The Wedding Dress

by Mary Burchell

“It isn’t even as though she’s demanding that I do something. She just demands that I do nothing,” thought Loraine. “And if she were a nice girl and Mrs. Otway hadn’t put ideas into my head, she wouldn’t even have had to tell me. I’d have kept out of the way anyway, and tried not to make mischief.”

  As an academic argument this was splendid. Applied to Philip—and what seemed dangerously like an entanglement with the wrong girl—it had a hollow ring. And for the rest of that evening, and quite far into the night, Loraine swung to and fro between the two extremes of argument.

  But she always came back to the fact that, when she had acted on impulse, she had put off that next meeting with Philip either from fear of Elinor’s threats or some instinctive feeling that this was the right thing to do.

  The next few days were not happy ones for Loraine. She heard nothing from either Philip or his mother, and, in spite of all the assurances she had given her guardian about being quite happy on her own, she did feel extremely isolated and forlorn.

  At work, fortunately, there was little time to think about personal problems. Tension and excitement were now rising to fever pitch and would, Madame Moisant assured her in a moment of cynical candor, presently verge on hysteria.

  “Do you mind, madame?” Loraine asked, with sympathetic curiosity.

  “Mind?” repeated the Frenchwoman. “Mind? Why should I mind?”

  “Well, you know—I thought you might find it a great strain to have so many excited people to manage. After all, you too must have some nerves, I suppose.”

  “But of steel wire, petite,” the directrice assured her drily. “Of what good would I be to Monsieur Florian if I sulked and cried and panicked like these others?”

  The thought of a weeping and panic-stricken Madame Moisant was so formidable that Loraine shook her head wordlessly.

  “I tell you, ma chère, I am the only one—but the only one, not excepting Monsieur Florian himself—who must not indulge in emotional crises at this time.”

  “Does Monsieur Florian ... panic sometimes?” inquired Loraine, feeling that she could not suggest that he either sulked or wept.

  “No. To say that he panics would be to go too far,” Madame Moisant conceded. “But he is a great artist, and, like all great artists, he is entitled to a temperamental outburst or two in times of stress. This one must appreciate if one is to deal with a genius.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Loraine agreed thoughtfully.

  “But of course! It is very proper that the mediocre and worthy should have the day-to-day virtues which make for comfortable relationships,” Madame Moisant explained with unashamed snobbishness. “But the qualities which make a genius almost inevitably include some which are not easy to live with or work with. One must accept them or, quite simply, go elsewhere. For myself, I would rather work for an interesting fiend than a boring archangel. Voila tout.”

  “Bravo, Suzanne,” said Florian, coming in at that moment. “Something tells me you must be talking about me. But whether as the archangel or the fiend, I’m not sure.”

  “Monsieur knows very well he is not boring,” replied Madame Moisant cryptically, which made Florian laugh a good deal and direct a glance of genuine affection at his waspish but devoted directrice.

  “You must not frighten the little Loraine,” he declared. “She and I have to co-operate very amiably during the next couple of weeks. Isn’t that so, petite?”

  “Yes, monsieur,” said Loraine obediently.

  “Good. Then I hope you will accept with good grace the fact that I shall require you here during most of the weekend.”

  “Oh, monsieur, willingly!” She was almost glad to have the fictitious excuse she had given Mrs. Otway turned into a real one. And she felt something of a fraud when Madame Moisant observed that she was a good child, with a very proper attitude towards her work.

  In point of fact, the week-end hours of work at the salon proved to be the most exciting she had yet spent, for they were devoted exclusively to the wedding dress and, for the first time, Loraine took the full measure of her employer’s genius.

  Even as early as Marianne’s wedding she had already realized that he was a supreme showman and, during the time he had been designing other models for her, she had sensed the real artist at work. But now she began to absorb, almost through the pores of her skin, the subtle awareness of what the wedding dress really meant.

