“Goodness, no! What a horrible idea!” exclaimed Roger. Then he saw what Dennis had in mind. “Oh, I see,” he said slowly. “I never thought of it that way.”
They began to walk home together down the hill. The sun had slipped behind the banks of cloud and there was a queer diffused glow upon the western sea. The light was failing rapidly. It was the ideal time for confidences.
“That’s how my mother thinks of things,” continued Dennis. “We talked about it once, long ago. I’ve never forgotten the conversation. She said she wouldn’t want people she was very fond of to grieve for her and be unhappy. She meant me, of course, but it applies to—to other people.”
“Yes, I see that. I’ve been a bit blind.”
They walked on for quite a while without speaking and then Roger sighed. He said, “Yes, I’ve been blind. Clare wouldn’t want me to be unhappy. The only thing is Clare and—and this girl were friends. I mean I’ve talked to her about Clare—told her I could never forget Clare—and all that. She might think it queer.”
“You could explain.”
“Difficult to explain.”
“Not really,” said Dennis earnestly. “I’ve understood the whole thing quite easily.”
“Yes, I know, but——”
“And women are much better at understanding these sort of things than we are.”
By this time they had almost reached the door of Amberwell and they stopped with one accord for the conversation was too important to be broken off.
“I don’t want to interfere,” Dennis declared. “I’m only talking in a vague sort of way and I may be quite wrong. I don’t know who the girl is— or anything—but it seems a pity to miss the chance of being happy.”
“You think I should ‘put it to the touch’?”
Dennis nodded. “If I were you I’d have a bash at it,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
1.
The day of Nell’s wedding was bright and fair and the bells of St. Stephen’s were ringing merrily when Roger drove the bride to the church. The Ayrton family and their immediate friends had seemed a large crowd in Amberwell drawing room, but they filled only the three front pews. The fourth pew contained Nannie and Mrs. Duff and Mr. and Mrs. Gray; behind them sat Winnie and Jean and Bob Grainger—all in their Sunday clothes.
If it had been in the afternoon half Westkirk would have been present to see the Ayrton wedding, but eleven thirty in the morning was an impossible hour for business people and their wives. There was a sprinkling of townsfolk at the back of the church and some women with babies in prams waiting outside the door, but that was all.
Mary decided that it had been a mistake; they should either have had a big crowd with all the usual trimmings or nobody at all. There is nothing so depressing as a half-empty church.
Perhaps Mary felt this more than the rest of the party for she was “dressed up” and yet had no real part to play. The dress (which Poppet had chosen and Johnnie had paid for) was very pretty and becoming, but it was much too smart for this sort of occasion—or so Mary felt. The empty pews seemed to gape at Mary as she followed Nell and Roger up the aisle, and the music of the organ went echoing round the rafters in an eerie sort of way. There was no choir (how could there be at this hour, with the boys all at school, and the butcher and the stationmaster and other well-tried vocalists busy at their jobs?), so in spite of the fact that the wedding committee had chosen hymns that everybody knew, the singing was lamentably thin. The flowers were beautiful—Anne had seen to that. Chrysanthemums from Amberwell Gardens, lilies from the greenhouses, all banked up with autumn leaves, filled the air with their heavy perfume.
There was nothing wrong with the flowers and most certainly there was nothing wrong with the bride and bridegroom; they were not bothering whether the church was full or empty. They had eyes for nobody but each other and ears for nothing except the low clear voice of Mr. Orme.
“I require and charge you both as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed that if either of you know of any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together . . .”
It was a frightful warning, thought Mary. She had attended a great many weddings, often as bridesmaid, and this reminder of “the dreadful day of judgment” had always given her a sort of shock. Marriage was not just flowers and fuss, it was serious and rather terrifying . . . and one always suffered a momentary qualm in case one or other of the principal actors would suddenly remember an “impediment.” Nobody ever did, of course, and certainly there was not much chance of it today. Mr. Orme scarcely hesitated for a moment before going on to the next part of the service and uniting Dennis and Nell for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health. . . .
Mary had often officiated as bridesmaid, but never alone—there had always been other girls standing beside her—and she had not realised how trying it would be to stand in the aisle by herself. As the marriage went on she began to feel a little queer. Perhaps it was because she was partly responsible for the arrangements and was not very happy about them, or perhaps it was the scent of the flowers. She told herself it was nonsense—she had never fainted in her life—but unfortunately it was not nonsense. Mr. Orme’s voice seemed to come from a long way off and everything began to waver before her eyes in a very odd kind of way. At that moment Mary felt a firm grip on her arm and Roger drew her into the pew beside him.
“Are you all right?” whispered Roger. “Would you like to go out?”
She was all right now. Things were steadying down. Mary was even able to smile at her rescuer—though a trifle wanly.
“Sure you’re all right?”
Mary nodded. She was feeling better every moment and was very much annoyed with herself for being such a fool, nearly swooning like a heroine in an early Victorian melodrama! What on earth had been the matter with her?
The sun was still shining brightly when the wedding-party came out of church. Several cars were waiting to take them to Amberwell, but it was such a fine morning that some of them decided to walk back through the gardens to the house. Roger chose to walk; he set off with Mrs. Weatherby and Stephen and was followed by Gerald and Mr. Dalgleish. Mary did not feel like walking so she got into a car with Nannie and Mrs. Duff.
Mary wondered whether they—or anybody else—had noticed her peculiar behaviour, but apparently they had not.
“You’re the bridesmaid, Miss Mary,” said Nannie. “You ought to be in the other car—not with us.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mary. There were so many unconventional things about this wedding that one more or less did not matter at all, and to tell the truth Mary had chosen her companions deliberately. She was still feeling slightly vague and unfit for bright conversation. Nannie and Mrs. Duff were comfortable.
“I’m glad it’s fine,” said Mrs. Duff.
“Happy is the bride the sun shines on,” agreed Nannie. “And mind you there’s a lot of truth in it. When my niece was married it was a thick fog—just like pea soup it was—and she’s had one trouble after another ever since.”
There was a short silence, broken by Mrs. Duff. “It was a nice wedding,” she declared.
“The singing was poor,” objected Nannie.
“Well, what could you expect? I think it was a nice wedding. Maybe not so cheery as Miss Connie’s, but Miss Nell was beautiful—and so happy—it made me want to cry.”
“There’s nothing to cry about. She’s got a good man.”
“You were weeping yourself.”
“I was not.”
Mary thought it was time to change the subject. “I hope Mrs. Corner has managed all right,” she said.
“Managed!” exclaimed Mrs. Duff in surprise. “There was nothing left for her to do but heat the soup. Surely to goodness she’s capable of that.”
“You don’t know her like I do, Kate,” said Nannie pessimistically. “Oh, I don’t say but what she isn’t quite a good cook when she
likes, but will she like? That’s the question.”
“What could she do? There’s nothing but the soup——”
“If she gets into a rampage there’s no knowing what she’ll do. Did I tell you about her throwing a whole basket of new peas into the pigs’ pail?”
Nannie had, of course. She had told everybody about it.
“Well, then,” said Nannie. “If she could do that she could do anything. Maybe we’ll find she’s poured the soup down the drain.”
“Maircy!” exclaimed Mrs. Duff in horrified tones.
The dire supposition put an end to further conversation and nothing more was said until they arrived at Amberwell. All three of them immediately made a rush for the kitchen where they discovered, much to their relief, that Mrs. Corner was not in a rampage but was perfectly calm and collected. The soup was being heated and everything was under control.
*
2.
The wedding-committee had tried to decide where everybody was to sit at the long luncheon table, but there were so many conflicting personalities in the Ayrton family that they had given up the attempt in despair, so except for the seat upon Roger’s right which was reserved for Mrs. Weatherby and two seats at the other end of the table for the bride and bridegroom the places were unmarked.
“People can sit where they like,” Poppet had declared.
