He came out again almost immediately, and, getting into the carriage, was driven to the church.
A crowd had collected round the ivy-covered porch, and lined the path to the church door. All the villagers were in their Sunday best, and some of the young men had spent the early morning in decking the road with flags and banners.
As the brougham pulled up there was a stir of excitement, and when Bartley Bradstone got out a cheer rose, but it was forced and faint, and his appearance did not increase the enthusiasm.
“D—n me, if he don’t look as if he was going to be hanged instead of wed,” said one man, in an almost audible whisper.
He looked around him with a sickly smile, and with the restless suspicion more marked than ever in his glance, and, just raising his hat, went into the church. The clergyman and the clerk were in the vestry, and the latter greeted him with the stereotyped remarks:
“The bridegroom first! Quite right, Mr. Bradstone. Ah! here they are! The bells are just starting. What a lovely morning! ‘Happy is the bride,’ etc.,” and he laughed.
Bartley Bradstone went to the door, stood a moment till the first carriage came dashing up, then returned to the vestry and paced up and down.
Other carriages followed, the little room began to fill, and guests were taking their places in the pews near the altar.
Bartley Bradstone shook hands with one and another, and a faint flush began to rise on his face; but it still looked haggard and anxious, and several times the remark which the man in the crowd had made was echoed by the young fellows who envied him.
Presently a cheer, loud and hearty, burst from the crowd outside, and the bishop, with a bland smile, said: