The Wedding Dress

by Mary Burchell

  “Did you really?” Loraine looked interested. “But then Monsieur Florian convinced you otherwise?”

  “Not exactly. I found it out for myself—and I thought he was indifferent to me. It was frightful!” she declared—but cheerfully, in view of the fact that it was all safely over so long ago. “I had to convince him, in the end,” she added reflectively.

  “That he loved you?”

  “Oh, no! Apparently he’d been doing that for some time, dear Georges!” said Gabrielle, thereby astonishing Loraine who, like most people, simply could not think of Florian by any name but the one which he had made so famous.

  “He thought the other man was the obvious and suitable one, you know,” Gabrielle explained, “and that he himself wasn’t young enough for me and too worldly and all that. But it came out all right in the end. And the other man married someone else perfectly sweet, for which I was very glad.”

  “Well, if you can speak of him like that, you must have got over him completely,” Loraine said with a laugh.

  “Oh, but, my dear, one does!” Gabrielle assured her. “At one moment you think it just couldn’t possibly be anyone else. And then, when the really right man comes along, you simply can’t imagine why you’ve been so blind and silly. I think most girls fall in love once or twice.”

  “And—men too?” asked Loraine, thinking of Philip imagining that he was in love with Elinor.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Gabrielle declared cheerfully. And Loraine thought what a darling, sensible person she was, and how fortunate that nice Monsieur Florian had got her in the end.

  By the time her dress was finished, Loraine could hardly believe that she was to wear anything so breathtakingly lovely. Other Florian models had given her infinite pleasure and pride—and the wedding dress had, in some strange way, seemed to affect her whole life. But this semi-fancy-dress design was so rich and beautiful and becoming that it was all she could do not to lapse into some sort of pseudo-historical language to fit the picture.

  Two or three days before the great evening, Gabrielle and she were taken to the theatre, introduced to their two partners—both of whom came from the theatre world and evidently suffered no embarrassment at finding themselves in fancy dress—and put through their paces.

  It was all very exciting, and the compliments which Loraine received were gratifying in the extreme.

  Only one thing cast a shadow over her enjoyment. She had heard nothing from Philip, except for one letter sent immediately after his return to London, in which he told her he had been successful in having two or three of his pictures accepted for the art show which meant so much to him.

  She was delighted on his behalf, of course, and fully understood that he must be a good deal absorbed in his own affairs. But he must know that she was anxious to know just when he was returning.

  Inevitably, Florian inquired presently whether all her arrangements were complete. And when he heard that Philip was still in London, he was extremely annoyed.

  “But this is absurd! The whole affair—planned to the last detail—is only forty-eight hours away, and you tell me we still do not know if our party is complete.”

  “He will come, Monsieur Florian. Of course he will come,” Loraine insisted, for the idea that Philip could fail her was not to be entertained for one moment. “But, in any case,” she pointed out timidly, “for the exhibition part of the evening, everything is arranged. There is no doubt about my partner for the minuet, and this is the really important—”

  “Certainly not, since this I have arranged myself,” interrupted Florian curtly. “I do not leave these matters in doubt. But my party too has been most carefully chosen and arranged, Loraine. I do not expect its balance to be upset by a wallflower, however charming.”

  “Oh, monsieur, it will be all right, I assure you.” The prospective wallflower spoke with humiliated emphasis. “But—but perhaps you were right in saying that I should ask my guardian to be available, just in case—”

  “It is too late.” Florian frowned, as though recalling that even his advice on this had been flouted.

  “Too late, monsieur?” Loraine was taken aback. “How do you mean?”

  “Monsieur Cardine is going elsewhere that evening.”

  “How do you know?” inquired Loraine, with uncontrollable curiosity.

  “Mademoiselle Roye was in here only this afternoon—”

  “Elinor was?” gasped Loraine.

  “... and when I asked her if she were going to the fete, she explained that she was spending the evening with her fiancé—with Monsieur Paul.”

  “She,” Loraine swallowed, “said that? She—called him her fiancé?”

  “Should she not have done so?” inquired Florian, fixing Loraine with a cold glance which suggested she was trying to shift the conversation on to less vital matters.

  “Oh—oh, no,” said Loraine unhappily.

  “Well, then, you see it is too late to secure your guardian for the evening, since you ignored my earlier advice.” She had not seen Florian so angry with her since she had defied him on the opening day of the new Collection. “You had better make what arrangements you can to make sure of Monsieur Philippe.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Florian,” Loraine said meekly. And, on the way home, she sent a long, expensive and rather desperate telegram to Philip, at the London hotel from which he had sent his earlier letter.

  Then she went on home—to the chilling discovery that Paul was unexpectedly out for the evening. Mimi seemed to know very little about where he was, and Loraine could only suppose that he and Elinor had made some last-minute arrangement together.

  She dined alone, feeling extremely forlorn, and with a slow resentment growing in her heart.

  It was abominable of Philip to have left in this predicament. Even if he came in the end—which of course he would do—he had absolutely no right to leave her in this state of anxiety. He must know how important it was to her to feel that everything was secure. There were some things...