  Individually, she could see, it was going to be breathtakingly beautiful. But, even more, as a climax to the show, it would be stunning. Line and color, design and ravishing materials all combined to state the ultimate in dress beauty, and she felt that one would have to applaud it, even as one would applaud a superb “curtain” at the end of a play.

  “Monsieur,” she ventured to ask, “is this going to be the most beautiful dress you have ever designed?”

  “Each wedding dress is the most beautiful I have ever designed,” he assured her good-humoredly. “But if you feel nothing could be more beautiful, you will wear it as I would wish.”

  “That’s how I feel,” she declared solemnly.

  “Then I know I was right to choose you,” he said. And this helped her to weather the frightful storm which broke, later in the week, when Lisette discovered that it was Loraine and not she who was to wear the wedding dress.

  The news had to be broken eventually, of course, for the opening day was now drawing so near that everyone knew a decision must have been made one way or another. Florian himself made the announcement—curtly and economically—in the dressing-room, and forestalled Lisette’s angry protests with a mixture of brutality and guile.

  “Although for a passing moment I considered you for the part, Lisette, I realized almost immediately that there is nothing bridal about you,” he stated frankly. “That is why you have the subtle and provocative evening dresses and the most dramatic cocktail suit in the whole show. These belong to 'the other woman’, a part for which you are supremely—and I may say most attractively—suited. If you are disappointed, pray remember that this is nothing to the disappointment of us all if you had worn the wedding dress and failed.”

  In her simplicity, Loraine thought this must surely silence and satisfy all. But the moment Florian had left the room Lisette turned on her and upbraided her for being a snake who had insinuated herself into Florian’s favor, a thief who had stolen the rights of others, and a dull, plain stupid little simpleton who had made a great mistake if she supposed that she could do such an injury to her, Lisette, and not pay dearly for it.

  All this Loraine found very trying, but not so much so as she would have done some weeks ago. And, having seized a moment of breathlessness on Lisette’s part to state, clearly and categorically, that the choice had nothing to do with anyone but Monsieur Florian, she lapsed into silence, only shrugging occasionally from time to time in a very French gesture of resignation which she had learned from the other girls.

  Thunder hung over the dressing-room for the rest of that day, however, and by the time she went home Loraine had a headache and felt worn out and depressed. If only something pleasant and soothing and heart-lifting could have happened! But it was difficult to see what could.

  And then, when she arrived home, there was a letter from her guardian. Such a charming, humorous, oddly affectionate letter that Loraine sat down and read it through twice, laughing aloud at one or two of the things he had written, and indescribably comforted by its good humor and normality. It was like a breath of fresh air after the fever and turmoil of the mannequins' dressing-room.

  Paul explained in the letter that he had had to go on to Montreal, as he had expected, and this would make his absence a full three weeks.

  “But I cannot imagine,” he added, “that in the excitement of the coming dress show, the absence of a mere guardian will even be noticed.

  I hope you are holding your own with the other competitive young ladies who are to display Florian’s creations, and that no one has snatched from you the supreme obj
ect of exhibition which I dare not name more precisely.”

  She thought how nice it was of him to remember, in the midst of his work and his travels, that she was hoping to wear the wedding dress. And, since he had given her the address of his Montreal hotel, she wrote back then and there, to tell him that all was well with her (a general statement which took no note of the Philip situation) and that “the last act was still hers”.

  Then, feeling more relaxed and cheered than she could have believed after the tension of the afternoon, she went to bed commendably early and slept dreamlessly until morning.

  The next evening Mrs. Otway telephoned, and Loraine could hear immediately that there was a dissatisfied—even a discontented—note in her voice.

  “Loraine dear, what has happened to you?” she wanted to know. “Every day I’ve expected to hear from you, and Philip tells me he has heard nothing either.”

  She thought passingly that there was nothing to prevent Philip himself telephoning if that was how he felt about it. But she said—so truly that she could make the statement convincing—that she had been too busy at Florian’s to do much more than take a little food and go to bed each evening on her return from work.

