A striped awning leads to the church. A narrow strip of scarlet
carpet runs from kerb to porch. Policemen hold back the crowd.
Women--always women; and in such numbers, too, and in such remarkable
variety. The lily livered misanthrope on a passing omnibus growls:
"Another wretched wedding.... What women see in them I cannot
imagine." Of course he cannot. Women with their relentless grip on
essential realities, see in them the work of the world, the
justification of all living--but, naturally, they do not reason it
out like that. They go to "see the bride," or, dare I say, to see
themselves as the bride, either as they once were or as they hope to
be.
How remarkably they gather! At one moment the street is normal save
for that tell-tale scarlet strip; the next, as a swarm gathers out of
the blue sky, so gather the wedding fans, ready, if need be, to prod
a policeman in the ribs with an umbrella in order to watch another
woman walk through a wedding-ring into a home....
Shall we join the ladies?
* * *
"Steady on there. Don't push."
That is the policeman. There is a surge and writhing of this solid
mass of womanhood.
"Officer, could you stand just a little.... Thank you."
"'Ere, Robert, can't you move your fat self? I'm only a little one."
All kinds of women: Kensington and Balham and Clerkenwell; virgins,
matrons, and grandmothers; some happy, some, no doubt, unhappy. What
does that matter? Another bride is stepping out into life with the
future in her eyes, and joy and sorrow presiding over her marvellous
destiny.
* * *
"Who is it?"
"Lady Agatha Penwhistle!"
Not you see, "Who is he?" What does he matter? Half the women have
never heard of Lady Agatha. To them she is not Lady Agatha. She is
something far more important: she is a bride; she is--Everywoman.
In the dark arch of the church porch a certain anticipatory
liveliness is noted. Pink young men in morning clothes, white
gardenias in their buttonholes, fuss helplessly, asking each other
whispered questions, pointing, hesitating, muddling. Marriage is a
bad day for young brothers. The boys at the porch have been tumbling
over pews and mixing up the bride's guests with those who owe
allegiance to the bridegroom. It has been a fearful sweat for them.
The sight of Sis at the altar, too, was pretty awful. Of course,
George is an awfully decent cove and all that; but still, you know
... so small she was, and so pathetic in white, kneeling there....
One of the young men runs down the steps and officiously opens the
door of a limousine in whose silver brackets shine white carnations.
The crowd watches every movement. He blushes under the scrutiny.
Silly asses, they are! Then as he runs back the doors are flung
wide. Suddenly the church vibrates like a great cat purring. The
stones seem to rock, as, with a crash, the hysterical triumph of
Mendelssohn bursts forth and goes galloping down the wind like a
messenger. There are people crowding round the porch. She is
coming.... She, the eternal, unchanging, marvellous She!
Look, there is a movement in the porch, and then... "Oooh, isn't she
lovely!"
The Girl in White!
Her veil flung back, her straight, slim form moving down the steps,
the white satin gleaming as she moves, her bouquet against her
breast, and her silver toes peeping in and out from beneath her gown.
She smiles.
"Good luck, my dear!"
A swift turn of her head. Who said that to her? Her eyes brim, for
it was very lovely. She gazes over the women's faces--those, at this
time, generous women's faces.
So she passes.
* * *
As she goes the women put away their handkerchiefs, for they have all
been crying a little, some with joy and some out of the depths of
knowledge.
To all of them standing there She represented That Which Once Was,
That Which Might Have Been, That Which May Be; and something
more--oh, much more. For that brief second she was the Ideal. She
was Happiness.
I think also that when the older women found themselves in tears they
were seeing through a glass darkly, through the glass of this girl's
life, and in their hearts they knew that, come weal, come woe, they
had seen a sister at the pinnacle of her life.
* * *
"Good luck, my dear!"