The wedding-morning, with all its flutter, flurry, and excitement! The
bride pale, but collected; Nelly and her sister bridesmaids appealing
vainly to one another for help; hair, that at any other time would fall
into plait, or bandeau, or roll, with such ease, now obstinate and
awkward, and requiring to be attended to again and again; hair-pins
becoming scarce, and, where plentiful, given to bending; eyes with a
disposition to look red; hands ditto--for it is winter; while, as if out
of sheer spite, more than one nose follows suit, and is decidedly raw
and chappy.
"O, do, do, do fetch a knife!" whimpered Nelly. "I shall never be
dressed in time! I must have a knife to open these horrible old hooks,
that have flattened down when 'Lisbeth ran an iron along the back plait.
O, what shall I do? I shall never be ready! And the old chilblains
have swelled up on my heels, and I can't get on those little satin
boots; and I can't go in my others, because they haven't got high heels.
I could sit down and have a good cry--that I could! Here,
'Lisbeth--'Lisbeth! why don't Miss l'Aiguille come and help some of us?"
"Lor, miss, how you do talk!" cried the excited 'Lisbeth. "And is that
what you called me back for? Miss Luggle's a-doing of Miss Lorror, and
couldn't leave her, was it ever so. There, don't stop me, miss; they're
waiting for pins, and there'll be no end of a row if I don't go."
"But, please, come and do my back hair, 'Lisbeth," cried one of the
bridesmaids--a cousin, who was staying in the house.
"Lor, miss, I can't. You must ask Miss Nelly!" cried 'Lisbeth, vainly
struggling to get out, for Nelly was holding on with both hands to her
dress, and dragging her back.
"There, do let go, Miss Nelly--pray! Here, miss, ask your cousin to
leave go, and come and do it. She'll put it right--beautiful!"
"But she has done it twice," cried the other; "and see how it has come
tumbling down again; it's worse now than if it hadn't been touched!"
"I don't care; I shan't try any more," whimpered Nelly. "I can't get
dressed decent. But you'll all have to wait for me; for I'm sure
Charley Vining won't go to be married if I ain't there."
"For goodness gracious' sake, now just look there, Miss Nelly, at what
you've been and done! You've pulled all the gathers out of my frock!"
"Don't care!" said Nelly, throwing herself down, half-dressed, into a
chair. "Fasten 'em up again: you've got lots of pins."
"'Lisbeth--'Lisbeth!" was shouted from the passage, and the girl
disappeared.
We have nothing to do with the bride's mental sufferings at present, the
remarks now made appertaining to dress alone; but she must have borne
something at the hands of Miss l'aiguille and her staff of assistants,
before, tall, dark, and handsome, she stood amidst a diaphanous cloud of
drapery, which floated from and around her, descending, as it were, from
the orange wreath twined amidst her magnificent raven ringlets.
Miss l'aiguille clasped her hands, and went down upon one knee in an
ecstasy of admiration at the glorious being she had made, as a gentle
chorus of "O!" and "O, miss!" was raised by her satellites; while,
wonderful to relate, when she descended to the drawing-room, she was not
the last, for two of the bridesmaids were not ready.
But Mrs Bray was there, gorgeous to behold, bearing upon her everything
in the shape of costly dress that money would purchase. To describe her
costume would be simply impossible, save to say that it was as
solid-looking as her daughter's was light and airy--the plaits and folds
of her silken robe literally creaked and crackled as she moved, which
was all of a piece. Colour there was too; but what, it would be
impossible to say, the prevailing hue being warm scarlet, which was shed
upon Mr Bray, whose white vest was so stiff and grand, that nothing
could have been whiter and stiffer and grander, unless it was the
tremendous cravat that held his head as if he was being garotted--
symptoms of strangulation being really visible in the prominence of his
eyes. But then, as he said, in regard to his sufferings, he did not
have a daughter married every day.
"I should have liked for Mr Maximilian to have been here," said Mrs
Bray, as they were waiting for Nelly, who, now under the hands of Miss
l'Aiguille, was being made up rapidly--her thin bony form growing quite
graceful under the dressmakers fingers.
"Bless me, though, what is the matter?" cried Mrs Bray. "Laura my
dear, pray don't faint in those things, whatever you do!"
"Hush!" cried Laura hoarsely, as, by a strong effort, she recovered
herself. "Did you--did you say Max was here?"
"No--no! I said I wished he was here," said Mrs Bray pettishly. "I do
not see what you have got to turn queer about in that. Your own brother
too!"
Laura gave a sigh of relief and then closed her eyes for a few moments.
"Only a little while now," she thought.
The hour was very near, and surely nothing could stay the event.
Then, summoning her resolution she began to pace slowly up and down the
room. No tremulous maiden now, but a firm determined woman, who told
herself that she had persevered and won the lover--the husband soon.