  What was it Paul had said?—there were some things which needed to be put into words. It was neither admirable nor kind to leave them in doubt.

  How right! And how exactly that demonstrated the difference between Paul and Philip.

  She was shocked as soon as she had allowed that thought to invade her mind. But it recurred perpetually during the long, lonely anxious evening.

  Paul would never, never have left her in this doubt and anxiety. With Philip it was not entirely out of character. There had always, she remembered reluctantly, been a charming, unpredictable quality about him. And tonight the unpredictability seemed distressingly in evidence, while it was difficult to remember the full degree of charm which had always seemed to accompany it before.

  From time to time she consoled herself with the fact that she would feel better when Paul came in. But, in the end, he was so late that she had to go to bed before his return, and she did not see him until the next morning at breakfast.

  Even then, he was a little late. Which was perhaps just as well, for she would have found it hard to conceal her deep chagrin and disappointment when there was neither a letter nor a telegram from Philip.

  It was a brief and silent meal on both sides, and she left for the dress house, dreading the moment when Florian would once more ask her about Philip.

  Fortunately, however, he was very busy during the day. And either he forgot—a very, very unlikely circumstance, Loraine was bound to admit to herself—or else he assumed that his previous sharp words had been sufficient for her to make doubly certain that Philip would be there.

  But what else could she do? She was not even sure that he was still at the hotel where she had sent the telegram. And—humiliated, but not daring to let the smallest chance go by—she sent another telegram to his home address, even though she knew that Mrs. Otway was almost bound to see it.

  “I’ll never forgive him!” she told herself—hardly even noticing that it was her romantic, adored Philip of whom
she was thinking these hard thoughts. “To think that I relied on him—and he has put me in this ridiculous and odious position. What a way to treat anyone!”

  Still there was no word from when she reached home. And, if she had not had Florian’s word for it that it was Elinor with whom Paul was engaged the following evening, she would have descended to the last depths of wounded pride and begged him to put off his appointment and help her out of her predicament.

  He was going out that evening, too, it seemed. This time to an official reception, however, and he kindly offered to take Loraine too—perhaps because he noticed her blank expression when she found she was to spend the evening alone again.

  However, Loraine felt it was vital to be at home and available, just in case there were any word from Philip. After all, he might well arrive in Paris that evening, having received neither of her telegrams and a good deal surprised to find she had ever doubted his coming.

  This thought served to keep up her spirits for the earlier part of the evening. But when it became obvious that Philip could not be in Paris—and she had confirmed the fact by several unsuccessful telephone calls to his flat—angry resignation once more settled down upon her.

  She had had strict injunctions from Madame Moisant to go to bed early, and gracious permission to arrive late at the salon next morning. So she followed out this arrangement scrupulously, though she could not resist rushing out in her dressing-gown to see if the morning post had brought any letter from Philip.

  There was nothing for her. And, with this last deferment of hope, she very nearly broke down and told Paul about her troubles.

  He, however, was evidently a good deal absorbed by something which had arrived by post for him and hardly seemed to notice the forlorn figure in the lowered dressing-gown who sat down opposite him and poured out coffee and crumbled a roll without eating much of it.

  “Well, my dear,” he rose to go in less than ten minutes, “enjoy yourself this evening. I’m sure it will be a great occasion. I shan’t see you again beforehand, shall I?”

  “No. Madame Florian and I are both changing at the salon, so that every last detail can be checked, and then she has kindly asked me back to dinner at their apartment.”

  “Remember all the details for me. I shall expect a blow by blow account later,” he told her. And she managed to smile quite brightly as she bade him goodbye.

  But when she was finally left sitting at the breakfast table alone, she almost wished that Florian had never chosen her to attend the great Fete du Roi Soleil. It hardly seemed worth all this anxiety and frustration.

  And then, just when hopes were lowest and spirits most chilled, there was a sharp rap on the front door, and a minute later Mimi entered, bearing the longed-for telegram. “Mimi!” Loraine almost snatched it from the housekeeper in her eagerness, and her fingers trembled so that she tore the sheet of paper as she dragged it out of the envelope. Then she smoothed it out and read:

  “A thousand regrets, darling. Cannot possibly make it tonight. Vital discussion over pictures. Have a wonderful time. Love—Philip.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HAVE a wonderful time!

  That was the sentence which fanned the flame of Loraine’s anger to a degree she would not have thought possible. And in that flame there was finally consumed the last loving illusion about Philip Otway.

  Have a wonderful time! What sort of time did he suppose she was likely to have, without an escort, without an explanation to give to Monsieur Florian, and without a grain of real or loving regret to arm her against the bitter disappointment?

  In that moment she hardly knew which caused the greater pain and disillusionment—the immediate crisis or the discovery of Philip’s feet of clay.

  He didn’t care—that was the truth. Neither about her spoiled happiness nor her wounded pride. Nor, she saw it now, about her personally. If he had really had any tenderness or regard for her, he simply could not have done this to her. Or, if his most vital interests had absolutely demanded his presence in London, he would have found some way of preparing her and consoling her.

