CHAPTER XV
THE NEW YEAR'S WEDDING
It was New Year's, and Anne Pierson's wedding night. At half-past seventhe ceremony linking her life forever to that of her school-day friend,David Nesbit, was to be performed in the beautiful old stone church onChapel Hill which, in company with her chums, she had faithfullyattended during her years spent in Oakdale.
Anne had, at first, steadily refused to countenance the idea of a churchwedding. She was a quiet, demure little soul, who, aside from her work,detested publicity. It was Mrs. Gray's wish, however, to see the girlshe had befriended married in the church which bore the memorial windowto the other Anne, her daughter, who had died in her girlhood. So Annehad yielded to that wish.
Although Grace was Anne's dearest friend, she had insisted that Miriamshould be her maid of honor. Privately she had said, "I'd rather be abridesmaid with Nora and Jessica. You know there were only four of us inthe beginning." It had also been decided that in spite of the fact thatJessica and Nora were really eligible to the position of matrons ofhonor, that phase of wedding etiquette should, for once, be disregarded,and the three friends who had welcomed Anne as a fourth to their littlefold should serve as bridesmaids and be dressed precisely alike. "Itwas," declared Anne, who heartily despised form, "as though they werestill three girls together, with husbands in the dim and distantfuture."
It was to be a yellow and white wedding, therefore the gowns they hadchosen were of white silk net over pale yellow satin, and very youthfulin effect. Miriam's gown was a wonderful gold tissue, which made herappear like the princess in some old fairy tale, while Anne, contrary totradition, had not chosen white satin. Her wedding dress was of soft,exquisite white silk, clouded with white chiffon, and was much bettersuited to her quiet type of loveliness than satin could possibly havebeen.
Mrs. Gray, who was to give the bride away, wore a gown of her favoritelavender satin, and bustled cheerfully about the Piersons' living room,in which the feminine half of the bridal party had gathered until timeto drive to the church, where Anne was to play the leading part in a newand infinitely wonderful drama. Anne's mother had insisted that itshould be Mrs. Gray, rather than herself, who gave Anne into DavidNesbit's keeping. Always a shy, retiring woman, she had shrunk from theidea of appearing prominently before a church full of persons, many ofwhom were strangers to her. Dearly as she loved her talented daughter,she preferred to sit quietly beside Mary, her older daughter, in theplace of honor reserved for the members of the families of the bridalparty. She and Mrs. Gray had discussed the matter at length, and she hadbeen so insistent that the former, as Anne's friend and benefactor,should give away the bride that Mrs. Gray, secretly delighted, hadconsented to her request.
"Anne makes a darling bride, doesn't she?" praised Nora, lifting a foldof the veil of exquisite lace, Mrs. Gray's wedding veil, by the way, andpeering lovingly into her friend's faintly flushed face.
Anne smiled and reached out a slim little hand to Nora. She wasoccupying the center of the living room while her four friends, Mrs.Gray, her mother, Miss Southard and Mary Pierson hovered solicitouslyabout her.
"How dear you all are to me." She held out her arms as though to claspher friends in one loving embrace. "I am so glad now that I am going tohave a real church wedding. I thought at first it would be nicer to bequietly married and slip away without fuss and feathers, but now I knowthat it is my sacred duty to my friends and to David to play my newpart, as I've always played my other parts, in public."
"I always knew that Anne and David would be married some day," declaredGrace wisely. "I believe David fell in love with Anne the very firsttime he saw her. Don't you remember Anne, we met him outside the highschool, and he asked us to come to his aeroplane exhibition?"
"I remember it as well as though it happened yesterday," Anne's musicalvoice vibrated with a tenderness called forth by the memory of thatgirlhood meeting with the man of men.
"Those days seem very far away to me now," remarked Miriam Nesbit. "Ifeel as though I'd been grown up for ages."
"I don't feel a bit grown up. It seems only yesterday since I ran racesand tore about our garden with Captain, our good old collie," laughedGrace. "I'm like Peter Pan. I don't want to, and can't, grow up. And Ishall never marry." She glanced about her circle of friends with analmost challenging air. She looked so radiantly young and pretty in herdainty frock that simultaneously the thought occurred to them all, "PoorTom." Yet in their hearts, even to Mrs. Gray, they could find no faultwith Grace's straightforward words. If she were almost cruellyindifferent to Tom as a lover, she had the virtue at least of beingabsolutely honest. Even Mrs. Gray admired and respected her candor.
"Did you ever see anything more beautiful than Anne's and Miriam'sbouquets?" broke in Miss Southard, with the intent of leading away froma not wholly happy subject.
Miriam held her bouquet at arm's length and eyed it with admiration. Itwas composed of pale yellow orchids and lilies of the valley, whileAnne's was a shower of orange blossoms and the same delicate lilies.
"If you are determined never to marry, Grace, you won't try to catchAnne's bouquet," smiled Mrs. Gray.
"Oh, yes, I shall," nodded Grace. "I must do it because it's hers. Ialways try to catch the bouquets at weddings. It's good sport. So far,however, I've never secured one."
"I shall throw this one directly at you," promised Anne.
"Anne, child, the carriages are here," broke in her mother's gentlevoice.
Anne laid her bouquet on the centre table. "Come and kiss Anne Piersonfor the last time, girls." She opened her arms. One by one they foldedher in the embrace of friendship. Her sister and mother came last. Asthe arms that had held her in babyhood closed about her, Anne drewnearer to her mother in this, her hour of supreme happiness, than everbefore, if that were possible.
