CHAPTER V

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.