ALL ON ACCOUNT OF JEREMIAH
“Don’t hand me all the verbal bouquets. Keep a few for your own use.”
Surrounded by an enthusiastic bevy of bridesmaids Jerry had at last
managed to make herself heard above the buzz of admiring compliments
they had been hurling at her from all sides. “Talk about a rosebud
garden of girls. I’ll say you’re it.” She stood beaming her delight of
the flower-like group that had invaded her room.
Jerry had had pronounced ideas of her own concerning the color scheme
for her wedding. She had elected that it should be a rose wedding, since
the rose was both Danny’s and her favorite flower. Moreover, Danny had a
preference for a certain apricot-tinted variety of rose, deep apricot in
bud, but shading when open to a delicate pink. “Marvel” was the name the
originator of the variety had bestowed upon the rose, and it had quickly
come into fashionable popularity. Jerry, in search of an attractive
color scheme for her wedding had hit upon the plan of using the dainty
Marvel rose for her purpose.
She had made a careful study of the exquisite apricot-pink shading of
the rose with the result that her maid of honor and six bridesmaids, now
gowned in the stunning dresses she herself had designed and had made for
them, bore delightful resemblance to a bouquet of “Marvels.”
Lucy Warner, brimming with happiness over the unexpected privilege of
serving as Jerry’s maid of honor, wore a frock of deep-tinted apricot
tulle over apricot silk with apricot satin slippers and stockings to
match. Beneath a wreath of tiny Marvel rosebuds her small earnest
features looked demurely out, giving her the semblance of the rosebud
she was dressed to represent. A large bouquet of the tight-petaled buds
added the final artistic touch to her costume.
Leila Harper and Leslie Cairns, as bridesmaids, wore frocks of slightly
paler apricot tulle, their wreaths and bouquets of half open Marvel buds
exactly matching the shade of their gowns. Helen Trent and Phyllis Moore
continued further to carry out the color scheme in still paler-shaded
apricot tulle, worn over silk underslips of a delicate pink. Their
wreaths and bouquets were of Marvel roses, well-opened, but not full
blown.
Vera Mason and Robin Page completed the color scheme in frocks of pale
pink tulle with wreaths and bouquets of the full-blown Marvel roses. The
two tiny flower girls, Reba and Nella Macy, kiddie cousins of Jerry’s,
wore bouffant frocks of chiffon, many-skirted and of the four shades of
the rose in which the maid of honor and the bridesmaids’ gowns had been
carried out. They had long-handled, ribbon-tied baskets filled to
over-flowing with half-blown and full-blown roses and wore rosebud
wreaths upon their curly golden heads.
As Jerry happily took in the gorgeous human flower garden about her she
could not forbear teasing Lucy a little. Fixing her eyes upon the latter
with a certain ridiculous expression which always made Lucy giggle, she
said: “Luciferous Warniferous, you are positively stunning. You are
enchanting, imposing, arresting, resplendent—wait a minute till I think
up a few more glowing terms. Oh, yes, you are celostrous, Luciferous,
absolutely and undeniably celostrous—and that lets you out. Be _very
very_ careful of yourself this evening. Some worshipping young man may
fall hard for you, and try to kidnap you.”
“Oh-h, Jeremiah Macy,” Lucy brandished her bouquet at Jerry, laughing,
but looking half vexed. “You are—well—you are——”
“What am I?” Jerry inquired with a quizzical grin.
“The same ridiculous old tease,” Lucy retorted. “When first I caught
sight of you in your wedding dress, with your lovely veil, I felt
positively impressed by your grandeur and dignity. Now I don’t feel in
the least like that about you,” Lucy ended with a faint chuckle.
“Never judge by appearances, my child. A bran span new wedding dress and
veil may cloak an awful disposition. Try to regard me, Luciferous, as
your former friend and razzberry, Jerry, Jeremiah, Geraldine Macy, and
none other. I’m going to continue to be her to the very last minute.”
“The last minute is not far off, dear,” Mrs. Macy now broke in. “It’s a
quarter to eight, children. Marjorie and I must go downstairs.” She cast
a covertly significant glance at Marjorie who returned it with an
equally guarded flash of brown eyes. “You had best form in line, girls,
as soon as we are gone so as to be ready on the dot. I’ll leave the door
open as we go. Remember, as soon as you hear the first notes of the
wedding march you must begin to move forward to the stairs.”
