THE WEDDING
Marjorie returned to college bubbling over with the plans for the new
enterprise. Fortunately, she found Lily in her room, and into her
interested ears she poured the details.
“John is going to let me know as soon as he hears anything definite,”
she concluded, as she finished her description of the attractive place
they hoped to rent. “In the meantime I want to study up all I can about
tea-room management. I wonder whether there are any books on the
subject.”
“I guess so,” said Lily; “but not in the college library. Suppose I
write to mother, and ask her to look in some of the New York
book-stores?”
“Wonderful!” cried Marjorie, delighted to have her chum enter so
heartily into her plans. “Just the thing! Oh, Lil, what would I ever do
without you?”
“I’m just as thrilled over the prospect of it as you are,” replied her
room-mate. “Only I’m afraid my motives aren’t so altruistic. It’s more
because I’m glad of a chance to spend the summer with the old bunch than
because I’m anxious to help the woman, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, we’ll have lots of summers together,” said Marjorie. “But this
really is going to be an unusual experience.”
“I wish I believed the first thing you said,” returned Lily. “I feel it
in my bones that now that Doris has started it, we’ll probably lose one
girl every year, at least. And you can’t tell me it’s ever the same
after they’re married!”
“Not exactly. But we still have Doris.”
“Never to go away with us again in the summer time, or to do anything
much where men aren’t included. We’ve lost her—and when we lose you, I
don’t know what I’ll do!”
“Well, you needn’t worry about that, yet,” laughed Marjorie. “I intend
to stay single long enough to finish college, anyway.”
“But you never can tell what a summer will do,” sighed Lily. “Especially
when you live in the same city with John Hadley—and see him every day!”
“Which I don’t intend to do. We’re going to be too busy, Lil, to have
callers all the time. I want to make five hundred dollars this summer,
besides paying back the money we borrow from your father.”
“I hope we do. Now, let’s forget the tea-room for a while, and talk
about the wedding. Did you decide upon your dresses?”
“Yes; Mae and I are going to wear pink flowered georgettes, with very
pale green hats of plain georgette. And I think Marie Louise is wearing
all pale green.”
“And Doris—does she want a train?”
“I suppose so; but I know she can’t have one. I really didn’t hear the
particulars about her dress. But what difference does it make—Doris
Sands would look lovely in anything!”
“She certainly would,” agreed Lily.
The girls turned to their studies, but both found it hard to concentrate
that evening. College, which up to this time had seemed wonderful to
Marjorie, appeared dull and uninteresting in comparison with the two
great events that loomed before her in the near future. She wished she
could skip all the intervening days between then and the first of June,
and be about to start on her new venture.
John Hadley’s promised letter, however, did not come so soon as she had
expected, and she began to grow impatient of the delay. Each afternoon,
after the last mail was in, an overwhelming feeling of despondency would
take possession of her at the thought of waiting at least sixteen hours
for news.
On the Saturday afternoon following her visit, when she came out of the
post-office again empty handed, she began to wonder seriously how she
would ever get through Sunday. She walked slowly up to her room and
found Lily chatting with Agnes Taylor, another member of the freshman
class.
“Marj, what is the matter?” demanded Lily, immediately. “You look as if
you had lost your last friend!”
“Not quite so bad as that,” replied her room-mate, making a feeble
attempt to smile. “Only I haven’t heard about our tea-house yet, and now
there won’t be a mail until Monday morning.”
“What tea-house?” asked Agnes, with interest.
Marjorie explained briefly the scouts’ project for the summer, and
concluded by saying that they had a place in mind which a friend of hers
was trying to secure for them.
“And I’m so afraid we’re not going to get it—” she was saying, when a
sharp knock at the door interrupted her. Lily opened it to find one of
the maids holding out a telegram.
“For Miss Marjorie Wilkinson,” she announced.
“Oh!” gasped Marjorie, dashing forward eagerly. “I hope it isn’t bad
news.”
Trembling, she tore open the yellow envelope and read the message
feverishly. Then a broad smile of content spread over her face.
“Listen, girls!” she cried, exultantly:
“Miss Marjorie Wilkinson:
“Cable rec’d. House yours. Rent free.
“John Hadley.”
“Isn’t that marvellous?”
Marjorie began to execute a happy little dance about the room, every now
and then picking up the telegram to re-read the message, and to make
sure that it was really true. It was some minutes before the other girls
could bring her down to earth and make her talk sensibly. Finally Agnes,
who was a Philadelphia girl, asked her the exact location of the house
in question, and succeeded in getting a rational reply.
“I believe I know the very house you mean,” she said, after Marjorie had
described it and told of its location. “And to whom does it belong?”
“To a young man named Edward Scott—an Oxford student,” replied Marjorie.
“O—oh!” remarked Agnes, very knowingly.
“What’s the matter, Agnes?” demanded Marjorie. “Do you know anything
about the place? We haven’t been inside—is it all right?”
“It’s perfectly charming, as far as I know.”
“Then why the mysterious _oh_?”
Agnes smiled slightly; it was fun to play upon the girls’ curiosity.
“Didn’t four or five people in that family die, one right after the
other?” she asked.
“Not four or five—_three_!” corrected Marjorie. “Why?”
“And they all died in that house?”
“Yes, I guess they did,” admitted Marjorie.
