Part 1 (1/2)
Ruth Fielding on the St. Lawrence.
by Alice B. Emerson.
CHAPTER I
”HERE COMES THE BRIDE”
The sudden joyous pealing of the organ could be heard upon the sidewalk before the stately church. As there was a broad canopy from the door to the curb, with a carpet laid down and motor-cars standing in line, it took no seer to proclaim that a wedding was in progress within.
Idlers halted to wait for the appearance of the wedding party, which was about to come forth. Some of the younger spectators ran up the steps and peered in at the door, for there was only a lame, old, purblind s.e.xton on guard, and he, too, seemed vastly interested in what was going on inside.
One glance down the main aisle of the great edifice revealed a much more elaborate scheme of decoration than usually appears at a church wedding.
Its main effect was the intertwining of French and American flags, and as the bridal party turned from the altar the horizon blue uniform of the soldier-bridegroom was a patch of vivid color that could not be mistaken.
The bride in her white gown and veil and wreath made, it may be, even a more prominent picture than did her husband. But that was only to be expected perhaps, for a girl on her wedding day, and in the church, is usually the focus of all eyes.
It must be confessed (even her dearest friends must confess it) there was another reason why she who, only a moment before had been Jennie Stone, quite filled the public eye.
In the first place, Jennie was a well-built girl, and upon her well-built frame there had always been since her childhood days a superabundance of flesh. And getting married had not changed sweet, jolly, funny Jennie Stone in the least! Instead of coming back down the aisle of the church with modestly downcast eyes (which is usually a hypocritical display of emotion), Jennie smiled at her friends and beamed proudly upon the figure in horizon blue at her side.
And she might well be proud of Major Henri Marchand, for he was in the very best sense a soldier and a gentleman, and there gleamed a bit of color on his breast that had been pinned there by Marshal Foch's own hand. As he was still in active service and had only been given leave to come to America for his bride, this might be considered the last military wedding that the old church was likely to see--perhaps for many years.
The groom's French uniform, and even the olive gray of the best man and two or three other men in the party at the altar, had lent their touch of color to the picture. But it was the bride's attendants, however, that made the party so well worth looking at--especially to the greater number of young women and girls in the pews.
Jennie Stone was a popular girl, and had friends galore. Many of those girl friends had come from a distance to see their beloved ”Heavy Stone”
(as she had been nicknamed in the old Briarwood Hall days) married to the man she had met in France while she was engaged in those useful and helpful occupations into which so many American girls entered during the war.
Besides, Jennie was the first of the old Briarwood Hall set to be married, and this was bound to be a gala occasion. This was no ”weepy”
wedding, but a time of joy. And the bridal party coming down the aisle made as brilliant a picture as had ever been seen in the old church.
The maid of honor in pink was as refres.h.i.+ng to look upon as a bouquet of arbutus. She had always been a pretty, winsome girl. Now she was developing into a handsome young woman, as all Ruth Fielding's friends declared. In her present filmy costume with its flowery picture hat the girl of the Red Mill had never looked better.
The young man at her side in the uniform of an American captain with his black curls and dark face, made a splendid foil for Ruth's beauty. Behind him walked his twin sister--as like Tom Cameron as another pea in a pod--and Ann Hicks, both in rose-color, completing a color scheme worthy of the taste of whoever had originated it. For the sheer beauty of the picture, this wedding would long be remembered.
In the very last pew, on the aisle, sat an eager old colored woman--one of those typical ”mammies” now so seldom seen--in an old-fas.h.i.+oned bonnet and shawl. She was of a bulbous figure, and her dark face shone with perspiration and delight as she stared at the coming bride and groom.
Jennie saw Mammy Rose (the old woman had been a dependent of the Stone family for years), and had the occasion been much more serious than Jennie thought it, the plump girl would surely have smiled at Mammy Rose.
The old woman bobbed up, making an old-time genuflection. She thrust out a neat, paper-covered parcel which she had held carefully in her capacious lap all through the ceremony.
”Miss Janie--ma blessed baby!” she whispered. ”I is suttenly glad to see dis here day! Heaven is a-smilin' on yo'. And here is one o' ma birfday cakes yo' liked so mighty well. Mammy Rose done make it for her chile--de las' she ever will make yo' now yo' is goin' to foreign paths.”
Another girl than Jennie might have been confused, or even angered, by the interruption of the procession. But Jennie could be nothing if not kind. Her own hands were filled with her bouquet--it was enormous. She stopped, however, before the old woman.
”As thoughtful for me as ever, Mammy Rose, aren't you?” she said pleasantly. ”And you know all my little failings. Henri,” she said to her husband.
But the courtly young Frenchman had quite as great a sense of _n.o.blesse oblige_ as his bride. He bowed to the black woman as though she was the highest lady in the land and accepted the parcel, tied clumsily with baby ribbon by the gnarled fingers of Mammy Rose.
They moved on and the smiling, yet tearful, old woman, sank back into her seat. If there was anything needed to make this a perfect occasion, it was this little incident. The bride and groom came out into the smiling suns.h.i.+ne with suns.h.i.+ne in their hearts as well as on their faces.