With these final solicitous directions Mrs. Macy went to the door and
opened it wide. From below stairs the wedding party now caught the
harmonious throb of violins softly entuning an old Italian wedding song.
It was a marvelous old song, full of impassioned harmony, which had been
one of Laurie’s “finds” during his and Constance’s first year abroad.
Virtuoso Stevens was playing it now, accompanied by Uncle John Roland,
his foster brother-musician, Charlie Stevens, and four other of the
musicians who had helped to form the little orchestra, so dear to the
Sanford High School boys and girls of former days. These were the
musicians Jerry had chosen to make the music at her wedding.
Mrs. Macy paused for an instant in the open doorway, smiling. Her eyes
roved again to the clock, now showing almost ten minutes to eight, then
again to Marjorie. The latter, radiantly lovely in a sleeveless evening
frock of orchid satin, a great cluster of orchids, brought her by Hal,
nestling against one dimpled shoulder, stood near Jerry, head bent a
trifle forward, an expression of expectant listening upon her face.
Above the overtones of the violins there suddenly arose the sweetness of
a high soprano voice, taking up the ancient wedding song. A hush had
already fallen upon the lately buzzing girl company with the first sound
of the orchestra music. The stillness deepened as the golden voice sang
on, soaring, lark-like to entrancing heights. Then Jerry shattered the
spell with an exultant shout of “Connie, Connie! It’s Connie singing! I
know it is! Oh, you Marjorie Dean.” She whirled about and pounced
joyfully upon Marjorie, catching her by the shoulders and gently shaking
her. “You _knew_ she was coming—knew all the time, and never said a
word.”
“Hands off. You’ll rumple your veil, and crush my orchids.” Marjorie
wriggled free of Jerry’s lightly pinioning hands.
“I’m going to shake Mother next.” Jerry made a laughing dive at her
mother. “You’re just as guilty as Marjorie. You knew it, too.”
“We’ll steal one more minute to explain, then we must run. We did not
know surely till this morning that Connie and Laurie would be here to
the wedding. They managed to catch a fast boat home from Havre, and
arrived here only an hour ago—_all on account of Jeremiah_. We wanted
you to have a last Jerry Macy surprise. Dearest pal,” Marjorie’s arms
enfolded Jerry, regardless of her own recent admonition of “Hands off!”
She kissed Jerry on the lips, saying, “You know all I wish for you,”
then released her and scampered for the stairs in Mrs. Macy’s wake.
Silence fell again in the room with Marjorie’s and Mrs. Macy’s exit.
Constance had begun the second verse of the song. Presently the glorious
voice had ceased with a last high, dulcet note. A sighing breath of
appreciation rose from the charmed listeners in Jerry’s room. Still
under the spell of the song and the singer, no one spoke. Then, in the
midst of the stillness, the orchestra below began the Mendelssohn
wedding march, very softly at first with a gradual increase of volume as
the march was continued.
Came a quick scurrying into place, accompanied by soft exclamations and
subdued laughter, then the bridal procession had formed and begun to
move down the hall to the grand stairway.
At the foot of the broad staircase Jerry’s father awaited her. On his
arm she continued her little journey of love, attended by her faithful
maids. Across the wide reception hall, through a ribboned aisle, which
continued on into the salon, and down the middle of the long apartment
to its southern end, the bridal procession swept. Its objective was a
gorgeous bank of palms and roses in front of which Jerry and Danny were
to make their vows. Everywhere in the salon roses were massed in
fragrant profusion. The scent of the queenly flower hung over the room
like sweet incense.
The clergyman who was to perform the ceremony had been the one to
baptize both Jerry and Danny as infants. He had already taken his place
before the rose bank. Near him Danny, accompanied by his brother,
Robert, his best man, awaited the coming of the bride. Danny’s serious
moments of life had been thus far rare. His impish smile was more apt
than not to be in evidence wherever he went. There was now no sign of it
on his gravely-earnest features as he stood waiting for Jerry.
Seriousness vastly became frolicksome Danny, making him handsome in
spite of his freckles.
As the white-robed bride, the little girl with whom he had grown up,
came toward him in her brave snowy array, the eyes of the pair met.
Jerry saw the light of love leap into her bridegroom’s eyes like a
flashing, sacramental flame, and was blushingly content. She had at last
succeeded in making “some impression” upon Danny.
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