"My frock's all right," said Alice.
Her fingers trembled as she strained at the hooks and eyes.
And in the end it was Gwenda who hooked Mary up while Alice held the veil. She held it in front of her. The long streaming net shivered with the trembling of her hands.
* * * * *
The wedding was at two o'clock. The church was crowded, so were the churchyard and the road beside the Vicarage and the bridge over the beck. Morfe and Greffington had emptied themselves into Garthdale. (Greffington had lent its organist.)
It was only when it was all over that somebody noticed that Jim Greatorex was not there with the village choir. "Celebrating a bit too early," somebody said.
And it was only when it was all over that Rowcliffe found Gwenda.
He found her in the long, flat pause, the half-hour of profoundest realisation that comes when the bride disappears to put off her wedding-gown for the gown she will go away in. She had come out to the wedding-party gathered at the door, to tell them that the bride would soon be ready. Rowcliffe and Harker were standing apart, at the end of the path, by the door that led from the garden to the orchard.
He came toward her. Harker drew back into the orchard. They followed him and found themselves alone.
For ten minutes they paced the narrow flagged path under the orchard wall. And they talked, quickly, like two who have but a short time.