Maris (33 page)

"Now," said Maris on Monday morning after breakfast, "we've got to get to work and finish this house at once, for Mother declares she is in a great hurry to get home, and the nurse said she was sure she would soon be able to return."

So the happy children scurried through their breakfast and got to work, finding no task too hard for their eager fingers. And the two young men hurried downtown to the office to try to bring business up to the promise Lane had made.

 

 

The wedding was early in October.

Maris hadn't been willing to let her mother have so much excitement sooner, although she came back home three weeks before with a flush of health on her cheeks and a joy in her eyes that made it seem almost absurd to be treating her like an invalid. Both Maris and Lane felt that everything should be quiet and calm and that the mother should have first consideration.

But this was to be no hectic wedding, and best of all there was no heartbreak behind it.

Invitations?

Maris only laughed when Gwyneth reproached her for having burned up the other ones.

"They cost so much, Maris," said the little girl. "You know you said they did! You could just have changed the date on them," she suggested frugally.

"Yes, but you forget that there is one other item, most important, that would have had to be changed also, little sister," said Maris blithely. "The name of the bridegroom happens to be a different one, you know!"

"Oh, that's so!" said Gwyneth, astonished. "Well, couldn't we have got a rubber stamp and stamp them with the other name?"

"It isn't being done, little sister!" said the bride cheerfully and then sat down and laughed till she cried. A rubber stamp over Tilford Thorpe's name! What would Tilford say to that?

There was some talk of having the wedding in the garden, just quietly, "for Mother's sake" they said. But after the consideration they all agreed that even if there were but very few invited, it would be more or less of an excitement to carry on the whole of a wedding at home, and Mother would insist on being into it all.

So Lane and Maris talked it over and brought their decision to the parents for approval.

"We're going to have it in the church," said Maris, "and then stop at the end of the wide aisle by the door and shake hands with any of our friends who come."

"That will be sweet," said the mother with shining eyes. "Well, if that is settled, we ought to order the invitations at once and get right to work addressing them. There won't be quite as many as there were before, but it always takes time, and I suppose you want them to be mailed, of course, at exactly the right time."

"We're not going to have invitations!" said Maris calmly.

"Well, but
every
body has invitations!" said Gwyneth in horror.

"No," said Maris brightly, "not everybody.
We
don't."

"But aren't you going to let anybody come? What's the use of me being maid of honor if nobody's there? We might as well just have it here at home, just the family."

"Oh, yes, we're going to let people come, anyone who wants to."

"But how will they know?"

"We're going to have it announced in church!"

"Maris Mayberry! How funny! Nobody does that! And suppose the people didn't go to that church? Suppose they lived in some other town?" burst out Gwyneth again.

"Oh, if there's anybody we're particular about, like people we know real well, we'll either write them notes or just call them on the phone and say: 'Maris is going to be married Thursday morning at twelve o'clock in the church, and we'll be glad to have you with us if you find it convenient.' "

"Maris, do you mean it?" Gwyneth's eyes were large with wonder.

"Why, surely, dear. Why do we have to go through all that burden of sending out expensive invitations for people to throw in the wastebasket? It's all right, of course, if you have money to burn, or if you are noted public figures; but we're not trying to put on a big show for people to see, so why should we go to all that formality and trouble?"

"My dear," said the mother with a relieved smile, "how wonderful of you to take an attitude like that. It seems to make the marriage ceremony more sacred when there is not so much fuss and fashion. You know, dear, that's the way your father and I were married. In the church, just informally, with all our dear friends, and then just a little supper for the family."

"Yes," said Maris happily, "and Sally is going to cook that supper! Yes, Mother dear, no expensive caterers this time! I want everything as different as can be from the way we planned it before. I talked with Sally about it before you came home, and she thinks she can do it. She's got a sister and niece who will help, and a couple of brothers for waiters. We're having creamed chicken in little patty shells, and Sally's best potato salad. She'll make that the day before, of course. And hot little biscuits with butter in them, piping hot, and that delicious concoction she makes out of grapes and melons. The ice cream will come from Shallups and be in molds of fruit and flowers, and there will be nuts and candies, of course. But the wedding cake is all made. Sally made it while you were away, rich and dark with fruit, her old recipe. It's great. She made a tiny one so we could sample it. And it's put away in the big tin box to mellow. Now, doesn't that sound good, Mother?"

"Wonderful!" said the mother, lying back in her chair with a great sigh of relief. "I see I shan't have to do a single thing except look pretty and act stylish."

"That's it, Mother! You've caught the idea exactly," cried Maris, jumping up to kiss her mother.

So the quiet preparations for the wedding went steadily forward and did not interfere with so much as a wink of the mother's afternoon naps or other resting time. Oh, she wrote a few notes to her most intimate friends, but that was all, and she smiled and said to her husband, "It's really the way a right-minded wedding should be anyway. You and I never felt bad that we didn't spend all we had on frills and folderols. When you have real love, it doesn't matter much what else is lacking."

And her gray-haired lover agreed with her and kissed her tenderly.

So the days went by, and the wedding morning came.

