There was much debate as to where the great event should take place. Finally Slaithwaite Church was fixed on in preference to Saddleworth, for somehow I had got a horror of the church in whose graveyard the victims of the murder lay; and indeed it was many a long year before I could pass St. Chad’s without a shudder.
It seemed to me the 16th of September, our wedding day, would never come, and I tortured myself with the gloomiest apprehensions of some unforeseen calamity that would dash the cup of joy from my lips; ’tis an old and true saying that there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.
But the glad day came at last, and I would have you picture to yourself Jim and I donned in our wedding garments: a cut-away swallow-tailed coat of blue cloth, with brass buttons, red vest, knee breeches, shoes with silver buckles, and beaver hats.
Those were days when men who could afford it let themselves go in their costume. The Court of St. James set the fashion even for the humbler classes, and he was a very poor man who would not make of himself something of a dandy on the day of all days.
But how can I picture to you Ruth and Miriam when our expectant eyes saw them come up the aisle of the church, Ruth on my father’s arm, Miriam led by Mr. Buckley—radiant visions of glimmering white, veils of lace, with wreaths of orange blossom, and carrying each a bouquet of costly blooms. Mrs. Buckley had insisted on arraying both brides at her own charge. Well, well, that was a day of wonders; for when we came from church there were all the maidens from Pole Moor Sunday School, all in white muslin, strewing flowers, and the lads throwing rice. I vow that when I undressed you could have made a rice pudding from the rice that fell from my clothes.
Three coaches with prancing greys bore us off to Bent Hall. It was a glorious autumn morn, and a bright sun shone upon the blushing, happy brides, and their glad and proud grooms.
Now as we were borne through Slaithwaite and Marsden and Diggle, past the familiar “Hanging Gate,” I was not quite easy in my mind at all this unwonted and unnecessary splendour. Would it not have been better to have begun as we meant to go on and I imagined the villagers who ran to their doors to see the dashing carriages exclaiming to each other:
“Just fancy— a poor parson’s son and old Mary’s that brews treikle-drink!”
But when I hinted at this to Miriam she just smiled happily, and said: “Wait and see.”
The breakfast was at Mr. Buckley’s. The curate of Slaithwaite Church was there, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley, Dr. and Mrs. Dean, Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley of Holly Grove, my father, Mary Haigh, and Enoch Hoyle, and a portly old gentleman who turned out to be a lawyer.