CHAPTER XXIII

_The Wedding of the Season_

Mrs. Radigan pulled off her gloves, tossed her hat on the drawing-room table, threw her coat at her maid, and sank into a deep chair.

"Well, thank Heaven, it is all over," she said, "that we got through it alive, and now we shall see something in the papers besides the Bumpschuses and the Nocastles and all those tiresome people."

She called for tea, and when it came Pearl Veal would have made it for her but her sister waved her away firmly.

"You must rest, my dear," she said. "Quiet your nerves with a smoke and offer up silent thanksgiving that you are living at this minute."

She seemed to think that Pearl should be on the verge of collapse, which amused me greatly, for when I passed a cigarette to my fiancée I saw that her hand was as steady as a church with the match. Then she smiled at me and gave her head a slight inclination toward Sally.

"No one was hurt," she said. "The police arrangements were excellent, only it took so many men to get Ethel and the Duke safely into the carriage, that we were left unguarded for a moment."

"It's a wonder you were not killed," said Mrs. Radigan.

Pearl laughed. I never knew a girl so brave as she. Had she just come from a Lenten service instead of the wedding of the season she could not have been more unruffled. But Mrs. Radigan was bent on making the most of the adventure, as she does of all adventures, exaggerating, finding pleasure in dances, and getting excitement out of dinners. Her teacup was arrested in midair, and over its top she eyed her sister solicitously.

"Do not tell me you weren't dreadfully frightened!" she cried.

Pearl blew a smoke ring.

"No," she said, "I was not afraid. I was mad--downright mad. Just as we came out of the church the awning burst in. For the moment I was dazed, for through the rent in the canvas I could see a multitude of faces, a sea of people that stretched away from the church for blocks, in every direction, and beat against it with irresistible force. As the mounted police tried to get the Duke and Duchess out, they drove the crowd back and something had to give. Naturally, it was the awning. Angelica Clime screamed and seized me by the arm, so that I had but one hand for defence, the one in which I was carrying my roses. A large fat woman with blond hair came first. I really don't think she meant to be rude but was just pushed through the hole, and, being through, wanted to know what our dresses were made of, so gave a grab for my gown to feel the material, and without thinking, I brought my roses down over her head--quite unintentionally--and her bonnet was knocked askew. She jumped back and fell, and those behind her, unable to stop themselves, piled over her."

"It must have been dreadful!" said Mrs. Radigan. "We could hear the shouts inside the church and thought you had all been massacred."

"And so the churchful of people came hurrying out, pinning us between two mobs," said Pearl. "It looked for a moment as though we should be crushed, torn in pieces and carried off in bits as souvenirs; but, fortunately, Williegilt Bumpschus knew what he was about when he chose giants for ushers, for when they saw our peril, they charged down the awning, swept the crowd out through the hole, and were able to keep them at bay till the police had got the Duke's carriage free, and came to our aid."

"Was anyone hurt?" I asked, for, though I had been in the thick of the adventure, my attention had been held by the delicate task of protecting the imperilled bridesmaids without being rude to any of the attacking party.

"We got off very well," Pearl laughed. "I saw a red-haired woman go away waving my roses, and Gladys Tumbleton was almost dragged into the mob at the end of a long strip of trimming that someone had secured as a prize, but, fortunately, Stuyve Mint had presence of mind enough to cut her free. It really was not half as bad as some other weddings, but I suppose the papers will call it a riot--they always exaggerate things so--yet, as a matter of fact, it was all over in a minute; the police got the crowd under control, and we were able to get away."

"But the Duke--the poor, dear little Duke!" cried Mrs. Radigan. "He must have been terribly frightened."

"On the contrary," said I, "he told me emphatically that it was jolly."

"As he says about everything," said Mrs. Radigan. "But I noticed him particularly at the house. He looked terribly decomposed."

