“Yes, you can—and must. This is your only bridal, dear. The other—you know that was only what the doctor said of it once—‘your hand in his to the last’—the hand of a friend. But this—isn’t this different?”
Rachel had turned away her face. “Yes, this is different,” she had owned. “But——”
“He asked me to beg you for him to have it so,” Juliet urged, and Rachel was silent. So the simplest of the white frocks it was, and in it Rachel looked as Juliet had meant she should.
Only Judith and Wayne Carey were asked down to see them married. To humour the doctor the ceremony was performed in the orchard, near the entrance to the willow path. The time afterward was short, and before she knew it Juliet was bidding the two good-bye.
“I’ve got her,” said the doctor, looking from Juliet to Rachel, who stood at his side. “She’s mine—all mine. I have to keep saying it over and over to make sure.”
“For your comfort,” answered Juliet, smiling at them both, “I’ll tell you that she looks as if she were yours.”
“Does she?” he cried, laughing happily. “How does she look?” He turned and surveyed her. “She looks very proud and sweet and still—she’s always been those things—and very beautiful—more beautiful than ever before. But do you think she really looks as if she were mine? Tell me how.”
Juliet turned from him, big and eager like a boy, to his bride, “proud and sweet and still,” as he had said. “I’ve never seen Rachel look absolutely happy before,” she told him. “There’s always been a bit of a shadow. But now—look down into her eyes, Roger; there’s no shadow there now.”
But when he would have looked Rachel’s lashes fell. “Not yet? By-and-by then, Rachel,” he whispered. Then he turned to Juliet—and Anthony, who had come up to stand beside her.
“If it hadn’t been for you and your home-making this day would never have come for me,” he said. “You have been good friends and true, to us both. Let us keep you so—and good-bye.”