  “Darling, I know it must all seem tremendously important to you, especially as it’s your first dress show,” Mrs. Otway exclaimed plaintively. “But there are other things of greater importance in one’s life, don’t you think?”

  “Such as what, Mrs. Otway?” asked Loraine, feeling she could not engage in this rather elaborate double-talk any more.

  “Well, if I must speak plainly—” The charming voice became brisker and more decided. “If you neglect Philip like this, you mustn’t be surprised if you lose him to Elinor.”

  “But I have lost him to Elinor,” Loraine said gently and firmly. “He is engaged to her, Mrs. Otway. He intends to marry her. I can’t enter into any sort of active competition. Surely you must see that?”

  “Now, don’t be so tiresome, dear child! You can’t possibly intend to throw in your hand like that. You love him—you told me you do. He was immensely attracted by you as soon as he saw you again. The fact that he had become entangled with the wrong girl is merely something which must be—well, unentangled, as it were. Almost everything you do just now is of vital importance, you silly girl—and there you are behaving as though a few frocks matter more than the happiness of us all.”

  Loraine resisted the desire to take up this disrespectful way of referring to the Florian Collection, and said instead: “Mrs. Otway—whatever you or I feel about it—I can’t make time to see friends just now, even if I want to.”

  “Not even Philip?”

  “N-not even Philip.”

  “I suppose you call this being dedicated to your work,” exclaimed Mrs. Otway impatiently. “All you girls seem to lose your sense of proportion when Florian talks to you. You’re malting things very difficult for me. But I’ll do my best to help you out, if you promise me to behave in a more normal way as soon as the opening day is over.”

  “What do you mean by that, exactly?” asked Loraine doubtfully.

  “Well, I think I can persuade Philip that I need him home in England for a week or so, in connection with our property there. That will keep him out of that girl’s way for a while. Then I shall return in time for the show—and I shall bring Philip with me, you may depend upon that—”

  “Will Elinor come too?” inquired Loraine, with irresistible curiosity.

  “Oh, I suppose so,” was the impatient reply. “But if Florian has done his duty by you, Philip will be looking at you. Don’t you think so?”

  Loraine was silent for a moment. She thought of what Florian had said of the impression she would create in his wedding dress. And in spite of all the conscientious arguments she had been detailing to herself lately, she sensed for a moment the unspeakable rapture it would be if she did indeed see in Philip’s eyes the look which told her he had forgotten everyone else but her—

  “Are you still there, Loraine?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Otway.”

  “And did you hear my question?”

  “Yes. I can only say that Florian has designed some wonderful things for me. The kind of things I—I would like Philip to see me wear.”

  “Ah, that’s better!” Mrs. Otway gave an exclamation of satisfaction. “Well now, darling—you leave it to me. I’ll keep Philip in England during the next dangerous week or so. Then we must rely on your making a tremendous impression on him in the new Florian models. And this time you must follow up the advantage. We can’t afford to waste two good openings.”

  Loraine very much disliked the use of “we” in this connection and the determined assumption that Mrs. Otway and she were firmly linked in an attempt to remodel Philip’s life for him. But it was useless to argue just then. And—why not face the truth?—her heart beat with fresh, irrepressible hope at the thought of what that dramatic dress show could—might—do for her.

  So she said, “I’ll be very glad for Philip to see me at the show. And—and if he shows unmistakably that I am the one he really loves, then I can’t pretend that I’ll do nothing about it.”

  “Splendid! I knew you’d look at things more sensibly if we had a little talk,” Mrs. Otway declared cheerfully. “If I don’t see you again before the opening day, dear—and that’s probably the best way to arrange it if we can—then good luck.”

  And she rang off, obviously in a much better frame of mind than when she had begun the conversation.

