And then the few spectators began to whisper and stir, and turn their heads to the door; and a carriage was heard to stop. Lucy raised her head and put back her veil a little. She gazed breathless at the bride, who came up the aisle on her father’s arm. Nancy was dressed in simple white muslin, the resources of the family having been concentrated on the “silk” in which she was to take her departure from home. But she had a veil like the most fashionable of brides, and a crown of orange-blossoms, such as would have put most brides to shame. Lucy gazed at her, more and more forgetting that she herself ought not to be seen, and her heart swelled with a mixture of attraction and repulsion. That dress and that moment equalizes conditions. A woman cannot be more than a bride if she should be a queen. Nancy had a right to be considered as the type of all youth and womanhood, as much as if she had been the most exalted of women. Arthur was but a poor type of the other side, but for her there was no drawback, except the rain, and she had not been conscious of the rain. With her head a little drooped, but her pretty figure erect, she walked up the aisle, leaning on her shabby old father’s arm, like a lily, notwithstanding the meanness of the prop. She was happy; she was serious; full of awe, which gave delicacy to her looks and movements, uncertain yet serene upon the threshold of her life. Durant, who had no prejudice, became an instant convert to her as she passed him, virginal, abstracted, a vision of whiteness and serious tender mystery. And Lucy, who was moved against her will, could do nothing but gaze, forgetting herself, till old Davies sighed so loud and shook her head so persistently that her young mistress took fright. It was not a wedding that occupied much time. There was no music, no nuptial hymn or wedding march for Nancy Bates, and the two spectators who were most interested had scarcely recovered from their thrill of excitement when the stir about the altar told that it was all over, and the party going to the vestry to sign the register. This was the signal for the other people present to open their pew-doors, and pull up their shawls, and lift their damp umbrellas; and Sarah Jane, who was full of excitement and satisfaction, proud of her white bonnet and her new frock, came tripping down the aisle to speak to some of those companions of her own, whose dingy dresses made such a wonderful contrast to her own bright and gay garb. “Didn’t she behave beautiful? hasn’t it gone off well?” said Sarah Jane, triumphing over everyone who was not in pink muslin. And while she stood giving information of the future movements of the bridal pair, describing fully where “Arthur” was about to take Nancy, Durant bent forward to endeavour to induce Lucy to leave. He had forgotten all about Sarah Jane, but she had not forgotten him. She gave a little scream of surprise, and looked eagerly at the half-veiled young lady. Then she rushed off, forgetting even her pink muslin, and calling audibly on Arthur as she approached the door of the vestry, which the rest of the party had entered.
“Arthur! Arthur!” she called, rushing in among them, “there’s one of your people there——”
“Hold your tongue,” said her mother in alarm. “Sarah Jane! recollect you’re in church.”
“I’m speaking to Arthur, mamma; there’s one of your people there, as sure as—as sure as anything, and Mr. Durant with her. He did not see me,” cried Sarah Jane, with an angry blush, “but I know him; and there’s a young lady and an old lady.”
“And quite natural too, and I’m very glad of it,” said Mrs. Bates. “Fancy my staying away if it was Charley’s wedding! I’ll go and ask my lady to come and have a bit of dinner.”
“It must be a mistake,” said Arthur, paler than ever; “it cannot be my mother.”
He put out his hand to stop Mrs. Bates; then he stood aghast, gazing after her. He could not leave his newly-made bride, and how could he meet his mother’s eyes?
“Oh, go—go,” said Nancy; “you needn’t mind me.” Then she herself melted, touched by the situation. “Yes, go, Arthur. I will wait for you,” she said, with something that looked almost like dignity.
He dared not take her with him. He went with mingled eagerness and reluctance, wondering, affected, ready to bless his mother, or to cast off all duty to her for ever.
He found Mrs. Bates haranguing old Davies, his mother’s maid, calling her “my lady,” and begging that she would do them the honour to come to the wedding breakfast.