A SURPRISE
RATHER to the surprise of those who knew her best, Peggy had decided on
a church wedding. But when she came to give her reasons, the decision
seemed characteristic, after all.
"I think this is the dearest house in the world. When Graham and I come
back from South America, I hope we can find one just like it--and on
Friendly Terrace, too. But it's not what you'd call spacious. A dozen
extra people crowd it, and it makes you uncomfortable to have a wedding
and leave out so many."
"Our wedding seems likely to be a unique affair," grinned Graham. "From
the looks of Peggy's list, the guests will make up in variety what they
lack in exclusiveness. What do you think of her asking the Bonds?"
"Now, Graham, that's not fair. I haven't any idea of asking the Bond
family. I only said that Elvira had improved so much that I felt like
encouraging her by sending her an invitation."
"And the Dunns. She's got them down." For all matrimonial
responsibilities loomed so close, Graham's boyish fondness for teasing
remained one of his most prominent characteristics.
"Why, Graham Wylie! Not the Dunns at all. Just Jimmy! And he's doing so
well and looks as nice as any boy."
"And she says she's going to have her Sunday school class, one and all."
"Well, I should think so. I've taught those girls ever since they came
out of the infant room, and they're darlings. And it would break their
hearts if I were married and they weren't there to see."
Now that her college life was over, Peggy had thrown herself joyously
into her planning for the next thing. Ruth, as Graham's sister, was to
be the maid of honor, Priscilla and Amy bridesmaids. They decided on
their gowns after hours and hours of delicious deliberation. For a
July wedding, organdie was the thing--the sheerest pale pink organdie,
with pink roses to match on their wide hats. "You'll be dreams," Peggy
declared ecstatically. "Everybody'll say so."
"Nonsense!" scoffed Amy, "As if people at a wedding ever looked at
anybody but the bride!"
"I had a letter from Alice, yesterday," exclaimed Peggy, changing the
subject. "She thinks little Irma had better be the flower-girl instead
of Dorothy. She says Dorothy has been shooting up so fast lately,
that now she's lanky and self-conscious, and that Irma is plump and
adorable. I only hope dear little Dorothy won't feel left out. That
would spoil everything."
Robert Carey was to be Graham's best man, a decision which pleased
Peggy immensely. Most of the ushers were young men the girls knew
more or less, though Graham had included in the number a comparative
new-comer at the office, Kennedy by name, with whom he was on
especially friendly terms. "You ought to bring him out some evening,"
suggested Peggy, "and not wait till just before the wedding to
introduce him."
"No, that's right. I'll ask him to-morrow to set a time."
When Graham appeared shortly after dinner the following evening, Peggy
and Priscilla were addressing invitations. Graham seated himself lazily
in the arm chair and congratulated them on their industry. "Have you
addressed all that pile to-day?"
"Yes, sir. We've been working ever since I got back from the
dressmaker's, about four o'clock. Priscilla stayed to dinner so as not
to lose any time."
There was a brief silence. Two pairs of pens scratched busily while
Graham entertained himself by watching the anxious pucker of Peggy's
mouth as she wrote each new address. "By the way," he remarked, "He's
coming out to-night."
"Who is?"
"Kennedy."
The scratching of the pens came to an abrupt stop. "Priscilla," Peggy
cried in tones of horror, "Graham has asked that Mr. Kennedy to call
and he's coming this evening."
"You told me to ask him," Graham defended himself.
"Of course, I want him to come. But I don't want him to descend on me
without warning, and get the impression that you are going to marry a
frump."
"Why, I was just thinking how nice you looked--both of you," Graham
declared, kindly including Priscilla, who scorned to acknowledge the
compliment. She rose, returned her pen to the writing desk, and said
briefly, "I'm off."
"Put on your glad rags and come back, Priscilla," begged Peggy, who
also was making preparations for a retreat.
"Oh, I think not. Mr. Kennedy isn't coming to see me."
"It'll be ever so much nicer if he meets some of you before the last
minute. Ruth says she's got to put in this evening letter writing, and
Amy and Bob are going somewhere."
"Oh, very well. I'll be back after a little." Priscilla spoke
nonchalantly, but as a matter of fact, she was glad of Peggy's
insistence. Now that the time was growing so short, she grudged every
hour she was away from her friend. As she left by the door, Peggy ran
up the stairs, leaving Graham to the companionship of his own agreeable
anticipations.
Peggy was back in about twenty minutes, looking, in Graham's
estimation, very much the same, except that her dress was a lighter
blue than the other, and her hair, having been freshly combed, did not
show as much of the curl. He expressed his opinion and Peggy smiled
tolerantly.
"I wore that old thing because a drop of ink more or less wouldn't
matter. It's as old as the hills, and I made it when I didn't know as
much about dress-making as I do now. Of course I like to have you think
I look nice, no matter what I wear, but now you're going to be married,
you'd better learn more discrimination in regard to clothes. It would
be dreadful to have a new dress and you not able to see that it was any
prettier than the old one."
"Very well. Suppose you start on my education right away. Tell me the
fine points about the rig you've got on." But before Peggy could
begin, the bell rang, and Graham's education was left incomplete for
the time being.