  Loraine could not contain her excitement and her rising hopes. She walked softly about the room, clasping and unclasping her hands, while she savored the wonderful thought that, without any intervention on her part, Philip would meet her again, in circumstances which would constitute the perfect test of his real feelings.

  “When I walk past in the wedding dress I shall know how he feels,” she told herself. “If he loves me, I shall see it in his face—even if he only discovers it himself in that moment.”

  She was so certain of this, so supremely sure that she could leave the issue to this final test, that suddenly she was quite calm about it all. And she suffered only a momentary disappointment the next evening when Mimi greeted her on her very late return with the information that a Mr. Otway had telephoned an hour ago to say goodbye before leaving for England.

  “Oh, Mimi! Did he say when he was leaving?”

  “In half an hour’s time. Half an hour from when he telephoned,” explained the exact Mimi.

  “Then he’ll have gone by now.”

  “Yes. He’ll have gone by now.”

  “Oh, well—it doesn’t matter—really. I’ll be seeing him on his return,” Loraine said. And she smiled such a smile of secret joy that even the unimaginative Mimi gave her a reflective look before returning to her own affairs.

  After that, Loraine was able to devote her every thought to her work, secure in the knowledge that Philip’s affairs had been miraculously held in suspense—if one could regard Mrs. Otway’s interference in the light of a miracle, that was—until the great, the longed-for day of the new Collection.

  And not Florian himself was pinning more radiant hopes upon that day than she was, Loraine thought.

  Then, two days before the vital date, her guardian returned, heralded by a telegram, saying that he was flying direct from Montreal, which Loraine found waiting for her on her return from work.

  She had been sent home comparatively early that day, with instructions to rest, as the following day would include the evening showing of the Collection to the work girls.

  Mimi handed her the telegram as soon as she came in, with the remark that Monsieur should be arriving at the air terminal any time now.

  “Oh, then I shall go and meet him!” exclaimed Loraine. “How lovely that I came home in time.” And without even waiting to put on a hat, she ran downstairs, hailed a passing taxi, and drove to the air terminal, arriving in the big hall at the precise moment that he appeared at the luggage counte
r.

  At the sight of his tan, familiar figure she felt the most extraordinary rush of relief and reassurance. And she cried, “Paul!” and ran to him, her eyes bright, her hair a little windblown, and a welcoming smile on her lips.

  “Why, Loraine!” He turned, with an exclamation of pleasure and actually took her in his arms and kissed her.

  It was something of a surprise to both of them. But a nice surprise, Loraine thought, and she hugged him with uninhibited warmth and said, “I’m so glad to see you back.”

  “Are you, dear child?” He laughed—but again it was a pleased laugh. “Well, I’m extraordinarily glad to see you. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever had someone come to welcome me home.”

  He linked her arm in his and left the collecting of the luggage to a porter as they made their way to the taxi rank.

  “You’re a bit thinner,” he commented critically, “and just a trifle pale. Has that brute Florian been overworking you?”

  “No more than all the rest,” she assured him with a laugh. “And no more than I was willing to accept. We're all living for the opening of the new Collection, the day after tomorrow. But tell me about your trip.”

  So he told her quite a lot about his visit to Canada, adding personal details and reactions which made something much more intimate of their conversation than had been the case before he went away. And she said suddenly: “You’ve changed, somehow.”

  “I have?” He laughed. “Nonsense! People of my age don’t change.”

  “Well, then, perhaps I have,” she said slowly.

  “It could be.” He touched her cheek lightly and rather charmingly. “Or perhaps you’ve just come to know me better. I’m rather a tiresome, difficult chap to know, I suppose. Not at all like the simple, straightforward creature you are yourself.”

  “Am I simple and straightforward?”

  “Yes, of course. In the nicest way possible. That’s one of the most satisfying things about you. Something like truth itself.” He smiled at her suddenly troubled face. “Don’t look so solemn. It’s very rare and delightful to be without deceit or guile of any kind.”