"There is that," exclaimed the landlord heartily. "A quiet weddin', mind you—because you can't exactly 'ave much fuss an' flummery with the grass not quite grown on a grave yet, can you?"
"A grave?" I faltered.
"Ah, a grave," said the landlord, glad of a chance to talk to a stranger. "Old Mr. Savell died some three months back—father of the bride, you understand. Had a stroke early in the winter, an' never recovered."
"Never spoke, did 'e?" asked the younger coachman.
"Never a word from the moment that the Lord struck 'im down," said the landlord, with a shake of his head. "Merciful release, in a manner o' speaking; the young folks must 'ave their chance, after the old 'uns is put away. Now, boys, it's time you was goin'; I'm going to give a look in at the church myself, in time to see a bit of the bride an' the young gentleman. Why—would you believe it—in a sense 'e belongs here; used to stop in this very place when first 'e came down a-courtin' the young lady. So, you see, it's only right as the George should be represented, ain't it?"
I found my way out of the place, and towards the church. There was a holiday feeling in the air, and a ringing of bells; I felt that I was strangely out of place. A sudden impulse to hide myself came upon me, and I went out beyond the town, and into that green wood—beautiful now in its spring dress—that had meant so much to me so often before. And there for a long time I sat, with the peace of God stealing into my heart, listening to the ringing of the bells, and thinking gratefully that all was well—that all was better, perhaps, because I stood outside it, and could touch it no more.
Yet the bells drew me; they rang a tune in my ears that brought me at last to my feet, and set me upon the road to the church. There was a crowd about it now, and much jostling and laughter; I saw the round jolly face of the landlord of the George, and he was evidently still telling any one who would listen to him of his proprietary rights in the bridegroom. I managed to slip into the church, and found my way into a little curtained pew at the back of it, from which I could watch all that was going on, and yet remain unseen.
I had no eyes for any one but the girl; she came in on the arm of an elderly man I judged to be a family lawyer, or in some such position. She looked very beautiful as she went slowly up the old church to join her lover; I thought with a pang of how I had seen her mother—looking just like this—step over these worn stones in her bridal dress, twenty years before. I remembered, too, how I had stood there, with a bursting heart, and had seen her going out of my life. I could not bear the thought of that, even then; I knelt in my curtained pew, and hid my face in my hands, while all the rustling and whispering went on about me. Then the solemn service began, and still I knelt there, as in a dream. But I was happier then than I had ever been; for in my dream this was poor Charlie Avaline, far back in the years, wedding the woman he loved—thereafter to live happily, without any shadow on his life.
I felt that I must see her as she came out of the church; so much at least was due to me. So, with a new boldness, I stepped out of the pew, and stood there in the shadows, waiting, while she came on the arm of her young husband down the church. And the twenty odd years had taught me so much that I could stand like that, and look at it all with no feeling of envy, or bitterness for all I had suffered: only a great gladness that this Barbara at least was to tread a path of roses. I stood quietly there, watching her as she came down the church; if the tears were in my eyes, they were only there because I remembered poor Charlie Avaline, who had stood in the same place, and had watched that other Barbara whom he loved.
She was within a couple of yards of me when she raised her eyes, and looked straight at me. I would have drawn back, but she was too quick for me; she came forward at once, drawing Arnold Millard with her, and caught at my hand. And it seemed that I was no longer shabby and poor; all in a moment I was greater than any one there.