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!”