This sounded all right (and incidentally relieved the wedding-committee of all responsibility in the matter), but it did not work out well. Unless people are told where to sit they are liable to settle in the nearest chair and late-comers are obliged to fill the gaps. Thus it was that Mary found herself sitting between Arnold and Georgina Glassford. She liked Arnold but not Georgina—and she was aware that Georgina disliked her. Other people were even less fortunate; Poppet, coming in late, discovered that the only vacant seat was between her two younger grandchildren. She hesitated—but only for a moment—and then, moving little Marion to the chair next to Joan, she sat down in Marion’s place beside Dr. Maddon.
“But I don’t want to sit next Joan,” cried Marion in her shrill clear voice.
“But I want to sit next Dr. Maddon,” said Poppet calmly.
Everybody laughed (or nearly everybody), for it was well-known in Westkirk that Dr. Maddon and Poppet Lambert were as thick as thieves.
Connie did not laugh. “I think somebody had better sit between the children,” said Connie with a worried frown. “If Arnold wouldn’t mind changing places with Joanie——”
“But Arnold would mind,” said Arnold frankly. “Arnold would rather sit next to Mary. Will they bite each other or what?”
“Of course they won’t bite each other,” declared their mother indignantly. She looked round and added, “As a matter of fact we’ve arranged ourselves very badly; nearly all the men are on this side of the table. Gerald, why don’t you change places with little Marion?”
“Oh, I think we’re all right,” said Gerald, who was comfortably situated between Anne and Emmie and could not be bothered to move.
“Ow, Joanie has pinched my arm. I knew she would!” wailed little Marion.
“I’ll change places with Joan,” said Georgina in a sacrificing tone of voice.
“How kind of you,” exclaimed Connie.
Mary was amused. The change of seats placed Georgina next to Arnold—and Arnold had told Mary that the girl was a menace.
“Talk to me for pity’s sake,” said Arnold to Mary out of the corner of his mouth.
The table was still badly arranged but that could not be helped:
Roger
Mrs. Weatherby
Stephen
Dr. Maddon
Connie
Poppet
Mr. Dalgleish
Little Marion
Mr. Lambert
Georgina
Young Gerry
Arnold
Anne
Mary
Gerald
Joan
Emmie
Mrs. Ayrton
Mr. Orme
Dennis
Nell
Having seen that everybody’s glass was filled, Mr. Lambert rose to his feet and proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom.
“I’ve known Nell all her life,” declared Mr. Lambert. “She’s one of the best and her husband is a lucky fellow. Everybody here knows Nell so I don’t need to sing her praises (and that’s a good thing because I’ve got a voice like a crow). From what I’ve seen of Dennis—and heard about him—I should say he’s just about good enough for Nell. Can’t think of any higher praise at the moment. Marriage is a good idea—at least I think so. Poppet wouldn’t like it if I told you how long we’ve been married, but it’s quite a long time, and if Nell and Dennis are as happy as Poppet and I they won’t do badly. Can’t think of any better wish for them. So now I’ll ask you all to drink to the health and happiness of Nell and Dennis.”
They all stood up and drank the health—all except young Gerry who sat and gazed before him open-mouthed.
“Stand up and drink, you ass!” said his grandfather nudging him.
Thus adjured young Gerry stood up and, taking a large gulp of champagne, choked and spluttered in a thoroughly disgusting manner. “Ugh, it’s nasty!” he exclaimed.
Fortunately nobody except his immediate neighbours heard him or took any notice, for the bridegroom had risen and was saying his piece and doing it very nicely indeed. After that the soup was served and luncheon began in earnest.
It was a good lunch, thought Mary, as she chatted to Arnold. The wedding was not such a “flop” after all. Everybody was talking now (or nearly everybody). They were talking and laughing and eating. They were drinking the excellent champagne chosen by Johnnie for the occasion. Roger and Mrs. Weatherby seemed to be getting on like a house on fire—she wondered what they were saying. Stephen was listening eagerly.
