At last Bella came down, in glistening white apparel, clouded over with lace. That delicate taste which had always been hers, the instinctive refinement in all external things which made her mother say that Bella had been a lady from her cradle, had regulated her wedding dress. She looked as pure and aërial as some pale spring floweret, tremulous upon its slender stem. Her family bowed down and worshipped her, like Joseph’s brethren, as represented in the vision of the sheaves.
‘God bless you, my pet!’ cried her father, in an unprecedented burst of affection. ‘It is something to have such a beauty as you in one’s family.’
The gray old chancel was like a bed of gaudy tulips, so varied and so brilliant were the dresses of Mr. Piper’s manufacturing friends, waiting impatiently to behold him at the altar. Among all these bright colours and startling bonnets, Beatrix Harefield, in her gray silk dress and old Brussels lace, looked like a creature belonging to another world. All the manufacturing people noticed her, and wanted to know who that distinguished-looking young lady was. Mrs. Dulcimer and Beatrix had the Vicarage pew all to themselves.
Presently the bride entered the porch, leaning on her father’s arm, pale against the whiteness of her bridal dress. Mr. Piper, crimson with agitation, and breathing a little harder than usual, hurried forward to receive her. He offered her his arm. The four bridesmaids followed, two and two, the organist played a spirited march, and the business of the day began.
Bella gave the responses in a clear little voice. Mr. Piper spoke them with gruff decision. Mr. Dulcimer read the service beautifully, but Mr. Piper’s manufacturing friends hardly appreciated the Vicar’s deliberate and impressive style. They would rather have had the ceremony rattled over with modern celerity, so that they might get to the wedding breakfast.
‘If there’s any hot ontries they’ll be spoiled,’ whispered Mrs. Wigzell, the hat-lining manufacturer’s wife, to Mrs. Porkman, whose husband was in the provision line.
‘I’m beginning to feel quite faint,’ answered Mrs. Porkman. ‘Getting up so early and coming so far! It’s trying for a weak constitution.’
‘Did you ever see such a young thing?’ asked Mrs. Wigzell, indicating the bride with a motion of her head.
Mrs. Porkman’s only answer was a profound sigh.
‘What can be expected from such an unsuitable marriage?’ demanded Mrs. Wigzell, still in a whisper. ‘After such a sensible wife as poor Moggie, too.’