Eagle March's letter was characteristic. Though he must have felt as if
he stood alone, at the jumping-off place of the world, he had more to
say about me than of himself.
He had read in the El Paso papers that I was going to sail for England,
and all the first part of his letter was concerned with "bon voyage." It
was only in the last paragraph that he mentioned his own affairs.
"You'll have heard already," he said, "of what has happened to me. I've
had a blow, but I'm not going to lie down under it. There must be work
for me somewhere, and when I've found it you'll hear from me again. Not
until then though, for I'm rather hard hit, and might be inclined to
grumble. But I shall think of you constantly, and I don't believe if I
wrote a volume I could make you understand how much the thought will
help. I shall wear it like armour."
Not a word of Diana. But I read between the lines. He was "rather hard
hit." Just when he was facing an attack from the front she had stabbed
him in the back. In one way, the letter was a bitter disappointment, for
I had longed to be told Eagle's plans; yet in the hint that I should
hear again when he had "found work," there was a thrill like that which
comes with martial music. I was far from guessing then what that work
would be, and how quickly and surprisingly he would find it; but vaguely
I felt that there was only one kind of work worth Eagle March's while:
soldier work.
Because I mustn't expect to hear, that did not prevent my writing from
the ship. "This isn't 'good-bye,'" I said. "Always I'll be looking
forward to great things for you. And (you may laugh, but I'm in earnest)
I shall live in the hope of 'righting' you in the world's eyes. The day
may come. I believe it will--the best day of my life."
When the _Mauretania_ passed "Liberty" I sent back a last message by the
statue to Eagle. "Till the day!" I said. But it was a pang to see the
last of her. I went down to my stateroom and cried--oh! how I cried!
As if to flaunt the glorious difference between this summer and last,
Father took a furnished house in Norfolk Street, Hyde Park, which was to
let with the owner's servants. It was very rich looking, though the
elaborate decorations reminded me of houses in moving-picture plays.
Father was able to splurge, on Di's prospects; and probably Kitty Main
contributed to the expense, for she and her maid came to stay with us.
We began to be expensively gay; and I believe if any duke or earl who
tangoed with Diana had offered himself for the dance of life, she would
have thrown over Sidney Vandyke at the eleventh hour. But no one
exciting showed signs of entangling himself permanently, and so, when
Major Vandyke wired that the situation in Mexico permitted him to ask
for leave, Di's engagement was announced in the _Morning Post_.
Soon after this, Sidney arrived with cartloads of luggage, which seemed
to detach him from America forever. He had got long leave and intended
to resign from the army at the end of it. He took up his quarters at the
Savoy Hotel, but he was at our house morning, noon, and night; and
though everybody who saw him for the first time said how handsome he
was, it struck me from the minute we met that he had changed for the
worse. He looked older and stouter, and black and white would no longer
express him in a picture. A suffusion of red for the face, as well as
for the lips under the black moustache, would have been needed. I
wondered if he were drinking; and though, when he lunched or dined with
us he was always careful (except with champagne, which he loved as a
child loves sweets), he might be less cautious when out of Diana's
sight.
At first I could hardly bear to sit down at the same table with Sidney
Vandyke; but as time went on, I found an impish pleasure in watching
him, in staring openly, as a baby stares. I had the satisfaction of
feeling that he was disturbed by my gaze, and that he knew, even when
not looking, that my eyes were on him. Sometimes in the midst of talk he
would break down and forget what he had meant to say next. I affected
him with a kind of aphasia, erasing the words he wanted from his brain.
But otherwise my tactics were changed. I was no longer rude to my future
brother-in-law. I wished to study him, and I didn't object to his
knowing that I studied him.
A silent battle was being fought between us under a smooth surface of
civility, and Sidney might easily have complained to Diana that my owl
stare was "getting on his nerves," even though he could have brought no
other complaint. If he had spoken to her she would have made some excuse
to scratch me off her list of bridesmaids. I hoped she would, and save
me trouble! But perhaps Sidney felt that I was yearning for him to
"squeal," and resolved not to please me. In any case, nobody not in the
secret of our hearts could have guessed that anything was wrong. And I
had to play at spraining my ankle in order to escape being one of the
eight.
