‘Oh, my dear, Moggie Piper never rose to the level of her position,’ answered Mrs. Porkman.
And now all was over, and for ever and ever—or at least for the ever and ever of this lower world—Ebenezer Piper and Isabella Scratchell were made one. Whatever the incongruity of the union, the thing was done. Disgrace or death only could loosen the knot.
The organ crashed out the tremendous chords of the Wedding March, everybody looked delighted at the near prospect of breakfast. People crowded into the vestry to see Bella and her husband sign the register. There was much kissing of bride and bridesmaids, while poor Mrs. Scratchell, wedged into a corner by the vestry door, wept a shower of hot tears over her purple dress.
‘I hope she’ll be happy,’ she ejaculated. ‘Marriage is a solemn thing. God grant she may be happy.’
And in her inmost heart the mother prayed and feared lest all should not be well with her daughter in this marriage which she as well as her husband had striven so hard to bring to pass.
‘We have done all for the best,’ she told herself, ‘and Mr. Piper is a kind, good man.’
Her maternal heart thrilled with pride presently at the church door when she saw the manufacturing people’s carriages, the sleek well-groomed horses, the smart liveries, the consequential coachmen and pampered footmen. They were a long time getting away from the church, and there was a good deal of fuss, and some offence given to punctilious minds, in bringing the carriages to the porch. Mrs. Porkman’s landau came before Mrs. Wigzell’s, which was wrong, as everybody knows that hat linings rank before provisions; and the great Mr. Timperley of the Linseed Mills—quite the most important person present—was left with his aggrieved wife and daughter till nearly the last. However, they all got off ultimately, and five minutes brought them to Mr. Scratchell’s door.
The breakfast was laid on two long tables in the common parlour; the best parlour did duty as a reception-room, and for the display of the wedding presents, which were exhibited on a side table. Mr. Piper’s friends had all sent offerings, scaly golden snakes with emerald or ruby eyes, mother-o’-pearl envelope boxes, filigree bouquet holders, lockets, fans, personal finery of all kinds. To the bride of a gentleman in Mr. Piper’s firmly established position, no one could think of offering the butter dishes and dessert knives, claret jugs and fish carvers, pickle bottles and biscuit boxes, which are presented to modest young couples just setting up in domestic business. Bella’s presents were therefore all of a strictly useless character. Beatrix gave her a set of pearl ornaments, Mrs. Dulcimer a dressing-case. The Vicar’s gift was a Bible in an exquisite antique binding, and a pocket edition of Shakespeare.
‘You need never be at a loss for something worth reading while you have those two books, my dear,’ he told Bella when he presented them.
The breakfast was a success. The Great Yafford confectioner had done his duty. There were perigord pies, and barley sugar temples, hecatombs of poultry and game, highly decorated hams and tongues, trifles, jellies, creams, hothouse fruit, ices, wafers, coffee and liqueurs. To the minds of the young Scratchells it was the most wonderful feast. They played havoc among all the dishes, reckless of after-consequences. Such a banquet as that was well worth the cost of a bilious attack. The wines had been sent from the Park, and were the choicest in Mr. Piper’s collection.