Pearl Veal turned her head slowly and gazed at her sister, then glanced at me out of the corner of one of those glorious eyes of hers. Her mouth twitched and from those pouted lips a thin spire of smoke arose heavenward. The cigarette was poised in midair; she flicked the ashes from it with that fine little finger of hers and was about to take another puff when, by a sudden impulse, she tossed it away and, arising, came to my chair and seated herself on the arm in an attitude so half-caressing, so unusual for her, that Sally Radigan put down her cup and stared at her in amazement. For myself, I was astounded, but I yielded not an inch. And they say in our set that Pearl Veal is cold; that she is vapid, and has neither heart nor brains; that she is beautiful in her way, but knows it and poses; that she smiles on the men and then mulcts them at bridge; that I am marrying her for money, and why she is marrying me is a mystery! It is a mystery--this last--and to none more than to me. I find it hard to convince myself that it is not all a dream, and when she sat on the arm of my chair, when I felt her hand on my shoulder, and saw her stick out her little foot beside mine, inspecting them as though to see which was the larger--when all this happened at once, this perfect avalanche of good things, I gasped and stared up at her, as astounded as Sally Radigan.

"The Duke was decomposed--greatly decomposed," said Mrs. Radigan, when she had regained her own composure.

"He is always that way," said Pearl, "and yet you wanted me to marry him."

I saw it then. We were facing the masterful Mrs. Radigan together, defying her.

"I told you a hundred times," said she, waving the tea aside and settling herself back in her chair to tell it all again, "that I simply thought it would be best for you, because----"

"Because I would be happier," said Pearl laughing.

"No," said Mrs. Radigan. "But it is much more interesting to be an unhappy duchess than a happy common person. Think of the children alone. It must be lovely to have your picture taken holding Lord Algernon Percy Montmorency Fitznit and all that in one hand, and Lady Angeline Mary Maria Fitznit in the other--sounds much better than when Mrs. John Jones is seen with just Jim and Kate. A duke is a duke, Pearl, and even if he is a jibbering idiot, he takes precedence over a mere genius all over the world, even in our common democratic America. Now, if you had married Lord Nocastle----"

Poor Pearl! She had already talked a great deal for her and was not disposed to argue with her worldly wise sister, which nettled Mrs. Radigan, who likes to be contradicted if it will give her the opportunity to drive home another point. As she went on and met only a smiling acquiescence to everything she said, or now and then a monosyllabic remark, or a puff of smoke, she became disconcerted and at last angry, as angry as she can become, for at heart she is a good soul.

"Well?" she demanded at last.

"Well?" said Pearl, blowing a ring.

"Don't you think I am right?"

"Certainly," replied Pearl, shifting over on the arm of my chair till she leaned quite heavily on me, quite delightfully so, but I manfully refused to budge an inch.

At that Mrs. Radigan arose.

"You are terribly exasperating," she said, flaunting toward the door.

But she paused there and stood framed in the heavy portières gazing at us. And we gazed back defiantly.

"You must admit that it was a lovely wedding, except for the bride and groom," she said a little more softly.

"Certainly," Pearl answered smiling. "It cost them thousands."

"But we could have done it much better, Pearl," Mrs. Radigan went on, now in quite a gentle tone. "I hated so to see you only maid of honor at the wedding of so great a man as the Duke of Nocastle. It seemed to me as though Ethel Bumpschus were taking you up the aisle at her chariot-wheels. And you looked so lovely."

"Certainly," said Pearl. "How could I help it?"

Thereupon I grew bold and said something that Mrs. Radigan did not hear. Pearl laughed and Mrs. Radigan did not understand.

"It was funny," she said. "I really almost laughed myself. And all the rest was so lovely that it did seem a pity that Ethel Bumpschus and that little Duke had to come in and spoil it. Did you notice them at the chancel? Everything was perfect; the Bishop of New York and the Bishop of Long Island and the other clergymen did look so smart in their vestments, and that Captain Lord Algernon is a magnificent man, like all heirs presumptious, and the bridesmaids were exquisite, Pearl, exquisite; and I have never seen such ushers, except those white spats did make their feet more attractive than their faces; but, 'pon my word, when I saw the Duke kneeling beside Ethel and just reaching her shoulders, I thought I should collapse. Do you suppose he said anything during the ceremony?"