It was well to be civil in word and deed, and "bide my time," but to be
in at the death, and marry my sister to a man who'd stolen her from
Eagle March and ruined him, was a different thing. I drew the line at
that.
It's quite simple for a girl vowed to the conscientious life and no fibs
to wrench her ankle, if she'll wear high heels. All she has to do when
walking in the street is to look out for banana peel; or an apple paring
may do at a pinch. She launches herself upon it, with a skating
movement. Her foot turns, and the deed is done. She can in this way
produce a "strain," if not a "sprain"; and only doctors know the
difference. The difficult part comes in remembering to limp. I was so
fearful of forgetting in some moment of excitement, that I took to
wearing shoes which were not mates. They were actually incompatible. One
had a Louis Quinze heel and the other had none at all; but my dresses by
this time were so "grown up" and long that nobody noticed. Besides,
though refusing to see a doctor, I stopped in bed for days, and
hypnotically impressed the idea of a sprain on every one.
Those who didn't know why I wouldn't for the world be bridesmaid to
Diana sat by my bedside and sympathized, among others Mrs. Dalziel and
Milly, who had followed us in time to have all the season's fun in
London before the wedding. Tony hoped to get leave and arrive for "the
great day." Afterward he and his mother and sister planned a motor tour
through Belgium, and Luxemburg, and France, before the time when Tony
must rejoin his regiment. I had a sneaking idea that they meant me to
go, too; but at that moment--before other things had happened--I told
myself that I would do nothing of the kind. I was homesick for Ireland
and Ballyconal.
The date of Di's wedding wasn't definitely settled until after Sidney
came. Then it was fixed for the ninth of July, and the bride and
bridegroom were to have four weeks' motoring in the north of England.
When the honeymoon was officially over they were to make country-house
visits in Scotland for the shooting season. Sidney Vandyke boasted of
being a crack shot, and Diana hoped to be proud of her American husband
among British sportsmen.
Meanwhile they had some time before the wedding in which to find a town
house, and choose furniture and things so that they might be "at home"
in the autumn. I think Di really loved Sidney the day he consented to
buy a house--a very expensive though small house--in Park Lane. She had
set her heart upon Park Lane; for, you see, there was always something
rootedly Victorian about Di; such as being convinced that Park Lane was
the Mount Olympus of London, and that you couldn't be properly married
except at St. George's. She was, and is, up-to-date only on the surface,
in such details as clothes and hats, and tango, and the latest slang.
Probably Di had never been so happy as in gathering together materials
for her future frame; and if Sidney was chagrined because Father didn't
offer to lend for the honeymoon our ancestral castle (to which he and Di
had frequently alluded in America) he kept his feelings to himself. He
would have been twice as much chagrined by the castle could he have seen
it before Kitty Main got in her deadly work. The Trowbridges of Chicago
would have rejoiced to tell him what it was really like.
I don't quite know why it is the fashion for brides to shut themselves
up and not "go out" for days before the wedding; but perhaps they are
supposed to pass their close time in prayer and maiden meditation,
thanking heaven for what it has provided, and dwelling on the
responsibilities of the future. Di spent her days in being fitted for
frocks (goodness knew who would pay for them, unless Sidney, on ceasing
to be a bridegroom and turning into a husband), receiving wedding
presents, having photographs taken, and giving discreet interviews to
journalists. She told the male ones what a heroic person Major Vandyke
was; and to the female ones she showed her dresses. There wasn't an
illustrated daily or weekly paper in London that didn't produce a
picture of Sidney in uniform, looking dashing, and Di looking down, all
modesty and eyelashes.
The last night she went out to anything big before the wedding was to a
dinner at the Russian embassy; and though nothing which seemed to us
sensationally interesting happened that night, something was led up to
later. It came through Milly Dalziel, for whom Father and Di had
contrived to get an invitation. She met Captain Count Stefan
Stefanovitch, the military attaché of the Russian Embassy.