  The explanation—such as it was—did not have to be left to the very last minute like this. The fact was that he had probably just forgotten about the whole thing, in the pleasant excitement of his own affairs, and been reluctantly reminded by one or both of her telegrams.

  How she wished she had never sent those telegrams. Oh, how she wished it! She would so much rather he should have had the impression that he was of no importance to her.

  He was of no importance now. Astounding, unbelievable discovery—but true. In a matter of days, he had slipped completely from his pedestal and now, revealed in the light of his own selfish telegram, he appeared as he really was.

  Charming and friendly to a degree. But none of it was more than skin-deep. Carelessly generous when it cost him nothing and the result was a pleasing degree of gratitude and hero-worship. But, in the final event, there was really only one person who meant a great deal to him and whose interests he was ready to study. And that was the handsome, gifted, easy-going Philip Otway himself.

  With disconcerting clarity, Loraine remembered now; one occasion after another when he had really shown quite obviously what he was. And, oddly enough, what she remembered most clearly of all at that moment was the casual way he had shrugged off Elinor Roye, once he had no more use for her.

  “I should have seen then that he was essentially cold-hearted,” Loraine thought. “Poor Elinor! Now I can feel truly sorry for her.”

  But then, with a shock which was almost physical, she remembered that she had no reason to feel sorry for Elinor at all. On the contrary. The shoe was on the other foot, if anything. Elinor had emerged from all this exceedingly well, as the fiancée of Paul once more.

  Oh, lucky, lucky Elinor! How wonderfully different was her fate. She was to marry Paul, who was—even without the comparison with the erring Philip to highlight the fact—a prince among men.

  He had never left any vital matter casually in doubt. On the contrary, he had defined her position beyond question, when he had categorically said that his home was hers for as long as she wished.

  Not that she could impose on that generous declaration too far, of course. But oh, how she loved him for it!

  “It was the nicest thing that ever happened to me,” thought Loraine, with a sigh. “That—and the way he looked at me when I wore the wedding dress.”

  But this was no time to idle away the few hours left in nostalgic recollection. Philip had presented her with an immediate problem. And the only way of solving it was to go straight to Florian and frankly admit that he had been right and she had been wrong.

  It was not a pleasant prospect. But, without knowing it, Loraine had grown up fast in the last painful half-hour and her scale of values had changed subtly. No longer was she the timid girl prepared to make a worrying mountain out of a social molehill. She was beginning to know now what really mattered and what did not.

  If Monsieur Florian chose to be cross with her, that would serve her right and she must accept the fact. But it was inconceivable that he would really find the problem a serious one. On such an occasion, the difficulty would be not to find an extra man to complete his party but to decide which of many he would choose.

  And so, plucking up her courage, Loraine went to the telephone and dialled Monsieur Florian’s private number.

  Her heart beat apprehensively as she waited for the reply. But then it was Gabrielle’s sweet, warm voice which answered her.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. He’s just gone to the salon. Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s really something for Monsieur Florian himself to deal with, and he’s going to be very cross with me, I expect,” Loraine admitted. “My escort for the evening, has let me down.” She had no idea she was already speaking in entirely different terms from those she would have used if Philip had still been the man in her life. “Monsieur Florian warned me to have a s
ubstitute in readiness—and I’m afraid I ignored the warning.”

  “I shouldn’t worry.” Gabrielle was eminently reassuring. “Georges will soon rustle up someone. How do you like them? Young and gay, or older and interesting?” Loraine laughed and immediately felt better.

  “I don’t really mind, so long as Monsieur Florian doesn’t feel I’ve spoiled his party.”

  “Of course not!” Gabrielle scouted the notion. “I’ll phone him now. I’m sorry about your disappointment. Was it someone very special?”

  There was a second’s pause. Then Loraine said, quite deliberately:

  “Not really—no. He was charming, but rather lightweight and not particularly important to me.”

  “Oh, good. Well, we’ll find you someone nice. I’ll get on to Georges now and tell him to do his stuff.”

  So Loraine replaced the receiver, feeling that her immediate problem was in good hands. And, indeed, by the time she arrived at the salon, Georges had evidently done his stuff to some purpose for, meeting Loraine on the stairs, he said, quite agreeably:—“I have found you an escort for tonight, petite. Don’t worry.”

  “Oh, thank you, monsieur! I’m sorry I was silly and I didn’t take your advice before.”

  “Which of us does take advice, if it runs contrary to our wishes?” replied Florian good-humoredly. “Would it be tactless to inquire what happened to Monsieur Philippe?”

  “He stayed in London, monsieur, and sent me a very casual telegram of regrets,” replied Loraine, with courageous candour.

  “Tch, tch,” said Florian, in high good humor—presumably at the vindication of his own views. “That was neither polite nor kind of him.”

  “That’s what I thought,” agreed Loraine, with a touch of bitterness which made Florian regard his youngest mannequin with unusual attention.