door.
“Well, what do you do, then?” queried Hebe, in a tone that was louder than was at all necessary.
Lady Denby stepped into the vestibule. In a space momentarily cleared, she turned and faced her tormentor.
“What do I do?” she repeated. “I mind my own business . . . wear untransparent petticoats, and . . . sleep in my own husband’s bed!”