Quite miraculously Emily arrived, and she and Bronson made a boudoir of
Derry's sitting-room. They filled it with flowers, as was fitting for
a bridal-bower. Jean's little trunk had been sent on to Woodstock, but
there was her bag, and a supply of things which Emily brought from home.
A new night nurse came, and Miss Martin was retained for the day. The
snow still fell, and the old man in the lacquered bed was still
unconscious, his stertorous breathing sounding through the house.
And it was her wedding day!
They dined in the great room where Derry's ancestors gazed down on
them. Emily was there, and it was a bridal feast, with things ordered
hurriedly. Bronson, too, had seen to that. But they ate little.
Emily talked and Derry ably supplemented her efforts.
But Jean was silent. It was all so different from what one might
expect--! She still wore her white dress. It was a rather superlative
frock with much cobwebby lace that had been her mother's, and in the
place of her own small string of pearls was the longer string which had
been her father's last gift to her. She had worn no veil, her crinkled
copper hair in all its beauty had been uncovered.
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