Maris hadn't invited a single one of her fashionable friends who were to have had a part in the first planned wedding. But she had written a sweet reserved little note to Mr. Thorpe, senior, letting him know that she was to be married.

Merrick and the little boys had driven out to a woods that belonged to the Maitland property and selected and cut a small wilderness of lovely juniper trees. These had been brought to the church and set up about the altar till they made a lovely background for a myriad of tall, wonderful pink and white chrysanthemums that stood in stately grace on either side.

And there was a dear old friend of Mrs. Mayberry's, white haired now and not in active service but who could still make marvelous music on the organ. It was she who played tender old melodies and then the "Wedding March."

Merrick was best man, tall and good looking in his new dark blue serge. He looked very grown up and attractive beside the handsome bridegroom, standing at the head of the aisle.

Lexie in her pink organdy and Alec in a short white linen suit marched up the aisle, heading the procession and carrying baskets of pink roses, which they were to scatter in front of the bride as she came back down the aisle.

Then came Gwyneth, in her treasured pale blue chiffon, taking careful, stately steps and holding her wonderful armful of pink roses and delphiniums. Gwynnie held her head as if this were at least a million-dollar wedding. She was enjoying every step to the last degree.

But the eyes of the church full of dear friends were upon the bride as she came up the aisle on the arm of her father.

She was wearing the lovely organdy dress that her mother had made, and she looked so sweet that the bridegroom feasted his soul upon her loveliness and wondered how it came about that God had thought him worthy of so fair a bride. And back in the corner among the shadows, half hidden by a group of small juniper trees, sat an old, tired, sorrowful man who had almost been her father-in-law. He was watching her keenly, sadly, as she looked up into her own father's tender face with a splendid smile. He studied her simple lovely attire and wondered what his wife had meant by saying that Maris did not know how to dress and wanted to wear a dowdy homemade affair to their son's wedding. She seemed to him like his idea of an angel, with her white roses and lilies of the valley in her arm and the soft mist of bridal veil about her face.

He marveled at the tender beauty of the service, so unique and cognizant of the presence of God in their midst, and he sadly acknowledged to himself that Tilford would never have fit a service like this, wherein the presence and guidance of the Lord Christ was invoked for this new household that was being set up. Yet he was humbly thankful in his heart that this lovely bride who was not his daughter had taken time and thought to speak the words and pass on the eternal burning message in God's Word so that he, too, could understand what was here going on.

Halfway across the ocean came a great floating palace of a boat, bearing on board the lad who would have been the bridegroom if he had been worthy. And sometimes he went cheerfully among his kind, trifling with brittle hearts, and sometimes he sat apart and planned how he would go back and lay siege to Maris's heart once more.

But Maris was marching down that flower-paved aisle with her hand resting on her dear bridegroom's arm and her face alight with a love that Tilford Thorpe had never been able to bring to her eyes.

A happy, lovely wedding it was, and when they reached the back of the church, they paused there and grouped the family about them and received happy wishes and congratulations, many of them from humble, plain people who loved them. Maris's heart thrilled with the beauty of it all, and it came to her that the other wedding, even though it might have been held in the same church, with costlier flowers about and richer people filling the pews, could never have brought her half the joy and blessing that she found here among the plain, loving, simple people who loved the Lord.

"This is the heritage of the servants of the
L
ord"
kept ringing over and over in her head above the sound of old Aunt Mehitable's tender organ melodies.

She spoke of it to Lane after they were back in the car alone together, Merrick having taken the family home ahead of them and brought the car back. She told Lane how that sentence had rung over and over in her ears the night she was escaping and how it had come today to finish out the ceremony.

Lane smiled tenderly.

"That's the best heritage any soul could have," he said. "It will hold good throughout the years. I could ask for nothing greater for a dowry for my precious wife. 'No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord.' "

Maris said, thoughtfully, as she laid a gentle finger on a fragrant lily of the valley, "One ought to walk very courageously with a heritage like that! We must never, never get careless and forget how wonderfully God worked to bring us together again and how He has saved us!"

Lane's eyes were full of understanding as he watched her, and he murmured softly, "God grant that we may never forget what He has done for us!"

And then the car turned into their own street, and Maris, looking up suddenly, saw the house in its new coat of paint as if for the first time.

"Oh, look, Lane!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it wonderful? The house! It looks so clean and beautiful!"

"Yes," said Lane admiringly, "the dear old house! I think I love it just as much as our own!"

"The dear old houses," echoed Maris softly. "I love them both!"

Lane's fingers curled softly about hers, and then the car drew up at the curb, and there they all were out in front waiting to welcome them! Hand in hand they got out and went in to their beloved family.

" 'This is the heritage--!' " murmured Maris in almost a whisper as together they mounted the steps and smiled at each other.

" 'Of the servants of the Lord,' " finished Lane. "I'm glad we're that, aren't you?"

 

 

GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL (1865–1947) is known as the pioneer of Christian romance. Grace wrote over one hundred faith-inspired books during her lifetime. When her first husband died, leaving her with two daughters to raise, writing became a way to make a living, but she always recognized storytelling as a way to share her faith in God. She has touched countless lives through the years and continues to touch lives today. Her books feature moving stories, delightful characters, and love in its purest form.