The bright-eyed, fair-faced daughter of the house of Dennis was really the beauty of that evening; and, if the truth were known, the bride-elect had expended more thought and care upon the details of this young girl’s attire than she had on her own. Eurie Mitchell and Mr. Harrison were bridesmaid and groomsman. There were those in the church who wondered at that, and thought that Mr. Harrison would have liked some one better than “that Mitchell girl” with him, under the circumstances. But Eurie herself, and you and I, know better. We know he has chosen her, from all others, to stand by him forever.
After all, I can tell you nothing but the commonplaces. Is there ever anything else told about weddings? Who is able to put on paper the heart-throbs and the solemnities of such an hour? It is like all other things in life—that which is told is the least important of all the story.
Old Dr. Armington, whose hair was white with the snows of more than seventy winters, spoke the solemn words that made them man and wife. . . . For half a century he had been, from time to time, repeating that solemn sentence.
“You are the two hundred and ninety-seventh couple that I have, in the name of my Master, joined for life. God bless you.”
This was his low-spoken word to Dr. and Mrs. Dennis, as he took their hands in after greeting. Someway, it made Marion feel more solemn than before. Two hundred and ninety-six brides! She seemed to see the long procession filing past. She wondered where they all were, and what had been their life-histories. Later in the evening, she could not resist the temptation to ask him, further:
“How many of the two hundred and ninety-six have you buried, Dr. Armington?”
And the old man’s lip trembled, and his voice was husky, as he said:
“Don’t ask me, child. A long array of names, among them two of my own daughters. But I shall sit down with a great many of them soon, at ‘the marriage supper of the Lamb.’ I hope none of them will wear starless crowns.”
And Marion turned from him quickly, feeling that she had gotten her word to live by.
About that party. They lived through it, and, in a sense, it was a success. There were, of course, many mortifications; but by dint of shutting her eyes and her ears as far as possible, and keeping on the alert in every direction, and remembering her recent resolutions, very solemnly renewed, Ruth bore the ordeal reasonably well. She had more help than she knew of. Susan Erskine had inherited more of her father’s nature than her mother’s. It was not easy for her to yield, and she did not enjoy being managed. She could sacrifice her will, or her plans, or her comfort, if she saw a need-be for it, or if, in any sense, the strong, and, to her, solemn word, “Duty,” could be put in as a plea; but to be controlled in the mere matter of her dress—and that, after she had determined that to spend time and money, other than was absolutely necessary, on the adorning of the perishing body, was a moral wrong—was something that could not be expected of her. She was not conscious of any other feeling than that of duty; but, in her heart, she was grieved, not to say insulted. Here had they—her mother and herself—been ignored for eighteen years, allowed to dress as they pleased, and go where they pleased, or not go at all; and, now that their tardy rights were being in a degree recognized, it was the paltry question of dress that must absorb them! She was willing to make many concessions to Ruth. There were times when she pitied her. In fact, she had constant and sincere sympathy for her in this invasion of home and name. She realized that the blame was in no sense Ruth’s, and to shield her, as much as possible, from the inevitable suffering, was Susan’s natural feeling. But, when it came to strictly personal questions—what colors she should wear, and what material, and how it should be made up—she rebelled. Surely those were matters which she had a right to decide for herself. Mother might be easily managed, if she would; perhaps it was well that she could be. But, for herself, Susan felt that it would be impossible, and hoped most earnestly that no attempt would be made in that direction.