"I think," said Pearl, "I think, but I wouldn't swear to it, of course, that when the Bishop asked if he took Ethel he said it would be jolly."

"Poor little fellow," said Mrs. Radigan. "He looked so good and kind and harmless when he came down the aisle on Ethel's arm that I really pitied him. Afterward at the breakfast I told Sir Charles Wigge how much sympathy I felt for his Grace, and he polished up his monocle and inspected me. 'Mrs. Jornigan,' he said--I think that is what he called me--'the Duchess of Nocastle is one of the loveliest women I have ever known. You must remember, when you speak of her, that she is an English peeress.' But still, Pearl, I could not help thinking how much better it would have looked if the Duke had died and Captain Lord Fitznit had succeeded him and you had taken him, and he had put on his Guards uniform, and you had the same bridesmaids and ushers, and the two of you----"

Pearl Veal has been simply astounding me of late. Suddenly she leaned over, and for an instant I thought her cigarette was going to burn my nose, but she remembered it.

"Well, Pearl, you are an idiot!" cried Mrs. Radigan. But as she closed the portières and disappeared, we did not heed her taunts.

Now I do not agree with Sally Radigan that the Duke and his bride spoiled the wedding. She exaggerates. Ethel was partly protected by her veil and really was quite presentable. Of course the Duke's head could only reach her shoulder, but as he kept on his toes and she stooped, they did not really appear so badly. And everything else was perfect. I have never seen a more expensive nor a smarter affair. St. Edward's was simply lined with flowers. The music was perfect, Roardika, Furioso, and the Skimphony Orchestra making it really the concert of the year. The pink waistcoats and white spats were a great success, and everybody said that Williegilt Bumpschus had an eye for beauty when he arranged the ushers. We made very few mistakes too. Tommy Clime did fix Archibald Killing in the same pew as Mr. and Mrs. Harry Stutter, which made a commotion in that part of the church, as Mrs. Stutter was once Mrs. Killing. Stuyve Mint, who is near-sighted, mistook the old family nurse for Mrs. Bumpschus and led her up the aisle with a grand flourish and put her in the seat of honor; but Williegilt managed to get her out just as I came up with the real mother of the Duchess-elect. So, on the whole, there was hardly a hitch. And it was worth going a long way to see those bridesmaids; worth going early and sitting through an hour of music; worth the long wait afterward for your carriage, with all the attendant perils of such a crowd as filled the streets. Visions in pink those girls were, stepping airily down a rosy pathway. Angelica Clime with Gladys Tumbleton, Clarissa Mudison with Emily Lumpley, Hebes all. And then Pearl Veal!

We talk of the daughters of a hundred earls. I have seen them, too. God save me from them! Give me this daughter of Kansas City, whose blood runs red. No proud anæmia pales her cheek. She can boast a family as old as the Fitznits, a hundred generations of men and women, rugged folk with good digestions and little else. They left her no crest. She had to adopt one. But from them came the most perfect face and form in all the town--the red-gold hair that frames that perfect face; the round, dimpled cheeks from which the color never goes, but plays now deeper, now softer, like the sunlight on the clouds; those glorious blue eyes with the quiet gleam lurking in their depths; that mouth that says so little in words and yet speaks volumes; the foot, the hand--they would seem the heritage of the storied daughters of the storied nobles. She glided down the aisle that day, so quietly proud, so proudly quiet, that I doubt if in all that church, filled to suffocation with the smartest of the town, there came to one soul the thought that her grandfather was--But why think of it? As Mrs. Radigan says, money covers a multitude of ancestors.