It was not a long drive to the church. On the way there they stopped topick up the two flower girls, Anna May and Elizabeth Angerell, twopretty and interesting children who lived next door to Grace, and ofwhom she and Anne had always been very fond. The little flower maidenswere dressed in white embroidered chiffon frocks with pale yellow satinsashes and hair ribbons. They wore white silk stockings and white kidslippers and carried overflowing baskets of yellow and white roses.
"Oh, Miss Harlowe," cried Anna May, when she and Elizabeth were safelysettled in the carriage, one of them on the seat beside Grace, the otheron the opposite side with Anne, "this is about the happiest dayElizabeth and I ever had. I do hope I won't be scared. Just think, wehave to walk into that great big church, the very first ones, with allthose people looking at us."
"I'm not the least bit scared," was Elizabeth's bold declaration."Nobody is going to hurt us. Why, all the people are Miss Anne's_friends!_ I'm going to think that when I walk up the aisle, and Ishan't be a bit scared. I know I shan't."
"Well, I'm not exactly _scared_," asserted Anna May, greatly impressedwith Elizabeth's valiant declaration. "I guess I'll think that, too."
"Oh, Miss Anne, you look too sweet for anything." Elizabeth clasped hersmall hands in rapture. "When I grow up I shall certainly be married,and have a dress like yours, and just the same kind of a bouquet, and bemarried in the church where every one can see me."
"You can't get married unless some one asks you," informed Anna Maywisely.
"Some one will," predicted Elizabeth. "Won't they, Miss Harlowe?"
"I haven't the least doubt of it," was Grace's laughing assurance."Still I wouldn't worry about it for a good many years yet, if I wereyou. It's just as nice to be a little girl and play games and dressdolls."
Anne smiled faintly. Grace was again unconsciously voicing her views onthe marriage question.
The two little flower girls kept up a lively conversation during theride. They were divided between the fear of facing a church full ofpeople and the rapture of being really, truly flower girls at thewedding of such a wonderful person as their Miss Anne.
It
was precisely half-past seven o'clock when two tiny flower maidens,their childish faces grave with the importance of their office, walkedsedately down the broad church aisle toward the flower-wreathed altar.Following them came a dazzling vision in gold tissue that caused atleast one's man's heart to beat faster. To Everett Southard Miriam wasindeed the fabled fairy-tale princess. Then came the bride, feelingstrangely humble and diffident in this new part she had essayed to play,while behind her, single file, in faithful attendance, walked the threegirls who had kept perfect step with her through the eventful years ofher school life.
Mrs. Gray, who had preceded the wedding party to the altar, was waitingthere with the bridegroom and his best man, Tom Gray. There was a buzzof admiration went the round of the church at the beautiful spectaclethe bridal party presented. Then followed an intense hush as the voiceof the minister took up the solemn words of God's most holy ordinance.
Perhaps no one person present at that impressive ceremony realized asdid Tom Gray what the winning of Anne, for his wife, meant to David. Onthat June night, almost two years previous, when Hippy and Reddy had, inturn, made announcement of their betrothal to Nora and Jessica in thepresence of Mrs. Gray and her Christmas children, David's fate as alover had been uncertain. Now David had joined the ranks of happybenedicts. Tom alone was left.
As the minister's voice rang out deeply, thrillingly, "I pronounce youman and wife," involuntarily Tom's glance rested on Grace, who waswatching Anne with the rapt eyes of friendship. The words held nosignificance for her beyond the fact that two of her dearest friends hadjoined their lives. Her changeful face bore no sign of sentiment. Asusual, her interest in love and marriage was purely impersonal.
The reception following the wedding was held at Anne's home, and longbefore it was over Anne and David had slipped away to take the nighttrain for New York City. Anne's honeymoon was to be limited to one weekwhich they had decided to spend at Old Point Comfort. Anne and Mr.Southard were to open a newly built New York theatre in Shakespearianrepetoire the following week. Their real honeymoon was to be deferreduntil the theatrical season closed in the spring, and was to comprise anextended western trip.
True to her promise, Anne had aimed accurately, and Grace had receivedthe bridal bouquet full in the face. It dropped to the floor. Shepicked it up and commented on her lack of skill in catching it. Tom'sface had brightened as he saw the girl he loved holding the fragranttoken to her breast. It was a good omen.
"I'm going to take you home in my car, Grace," he said masterfully, asthe guests were leaving that night.
"All right," returned Grace calmly. "We can take Anna May and Elizabethwith us. It's awfully late for them. I promised Mrs. Angerell I'd takegood care of them. They absolutely refused to go when Father and Motherwent."
Tom could not help looking his disappointment. Nevertheless the twolittle girls were favorites of his, so he forgave them for being theinnocent means of frustrating his intention of having Grace to himself.
"I'm going back to Washington to-morrow night, Grace," he said, as hetook her hand for a moment in parting. "May I come to see you to-morrowafternoon?"
"Yes, of course, Tom." Grace could not refuse the plea of his gray eyes.
"All right. I'll drop in about four o'clock."
"Very well. Good night, Tom." Grace could not repress a little impatientsigh. "He's going to ask me again," was her reflection, "but there isonly one answer that I can ever give him."
Grace Harlowe's Problem Page 15
