"He'll marry, don't worry," Harold said, kissing her again. "He's bound to do so. He is too fine a man to pass his life in loneliness."
CHAPTER III
The wedding, one bright morning in June, was a most simple one and took place in the little church that Harold was leaving. The rites were performed by the Rev. Arthur Kirkwood, the young minister who was succeeding him. Harold was popular with his congregation, and the church was fairly well filled with sympathetic friends, none of whom were known to John. Indeed, he was a dreary alien in a weirdly convivial assemblage, the smug elation of which irritated him. Mrs. McGwire, Betty, and Minnie were all so busy shaking hands with people they knew that John was really ignored. He wanted it so, and yet he keenly felt the line of demarcation between the element in which he lived and that which had engulfed Dora and was sweeping her out of his ken forever. He sat alone in the second row of seats, only a few feet from the pulpit and a table laden with flowers. A few young people in the choir overhead were laughing gaily. The faces all over the room were beaming expectantly, and some of the most impatient persons asked when the bride and groom would arrive.
"At ten o'clock, sharp," Mrs. McGwire said, aloud, so that all could hear. "They are coming in a carriage, and expect to be driven straight to the train from here."
The time dragged slowly for John. He saw a few persons eying him with mild interest as the brother of the bride, but most of the others were occupied in exchanging jests or greetings with this or that acquaintance as their heads met over the backs of the seats. To while away the time, and for the sheer love of it, a man who was a sort of leader in church singing suddenly began to sing a well-known revival hymn, and the others joined in lustily. John detested it. He had heard it during his isolated childhood at Ridgeville, later at Cranston, and here it was a strident requiem over the bier of his last hope. He was inclined to self-analysis, and he wondered if any of the audience could imagine the dark and rebellious state of mind that he was in. He was not jealous of Harold, he did not begrudge Dora's happiness or desire to curb the festive mood of the people around him. He was simply in despair and could see no way of escape. He tried to think of going back to the office the next day and plunging into work, but how could he do so without some aim in life? Dora had refused financial aid from him. Of what account were his past earnings or those of the future?
The singing was brought to an abrupt end. Mrs. McGwire, who had stationed herself at the street door, suddenly cried out, "They are coming!" and a fluttering silence brooded on the room.
Dora and Harold, accompanied by Mr. Kirkwood, entered the adjoining Sunday-school room from the street with the playful intent to deceive the audience, who were watching the front, and the McGwires all hastened through a doorway near the pulpit to greet them. Betty, a tall, dignified young lady in a becoming street dress, ran across to John.
"Will you come speak to them now, or afterward?" she asked, smiling.
"Afterward," he answered, flushing under the composite stare of the whole room and irritated by being made so conspicuous.