There is something irresistible to some natures about a Russian count;
and to Russian counts about American heiresses, particularly those with
red hair. When the two had seen each other three times they were
engaged, subject to the consent of the count's father. Everybody in that
family was a count or countess, a delicious prospect for Milly when she
wished to talk of her Russian relatives. Stefan was to stay and see
Milly in her bridesmaid's dress; then he was going to make a dash for
Petrograd (we called it St. Petersburg then!) armed with her photograph
and substantial accounts of her father's bank balance, returning as soon
as the consent was insured. There seemed to be something almost feudally
old-fashioned about Russians, Milly thought, for a mere wire to _her_
father had been considered adequate. But then, Tony Senior wasn't a
count or a "vitch," or anything exciting like that.
It was after this dinner that I began to prowl for banana peel. I hadn't
wanted to be premature; still, it was necessary to give some other girl
time to get a bridesmaid's dress. Just then the only thing in London
that anybody cared about was the Russian opera and ballet, and it
occurred to Di that it would be original to clothe her eight attendant
maidens in Léon Bakst designs. Most of the girls were pale blondes, whom
she had chosen because they would form an effective contrast to herself;
but they were very brave about the Bakst effects. The measure of their
fingers had been taken, and they were expecting presents of rings
beautiful enough to console them for worse disasters. Besides, Sidney
had brought over from America a Captain Beatty to be his best man. He
was rather rich and very good-looking.
During all this time of our new popularity I had heard nothing of Eagle
March, except that he had turned his back on his native land after
resigning from the army, and that various "ugly stories" were in
circulation. It was even said that he had been bribed by Mexico with
immense sums of money to betray his country. It was Tony who wrote me
this, in answer to a question. But he knew no more than this gossip, not
even when he arrived in London the day before Diana's wedding.
"For all I can tell," he said, when he had congratulated me on my limp,
"March may have offered himself and his aeroplane to the Viceroy of
India or the Sultan of Turkey or even the Emperor of Japan. There's only
one thing certain about him: he'll have to be a soldier
somewhere--somehow!"
"Blessed is the bride the sun shines on," they say, but the sun did not
shine on Diana. The ninth of July dawned gray and blustering, with a
queer rasping chill in the air like an autumn day slipped back in the
calendar. I hated the thought of seeing Di married to Sidney Vandyke. It
seemed like aiding and abetting the enemy, but unless I had another
accident at the last minute, such as falling downstairs, I could see no
way of stopping at home without a row.
What would Eagle want me to do? I asked myself. It was almost as if I
could hear his voice saying, "Don't hurt Diana on such a day by stopping
away from her wedding."
I decided to be there; and it was arranged for me to sit with Kitty
Main, Mrs. Dalziel, and Tony. I didn't mind this, because Tony couldn't
very well propose in church with "The voice that breathed o'er Eden"
resounding to the roof.
The wedding was fixed for two o'clock at St. George's, Hanover Square;
and if any were left in London who didn't know the hour and all other
details, it must have been because they didn't read the halfpenny
papers. It had even been announced that one of the bridegroom's many
magnificent presents to the bride would be a high-powered Grayles-Grice
car, in which Lady Diana Vandyke would drive from the church with her
husband to the house of her father, for the wedding reception, and go on
for the honeymoon tour afterward. This paragraph was truer than some of
the others, but the day before the wedding the car hadn't yet been
delivered by the makers. A frantic telegram from Sidney brought the
assurance that he might count without fail on its arriving by ten
o'clock next day at latest. The firm regretted deeply the unforeseen
delay which had occurred owing to a strike, but the automobile had been
shipped. Still Sidney and Diana were anxious.
Kitty and Mrs. Dalziel and Tony and I started rather late, for Kitty had
superintended the bride's dressing. The other two came for us in a motor
car, but Mrs. Dalziel had to stop for a look at Di. As for me, I'm not
sure how I felt about my sister. She was so lovely in her lace and
silver brocade gown, and her cap-veil, that my eyes clung to her, yet it
was hateful that her beauty should be for Sidney Vandyke. My thoughts
flew to Eagle, wherever he might be--at the other end of the world,
perhaps--and I wondered if he knew what was happening in London.