“Oh!” exclaimed Lily, suddenly jumping at the inference. “There’s
something peculiar about the house? It’s—haunted?”
“Well, that’s what they say, anyhow. For a while after the owner went
abroad, the agent tried to rent the place, I believe, but the story got
around—exaggerated, of course—and the prospective tenants were scared
off. And then they gave up trying to rent it. You better be careful
about sleeping there at night—I understand all the deaths took place in
the small hours of the morning.”
“Marj,” said Lily, affected in spite of herself by the story, “don’t you
think maybe it would be better to hunt another place?”
“No, certainly not!” laughed Marjorie, greatly amused at the whole idea.
“But there is no danger of our sleeping there, for we have a lovely
house to live in during the summer.”
If Agnes’s story made any impression upon either of the girls at the
time, it was entirely forgotten when the wedding drew near. Indeed, even
the tea-room and Daisy’s baby were effaced from Marjorie’s mind by the
overpowering importance of this great event.
During the last two weeks of May a number of social events had been
planned in Doris’s honor, but Marjorie had been able to attend only a
few—those which were scheduled for week-ends; for college activities and
studies would not allow her much free time. The one function, however,
to which she had been looking forward with as keen anticipation as the
wedding itself—the dinner to the bridal party—had been arranged for a
time that would be convenient for her.
It was a small affair at Doris’s home, just outside of New York City.
Besides Mr. and Mrs. Sands, there were the four girls—Doris, Marie
Louise Harris, Mae Van Horn, and Marjorie; the best man—Jack
Wilkinson—,the ushers—John Hadley and William Warner; and Roger himself.
The party itself was not elaborate; flowers in the center of the table
and place-cards at the places were the only decorations. The
conversation was gay and light, and yet underneath it all could be
perceived the solemnity of the approaching occasion. The most serious
step that two young people can take was about to be celebrated.
But though Doris was an only child, and would be greatly missed by her
parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sands had evidently decided to allow no parting
sadness to spoil the happiness of these days; and, following their
example, everyone adopted an exuberant mood. Doris and Roger were
happiest of all.
Marjorie sat next to John Hadley, and he seized the first opportunity to
speak of the tea-room.
“Mother has no end of plans,” he said; “and she says there’s an awful
lot to get ready. So could you girls manage to come to Philadelphia as
soon as college closes, and all pitch in and help?”
“I’d love to!” cried Marjorie, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“And I guess most of the other girls could, too. I don’t think anybody
has anything much planned for the first part of June.”
“And bring the capital along, mother said; you ought to keep it in a
Philadelphia bank, you know.”
“Naturally. John, do you suppose five hundred dollars will be enough?”
“I don’t think you ought to go in any deeper than that—just for a
summer,” replied the young man, gravely. “It would be too much of risk.”
“But can we do it for that?”
“Mother seems to think you can. You can go over it thoroughly with her.
And that reminds me, is the baby’s mother still alive?”
“Yes, she had the operation and is still living. And Daisy got a good
woman to take care of Betty while she is at school.”
The conversation grew general again, and Marjorie forgot the tea-room
temporarily in the gaiety that followed. The rest of the evening was
given to dancing; but when the girls separated they reminded each other
that their next meeting would be of a very different nature—the
solemnization of the marriage ceremony in Doris’s church.
As this was the first wedding among any of her own friends, it was
Marjorie’s first opportunity to be a bridesmaid. She kept telling
herself that she was not an important person, that no one in the
congregation would have eyes for anyone but the bride; yet, as she
preceded Marie Louise and Doris down the aisle, she was trembling so
that she could hardly walk. She wondered how it would feel to be the
bride, to exchange those solemn promises with a man who had once been
only a casual acquaintance. She glanced surreptitiously at Doris out of
the corner of her eye, but the girl seemed calm and absolutely at her
ease; evidently her great happiness had wiped away all her former
nervousness.
Marjorie breathed a sigh of relief when the ceremony was finally over,
when they had all reached the seclusion of the vestry-room once more,
and everybody was kissing and congratulating Doris at once. She was glad
too to find the ensuing reception informal; indeed it seemed more like a
delightful party at which all her old friends were present than the
stately occasion she had been dreading. Doris, too, laughed and talked a
great deal, and even made a pretense at eating.
“The really exciting thing,” she said to Marjorie, in an interval after
supper, before the dancing began, “is to see who catches my bouquet. I
hope it is one of our old bunch.”
“Now, Doris,” remonstrated Marjorie; “we don’t want too many of our
girls to get married.”
“Oh, I do!” laughed Doris. “Now, I’m going to stand over the railing and
throw it. Please ask Jack to tell everybody to be ready.”
A mad scramble among the girls followed Jack Wilkinson’s announcement,
as, almost like children, they crowded about the hall. Doris stood on
the stairs, and, closing her eyes, tossed the beautiful bouquet out over
the banister. The girls all raised their arms expectantly, but it was
Mae Van Horn who grasped it in her outstretched hands. A great shout
arose from all the spectators.
“So you’re next!” cried Lily, rapturously. “I’m so glad!” Then,
squeezing Marjorie’s arm, she whispered, delightedly, “I so didn’t want
it to be you! And as you walked down the aisle on John Hadley’s arm,
everybody was making guesses!”
“Oh, Lil!” laughed her chum. “You needn’t worry. The flowers are
lovely—but I don’t want them that badly!”