Then he packed and sent off the bouquets, and, taking up his hat, walked into the garden and stood watching the groom as he rode down the road toward the Grange. He stood a long time looking in the direction of the village with a half-fearful, dreading gaze, then turned and paced about the grounds, but always returned toward the gate and his nervous watchfulness of the road; and the face of the woman still danced mockingly before his eyes. One o’clock struck, and with a start he went back to the house. Luncheon was laid. He made no pretense of eating this time, but tossed off a glass of brandy-and-water, and, going upstairs, sent for his valet. The man appeared with the wedding garments, and dressed his master in the regulation blue frock-coat and lilac trousers. For once Bartley Bradstone seemed quite indifferent to the effect produced by his clothes, and stared at the glass with lack-lustre eyes. He scarcely spoke, took the handkerchief and his various rings and jewelry from the man without a word, and when he had left the room, sank into a chair and let his head droop on his breast, his eyes fixed with a strange expression upon the carpet. A quarter of an hour afterward the valet came in again. “The carriage is at the door, sir!” he said. Bartley Bradstone looked up with a start, and the valet, who hated him--as all the servants did--glanced at his white face curiously. “Shall I get you something before you start, sir?” he said. “No--yes,” was the response. “Get me a glass of champagne. Bring it here. And”--he hesitated a moment--“and ask the butler if any one has been here this morning. Any man--or woman--to see me,” he added, with assumed carelessness. The man came back with the champagne. “No one has been, sir.” Bartley Bradstone drank the wine and drew a long breath. “It’s fearfully hot,” he said; “and I had a bad night. If--if any one should come, tell her--I mean him--that I will see him later in the day.” “Yes, sir,” said the man; “any name?” Bartley Bradstone interrupted him with a curse. “Just do as I tell you, will you?” he said, angrily. “That’s enough for you to do!” Then, pushing past him, he went downstairs. As his foot was on the step of the brougham he paused, stood for a moment or two looking at the ground, then turned, and, re-entering the house, went into the library. 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.