Our places at church were at the front, in one of the pews reserved for
the bride's relatives and intimate friends, so our being late didn't
matter. But already the back part of the church was full, and the air
heavy with the perfumes women wore, and the fragrance of roses and
lilies which made the decorations. As we went in, a sense of suffocation
gripped me. I felt as if I could easily faint, and I realized that the
long strain on my nerves had begun to tell. I had a queer impression
that I was only a body, and that my soul was far away looking for some
one it could not find. I was glad when we were settled in our seats, but
still the odour of the flowers oppressed me. I fancied that the brooding
gloom of the day would end in a thunderstorm.
People were whispering and rustling in their seats, wondering if it were
not almost the time for the bride music to begin. I had a jumpy
sensation that somebody behind me must be staring, and strongly willing
me to look round. Always I have been sensitive to that kind of
influence, and often, too, I've tried to make others feel it. I kept
turning my head, but could see no one who seemed to be taking an undue
interest in me. Presently, however, I caught Tony's eyes, which fixed
themselves on mine in an owlish stare.
"What makes you keep on twisting round like that?" he inquired in a
stage whisper. "Are you looking for any one in particular?"
"No--o," I said, "but I have a funny sort of feeling as if some one were
looking for me!"
"By Jove!" exclaimed Tony, and repressed himself at a glare from his
mother. "I wonder if it's possible----" He stopped, and began carefully
to smooth his silk hat which was poised on his knee.
"If what's possible?" I wanted to know, bending my head near to his,
regardless of somebody's plume which grazed my eye.
"Oh--er, nothing much. Only just a silly idea of mine."
"Tell me, and let me judge whether it's silly or not. You're rousing my
curiosity." And all the while I tingled with that almost irresistible
desire to turn my head again. It was as if I were missing something very
important.
"I'd rather not now," said Tony. "I'll tell you afterward."
Before I had time to wheedle the mystery out of him (as I felt confident
I could) the "Wedding March" from Lohengrin struck up. Of course, Diana
_would_ have that! It went with St. George's and the rest of it: the
"historic" thing.
She came up the aisle, her hand on Father's arm.
"Oh, doesn't he look _handsome_?" murmured Kitty Main.
"He?" I murmured back.
"Lord Ballyconal. But dear Diana is wonderful, of course."
Her wondrousness was largely a tribute to Kitty, who had given the bride
everything she had on, everything that was packed away in her trunks at
home, or laid out ready to go away in.
It all passed off exactly like any other wedding on a grand scale,
except that Tony, sitting by my side, drew a long breath when the bishop
who was marrying Diana to Sidney Vandyke finished the conventional pause
following "or else forever after hold his peace." I flashed another
glance at Tony but he was looking more like an imperturbable Billiken
than he had ever looked.
And so Di was married, and people whispered what a beautiful bride, and
how good-looking the American bridegroom was, while she and Sidney were
in the vestry signing their names in the book. Then, down the aisle they
came, Di radiant, Major Vandyke flushed and brilliant eyed. "He looks as
if he had just fought a successful engagement," I heard an American man
in the pew behind say to his wife. Well, that was exactly what he had
done. But whether according to the rules of war or not was another
question. We let the crowd pour out of the church before us, and
followed at leisure, I feeling more depressed than I should at a
funeral. Automobiles and carriages were dashing up to the pavement to
take people away, and dashing off again after an instant's pause, while
throngs of the uninvited and curious pressed close on either side of the
red carpet. Rain was falling, but the lookers-on appeared to care
little. The people seemed more excited than usual at a wedding, we
thought, especially after the passing of the bride; and Tony and I
looked at each other questioningly with raised eyebrows as we caught a
word here and there.
"Might 'ave been a tragedy!" "Pretty close call, that was." "If it
hadn't been for that feller they'd both have been dead corpses now!"
remarked the uninvited.
"What can have happened?" we asked each other, and I made Tony speak to
the policeman who had shut us into our car.
"Bride's carriage, sir; but it was soon all right in the end," was the
only answer we got, as the signal was given for our motor to move off
and the next to come up.
"The bride's carriage!" Then the new automobile hadn't come, and there
had been an accident at the church door.