GITA, attended by Polly and Elsie until the last minute that she be given no time to change her mind, stood before the psyche mirror and smiled at her reflection. She had no intention of changing her mind, for she knew that such an opportunity to outshine all other women and etch an indelible picture into the minds of all beholders, was granted to few girls even on their wedding-day.
The mass of delicate lace billowed widely about her slender figure, and the long veil (exhumed from the chest later and almost as transparent as tulle) hung from a high coronet of orange-blossoms “built” by Polly and dipped in weak coffee. She had removed her wig, and her hair, wiry and vibrant, and of an intense dusky blackness, had been drawn forward to soften the uncompromising stiffness of the head-dress. She wore her rope of pearls, and, about the base of her throat, a string of larger pearls, a present from Eustace. They had belonged to his mother.
Her eyes blazed with excitement, and her mouth, which had begun to take an upward curve at the corners, was very full and very red. Polly took out her lip-stick with a sigh.
“You are the loveliest thing on earth, Gita,” announced Elsie, with the enthusiasm of both artist and friend. “If ever you are in the mood to hate life just remember tonight.”
“Night of your life,” agreed Polly. “Don’t make any mistake about it. Spin out the descent of that stair as long as you can. Such a chance doesn’t come twice in a lifetime. Come along.”
Pelham and John Trowbridge, a friend of Polly’s and of corresponding height, armed with large silver candelabra, stood near the head of the stair. (They had flatly refused to put on livery.) Polly posed Gita between them and regarded the tableau critically.
“Hold those candelabra a bit higher,” she commanded. “And don’t wabble. Nor, what is equally important, spill grease on that lace. Now, rest your arms until the band strikes up. I must go ahead and drive them to this end of the hall. Elsie, better light these candles first.”
The guests were dancing, but the arrival of Mrs. Pelham, Mr. Donald, and the clergyman in his robes of office, had advised them of some startling change in the program, and they were not surprised when the music stopped abruptly and Polly, her hand admonishing, appeared on the stair.
“Come down to this end all of you—over there; and afterward move into the middle of the room.” A moment later a mass of white wigs looked like a sudden descent of snowballs above a variegated flower-bed, ruffled by a faint but agitating breeze. On the broad landing Elsie applied a lighted taper to eight long candles set in high brackets.
Dr. Lancaster took his position solemnly in front of the chimneypiece that had looked down on so many Carteret brides. Mrs. Pleyden, who had no intention of striking too incongruous a note, wore a gown of rose-pink velvet with panniers made from a point-lace shawl, and had powdered her hair. She looked haughty and disapproving, however, and so did Mr. Donald, who was to give, thankfully, the bride away. Both were astonished that Polly and Eustace Bylant, the quintessence of modernism, should lend themselves to anything so theatrical. Of course, anything might be expected of Gita, and, no doubt, she had been encouraged by Mrs. Brewster, who was by way of being a “bohemian.”
Eustace, wigless and very pale, took his position at the foot of the stair, the bridesmaids behind him. Topper and the other servants, who had been put into dominos, stood in the background.
The slow opening strains of the Lohengrin wedding-march stole down from the gallery and there was a faint rustle from above. The hush became breathless. A moment later three figures appeared and stood on the high landing beneath the soft glow of the candles, into whose aspiring flames they seemed for a moment to merge as if to soar upward themselves. Pelham and Trowbridge, holding the candelabra aloft with rigid arms, looked like graven images. Gita, a white wraith, her arms hanging at her sides, her eyes fixed on space, but dazzling with their own light, stepped slowly down the wide stair, her attendants beside her. All three were consumed with fear of taking a false step and stumbling headlong, but preserved their outward composure.
A deep sigh rose from the audience, and one or two of the men whose secret life was ruled by a passionate devotion to beauty, winked away tears. Even the scornful muscles of Mrs. Pleyden’s face relaxed, and she reflected that she would have a tale to tell on many morrows.
The music rose and swelled through the old hall. The torches seemed to flame higher, and the dark faces of Carterets stood out as saliently as the living members of the drama enacting below. The stately trio reached the foot of the stair and Eustace took Gita’s hand and led her forward, unmindful of Mr. Donald’s crooked arm and heightened color. The bridesmaids spread out their trains and stepped daintily behind. The candelabra were lowered with a sigh of relief and Pelham advanced to his position as best man. The ceremony began.
Once Eustace felt Gita’s hand twitch as if she would snatch it away, but he held it firmly. Dr. Lancaster had a deep solemn voice and it boomed out much as it had done at the funeral ceremonies eight months before. Gita shivered, but she uttered her vows firmly, and held out a rigid finger for the ring. Then she sank to her knees on the cushion thoughtfully provided by Topper, and set her teeth as the solemn blessing rolled over her head. A moment later she was on her feet again listening to a loud excited buzz of congratulations. She submitted to being kissed by Mrs. Pleyden and the girls, then broke away and ran toward the dining-room.
“If you are not all famished I am,” she cried in a high and not unhysterical voice. “And you must lose no time drinking our health.”