‘Probably he hated the father.’
‘I don’t believe he ever knew him. They are quite a different generation – second cousins once removed – something like that. No, I put it down to Sonia, I expect she couldn’t bear the idea of Hampton going away from Polly and pretended to herself that this Cedric did not really exist – you know what a one she is for shutting her eyes to things she doesn’t like. I should imagine she’ll be obliged to face up to him now, Montdore is sure to want to see him under these new circumstances.’
‘Sad, isn’t it, the idea of some great lumping colonial at Hampton!’
‘Simply tragic!’ said Davey. ‘Poor Montdores, I do feel for them.’
Somehow, the material side of the business had never been fully borne in upon me until Davey went into these facts and figures, but now I realized that ‘all this’ was indeed something tremendous to be so carelessly thrown into the lap of a total stranger.
When we arrived at Hampton, Aunt Sadie and I were shown straight into the chapel, where we sat alone. Davey went off to find Boy. The chapel was a Victorian building among the servants’ quarters. It had been constructed by the ‘old lord’, and contained his marble effigy in Garter robes with that of Alice, his wife, some bright stained glass, a family pew designed like a box at the opera, all red plush with curtains, and a very handsome organ. Davey had engaged a first-class organist from Oxford, who now regaled us with some Bach preludes. None of the interested parties seemed to have bothered to take a hand in any of the arrangements. Davey had chosen all the music and the gardener had evidently been left to himself with the flowers, which were quite overwhelming in their magnificence, the exaggerated hot-house flowers beloved of all gardeners, arranged with typical florist’s taste. I began to feel dreadfully sad. The Bach and the flowers induced melancholy, besides, look at it as you would, this marriage was a depressing business.
Boy and Davey came up the aisle, and Boy shook hands with us. He had evidently got rid of his cold, at last, and was looking quite well; his hair, I noticed, had received the attention of a damp comb to induce little waves and a curl or two, and his figure, not bad at all, especially from behind, was set off by his wedding clothes. He wore a white carnation, and Davey a red one. But though he was in the costume of a bridegroom, he had not the spirit to add this new part to his repertory with any conviction and his whole attitude was more appropriate to a chief mourner. Davey even had to show him where to stand, by the altar steps. I never saw a man look so hopeless.
The clergyman took up his position, a very disapproving expression on his face. Presently a movement at our left indicated that Lady Montdore had come into the family pew, which had its own entrance. It was impossible to stare, but I could not resist a glance and saw that she looked as if she were going to be sick. Boy also glanced, after which his back view became eloquent of a desire to slink in beside her and have a good long gossip. It was the first time he had seen her since they had read the Infanta’s letters together.
The organist from Oxford stopped playing Bach, which he had been doing with less and less interest during the last few minutes, and paused. Looking round, I saw that Lord Montdore was standing at the entrance to the chapel. He was impassive, well-preserved, a cardboard earl, and might have been about to lead his daughter up the aisle of Westminster Abbey to marry the King of England for all that could be read into his look.
‘O Perfect Love, All Human Thought Transcending’ rang out, sung by an invisible choir in the gallery. And then, up the aisle, one large white hand on her father’s arm, dispelling the gloomy embarrassment which hung like a fog in the chapel, came Polly, calm, confident, and noble, radiating happiness. Somehow, she had got herself a wedding dress (did I recognize a ball dress of last season? No matter) and was in a cloud of white tulle and lilies-of-the-valley and joy. Most brides have difficulty with their expression as they go to the altar, looking affected, or soulful, or, worst of all, too eager, but Polly simply floated along on waves of bliss, creating one of the most beautiful moments I have ever experienced.
There was a dry, choking sound on our left, the door of the family pew was slammed, Lady Montdore had gone.
The clergyman began to intone the wedding service. ‘Forasmuch,’ and so on. ‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’ Lord Montdore bowed, took Polly’s bouquet from her and went into the nearest pew.
‘Please say after me, “I, Harvey, take thee, Leopoldina”.’ A look from Aunt Sadie.
It was soon over. One more hymn, and I was left alone while they all went behind a screen to sign the register. Then the burst of Mendelssohn and Polly floated out again as she had come, only on the arm of a different well-preserved old man.
While Polly and Boy changed into their going-away things we waited in the Long Gallery to say good-bye and see them off. They were motoring to the Lord Warden at Dover for the night, and going abroad the following day. I half expected that Polly would send for me to go upstairs and chat, but she did not, so I stayed with the others. I think she was so happy that she hardly noticed if people were with her or she was alone; perhaps she really preferred the latter. Lady Montdore put in no further appearance, Lord Montdore