"What are we waiting for?" said Mr Bray.
"Two bridesmaids," said Mrs Bray: "Nelly and Miss Barnett. But we have
plenty of time; and the Miss Lingons are not here yet. O, here they
are, though!"
The young ladies were set down at the door as she spoke; and soon the
Bray drawing-room was well filled.
The horses were pawing up the gravel, to the disgust of the gardener,
who thought of the rolling to be done; but went and drowned his sorrows
in some of the beer on the way, with ample solids, in the Bray kitchen.
A bright brisk winterly day, with a wind that kissed each cheek as
bride-elect and bridesmaids descended the steps, and entered the
carriages drawn up in turn. Rattle, rattle, bang! went steps and doors;
footmen were more upright than ever, and raised their chests into
glorious hills, crowned with white satin-and-silver wedding-favours--
Mrs Bray insisting upon their being mounted at once.
A grinding of the gravel, and first one and then another carriage
departing, Laura, with Mr Bray, completing the cortege; Mrs Bray going
before, after declaring that she ought to have stopped behind to
superintend the wedding-breakfast arrangements.
And proud was Mr Bray of the stern handsome girl before him; for he had
given up the whole of the back seat to his daughter--and her dress. The
pallor and look of dread seemed now to have passed away, as if Laura, by
her determination, had exorcised the phantom of coming ill; and
well-merited were the remarks made, as a glance was obtained at the
beauty "arrayed for the bridal."
People had plenty of ill-natured things to say when the wedding was
first settled; but now all these remarks were forgotten; and again and
again, as the Bray carriage rolled on towards the church, there was a
cheer raised; while, on coming abreast of the Lexville Boys' School,
there was a tremendous scattering volley of shouts, followed by a rush,
for the boys were to have a holiday for the occasion; and away they went
to the churchyard, to cluster thickly on walls, tombstones, and iron
railings--wherever they could find a post of vantage.
Carpet rolled down to the church-gate, and the clerk in a state of fume
and worry, that brought him, in spite of the wintry day, into a profuse
perspiration, because, no matter how he "begged and prayed," people
would walk over the carpet, and print upon it the mark of their dirty
boots.
The church was filled in every part where a view of the communion-table
could be obtained; and the pew-openers gave up at last in despair, for
the people would stand on the cushions. The organist was ready with the
"Wedding March"--Mendelssohn's, of course--and the ringers were already
giving those thirsty lips of theirs a dry wipe, in anticipation of the
beer to be on the way by and by, when they made the town echo with a
peal of bob-majors and grandsire-caters. While last, but not least, and
posted side by side with panting Miss l'Aiguille, who had run down, and
was now promising him an account of each lady's dress, with the proper
terms to be applied thereto--was the reporter of the local paper, busy
at work with a spikey pencil.
He had already put down a list of the notabilities present--people whom
"we observed"--and had added the name of the officiating clergyman, who
was to be assisted by a couple more; the two being now engaged in robing
in the vestry.
There was no mistake about its being a errand wedding; for the covers
were off the communion hassocks--those worked by the Lexville ladies--
and people were on the tiptoe of expectation, for the hour was at hand.
Wheels!
"Here they come: the bridegroom, of course!" "'Tain't. It's some
ladies!" "'Tain't, I tell you; the bridegroom always comes first." "Sir
Philip's chariot is to have four horses, and the first and second grooms
are to ride post in blue and silver, and black-velvet caps." "There, I
was right--they are ladies."
Such were a few of the buzzing remarks made as the leading carriage drew
up to the gates, and the first batch of friends and bridesmaids
descended, hurried up to the old church porch, shook out their plumage,
and then swept gracefully up the nave, while remarks full of admiration
were passed by those excited fair ones who would not miss a wedding on
any consideration, and had duly posted in their mental ledgers the
account of every affair that had taken place at Lexville church for the
last twenty years; though, during all that long space of time, no one
had ever asked them to take the little journey for the purpose of
saying, "I will."
Wheels again, and another buzz of excited voices, for this time there is
a volley of cheers faintly heard.
This is the bridegroom, then; and there is a perfect rustle amongst the
ancient and modern doves of Lexville to catch a good glimpse of the
stalwart handsome heir of Blandfield.
But the next minute the rustle subsides, for the carriage that stopped
at the gate only brought friends and bridesmaids. And so did the next,
and the next, till the chancel began to wear a goodly aspect, though
every face was turned now towards the entrance, and all were upon the
extreme point of the tiptoe of expectation.
"The bridegroom ought to be here now," said some one in the chancel.
"Isn't Charley Vining here, then?" whispered Nelly to her cousin.
But there was no answer.
Volume 3, Chapter VIII.