Mr. Kennedy was a slender, pleasant-mannered young man, who looked
considerably older than Graham, partly perhaps, because he wore
eye-glasses. As Peggy greeted him, she was conscious of something
hauntingly familiar in his face. "I haven't met you before, have I?"
she asked.
"It hardly seems that I could have met you and not remember it," said
young Kennedy gallantly. "I'm very sure I've seen you before, however."
"And I believe I've seen you, but I don't know where."
"Hitchcock would say," remarked Graham, "that probably you had been
well acquainted in Nineveh or Babylon or some other ancient burg."
Mr. Kennedy smiled, and took the chair Graham had pulled forward for
him. "Who's Hitchcock?" he asked.
"Oh, a nut that Peggy used to have here till I told her she'd have to
choose between us."
"Graham, what a misleading thing to say."
"Well, it might give the wrong impression, I confess. Peggy didn't care
much about him herself, but one of her friends had a case on him."
"Sh!" warned Peggy, in an agony as she heard Priscilla's footsteps
outside. She filled the somewhat awkward pause by springing to her
feet, crying as she ran to the door, "You needn't ring; I hear you."
The results of the half hour Priscilla had given to vanity were
more evident, Graham thought, than in Peggy's case. Peggy could be
disheveled and still irresistible. Priscilla's rather stately beauty
was more exacting in its demands. In her dress of pale green voile,
which set off her clear pallor and the beauty of her smooth, dark hair,
she looked the incarnate spirit of spring. Even Graham stared.
Peggy, her arm slipped caressingly through Priscilla's, led her
forward. "Priscilla, this is Graham's friend, Mr. Kennedy. Miss Combs--"
Peggy stopped short. Priscilla had jumped. Mr. Kennedy's conventional
smile had changed to startled recognition. "Why, you know each other,"
Peggy cried.
"Only--why, surely, Peggy, you remember."
Peggy's vague, irritating certainty of something familiar in Mr.
Kennedy's face was suddenly transformed to recollection. "Oh, of
course. The Green Parrot."
"Oh, of course! The Green Parrot!" mocked Graham, who had risen on
Priscilla's entrance, and now stood looking from one to another of the
trio. "Makes it perfectly clear."
They took their seats, and Peggy explained, helped out by suggestions
from the others. As they recalled the absurd experience, the three
narrators went off into fits of laughter, but the audience maintained a
dignified calm.
"Take my word for it, John, it's an inscrutable sex. Now, I would have
sworn that this young woman hadn't a thought I didn't share, and look
what she's been keeping from me, lo! these many months. When we're
alone I shall expect you to give me a full account of what really
happened."
For some reason the discovery that Graham's friend, Kennedy, was the
young man whose coffee cup had been invaded by Priscilla's roll seemed
to put him at once on the footing of an old acquaintance. They had a
very jolly evening, and it was not till after ten that Priscilla said,
"Graham, I think you'd better take me home, now. I've got a busy day
before me."
"You have indeed, poor dear," Peggy cried. "I expect you to finish
addressing those invitations and do any number of errands. These are
trying times for my friends, Mr. Kennedy. They have hardly a minute in
the twenty-four hours that they can call their own."
The young man smiled at her in the abstracted fashion of one whose
thoughts are on something else. "Won't you let me be your escort?" he
asked Priscilla. "It would give me the greatest pleasure."
"Thanks, but it's only a step, and my going early won't break up
Graham's evening, for he'll come directly back." She softened her
refusal by giving him her hand and saying pleasantly, "I'm glad to have
met you properly at last, with a real introduction, you know."
"I shall look forward to the next time," said young Kennedy, with
rather more ardor than conventional courtesy required. "This is our
third meeting, I believe."
"Third?" exclaimed Peggy, pricking up her ears. "Why, when was the
second?"
"At one of the football games last fall," explained Priscilla. "I was
there with Horace Hitchcock, and Mr. Kennedy sat next me." And then
recalling the suspicious glances Horace had shot in the direction of
the guiltless Mr. Kennedy, Priscilla began to blush. The worst of
blushing is that it is much easier to start it than to call a halt.
There were innumerable things connected with the thought of Horace that
made Priscilla uncomfortable, and now she found herself blushing for
them all. The tide of color flooded her smooth forehead and dyed her
throat. Peggy's observant eyes detected an unmistakable shadow on Mr.
Kennedy's erst-while radiant face.
Later, when Graham and herself were alone, she scolded him a little.
"You oughtn't to have said that a friend of mine had a case on
Hitchcock. Now Mr. Kennedy knows you meant Priscilla."
"Well, is that such a tragedy?"
"Couldn't you mention to him some day that Horace did admire Priscilla,
but that now he's safely married to another. You could bring it in in a
casual way, you know."
Graham looked at her hard. "My dear Peggy," he said, "Just because
you yourself have been fortunate--unusually fortunate I might say--in
your love affairs, don't let that lead you into trying your hand at
matchmaking. Fooling with high explosives is child's play compared to
that, believe me."
But instead of seeming impressed by the warning, Peggy only answered
dreamily, "When he doesn't see Horace at the wedding, he'll probably
begin to suspect that it's ancient history. If only Priscilla could
learn to speak of him without blushing."