Poor old Jason’s lip quivered as he gazed at his girl’s face—for the last time as his—his lip quivered, and the words of his blessing would not come; his throat swelled, and a tear gathered in his eye. She bent and kissed him, turned and crossed the threshold.
Waldron wheeled himself to the large open window, and watched her walk to the carriage along the carpet, put down that her feet might not touch the ground.
Who shall presume to analyse the feelings of that proud and happy old man? The carriage moved, the crowd shouted, the guns fired; he wheeled his chair a little round, and his head leant forward. Was he thinking of a day twenty-two years ago, when he—not a young man, but still full of hope—led another fair bride to the altar; a bride who had long since left him?
It was an ovation—a triumph all the way along that short half-mile to the church: particularly as they entered the village. The greys pranced slowly, lifting their hoofs well up, champing the bit, proud of their burden. The bride and Miss Merton sat on one seat, Mr Merton on the other. All the men and boys and children, all the shepherds and ploughboys for miles and miles, who had gathered together, set up a shout. The bells rang merrily, the guns popped and banged, handkerchiefs were waved. Across the village street, but a few yards from the churchyard lych-gate, they had erected an arch—as had been determined on at the Shepherd’s Bush—an arch that would have done credit to more pretentious places, with the motto, “Joy be with you.”
The bride dismounted at the lych-gate, which was itself covered with flowers, and set her foot upon the scarlet cloth which the good old vicar had himself provided, and which was laid down right to the porch.
The churchyard was full of children, chiefly girls, all carrying roses and flowers to strew the path of the happy couple when they emerged united. In the porch the ringers stood, four on each side, with their hands upon the ropes ready to clash forth the news that the deed was done. The old old clerk was there, in his black suit, which had done duty on so many occasions.
She entered the little church—small, but extremely ancient. She passed the antique font, her light footstep pressed upon the recumbent brazen image of a knight of other days. The venerable vicar advanced to meet her, the sunshine falling on his grey head. But where was Aymer? Surely all must be well: but she could not see him—not for the moment. True-hearted, loving Violet had looked for Aymer with his old battered hat, in the corduroy trousers and the green coat she had known him in so long.
For the moment she barely recognised the handsome, gentlemanly man before her. It was Aymer—oh yes, it was Aymer—and how noble he looked now that he was dressed as became him. Her heart gave another bound of joy—involuntarily she stepped forward; what could be wanting to complete her happiness that day? Certainly it would have been hard to have named one single thing as lacking—not one. The pews were full of women of all classes—they had been mostly reserved for them—the men finding standing room as best they could; and a buzz of admiration went round the church as Violet came into fall view. Her dress was good—it was nothing to belles who flourish in Belgravia; but at World’s End—goodness, it was Paris itself.
That costume formed the one great topic of conversation for years afterwards. I know nothing of these things; but Miss Merton told me a few days ago that the bride wore a wreath of white rosebuds and myrtle upon her lovely head, and a veil of real Brussels lace. Her earrings were of rubies and diamonds—a present that morning from gallant Mr Merton. She had a plain locket (with a portrait of Waldron), and wore the splendid necklace of pearls, the gift of Lady Lechester.
Her dress was white satin, trimmed with Brussels lace, and her feet were shod in satin boots. Of course the “rosy, slender fingers” were cased in the traditional white kid, and around her wrist was a bracelet of solid dull gold—the bridegroom’s present, only delivered just as she stepped into the carriage. She carried a bouquet of stephanotis, orange, and myrtle.