Stephen had been clever and had chosen his place at the table carefully, sitting down beside his father with the sublime disregard for everybody else which is possible only when you are very young. Stephen was happy, and beautifully behaved. It was a pity Connie and Gerald had not taught their children to behave properly. Poor Connie was not enjoying herself at all. She was watching her children with that anxious frown which had become habitual and would soon make a wrinkle in her smooth forehead if she did not take care. Connie had been so beautiful—the prettiest of them all—but she was beginning to look a little haggard.
Mr. Dalgleish and Johnnie, who certainly should not have been sitting together, were quite contented in each other’s company. Mary caught a word here and there. “They’ve gone up three points since Monday,” Mr. Dalgleish was saying. Johnnie nodded and replied, “Those stockbroker fellows don’t know any more than we do.”
“So we’ve finally decided to send him to Summerhills,” Gerald was saying to Anne. Poppet was laughing merrily at some story of the doctor’s. “Goodness!” cried Poppet. “You mean there was nothing the matter with her after all.”
Dennis and Nell were doing their duty to their neighbours: Nell was chatting to Mr. Orme, Dennis was listening to Mrs. Ayrton.
“You’ll enjoy it,” declared Mrs. Ayrton. “The last time we were there we stayed at a very nice hotel—I can’t remember its name. The lift was painted gold like a bird-cage and when we were halfway up it stuck and a French lady had hysterics. William was very cross about it,” added Mrs. Ayrton. (Mary wondered whether “William” had been cross about the lift or with the French lady for having hysterics. In either case it seemed sad that Mrs. Ayrton’s memories of Paris should be so unprofitable.)
Listening to all these snippets of conversation Mary had omitted to talk to Arnold, so Georgina had got him. “Breathing is very important,” she was saying earnestly. “Deep breaths every morning at an open window—and foot exercises of course. Raising yourself on your toes—”
“Excellent—if you happen to have toes,” agreed Arnold brightly.
This silenced the unfortu
nate girl and Arnold was able to reopen the conversation with his right hand neighbour.
“Not very kind,” Mary told him.
“I know,” said Arnold regretfully. “I ought to be thicker skinned by this time. Fact is when people tread on my toes I bite instinctively—and then I’m sorry. Shall I apologise or would that make it worse?”
“It would make it worse,” replied Mary without hesitation.
It seemed to Mary that the meal lasted a long time, for although she liked Arnold she had not much in common with him—except Summerhills of course—and when she had enquired after her bow-window and had been given a good report upon its progress there was not much more to say. But all things come to an end and at last lunch was over; even young Gerry could not eat any more.
The bride and bridegroom had left the table earlier and now appeared in their travelling garments to say goodbye, and as they were in a hurry to get away to catch their plane at Renfrew the whole party rose and followed them onto the steps.
Nell had said goodbye to so many people on the steps of Amberwell. She had stood there and waved them away—often with a very heavy heart—but today she was the one who was leaving and the others were staying behind. She was coming back, of course, but it would not be quite the same. For a moment Nell’s heart failed her . . . and then she looked at Dennis and saw his encouraging smile. Dennis understood, and everything was all right.
“Where’s Duffy?” cried Nell. “Where’s Nannie? I can’t go away without saying goodbye to them.”
Mrs. Duff and Nannie were fetched and said goodbye tearfully, several times over—as if Nell were going to Timbuctoo for a year instead of to Paris for an exceedingly short honeymoon—but at last Dennis was able to get his wife into the car and away they went in a shower of confetti with the old shoe bumping after them down the drive.
“Well, that’s that,” said Roger gazing after the car rather sadly.
There was cake and coffee in the drawing room; but somehow it seemed rather pointless to eat chunks of wedding cake when there was no bride in white satin and orange blossoms to cut it—besides everybody had already partaken of an excellent lunch—so the party soon broke up. The guests went home and Mrs. Weatherby went up to her room and had a little weep.
Summerhills (Ayrton Family Book 2) Page 22