But the wedding, after all, did not take place until the beginning of October, a week before the close of the Long Vacation; and Taffy, after all, was present.  The postponement had been enforced by many delays in building and furnishing the new wing at Carwithiel; for Sir Harry insisted that the young couple must live under one roof with him, and Honoria (as we know) hated the very stones of Tredinnis.

The Bishop came to spend a week in the neighbourhood; the first three days as Honoria’s guest.  On the Saturday he consecrated the work of restoration in the church, and in the afternoon held a confirmation service.  Taffy and Honoria knelt together to receive his blessing.  It was the girl’s wish.  The shadow of her responsibility to God and man lay heavy on her during the few months before her marriage:  and Taffy, already weary and dispirited with his early doubtings, suffered her mood of exaltation to overcome him like a wave and sweep him back to rest for a while on the still waters of faith.  Together they listened while the Bishop discoursed on the dead Vicar’s labours with fluency and feeling; with so much feeling, indeed, that Taffy could not help wondering why his father had been left to fight the battle alone.

On the Sunday and Monday two near parishes claimed the Bishop.  On the Tuesday he sent his luggage over to Carwithiel, whither he was to follow after the wedding service, to spend a day or two with Sir Harry.  It had been Honoria’s wish that George should choose Taffy for his best man; but George had already invited one of his sporting friends, a young Squire Philpotts from the eastern side of the Duchy; and as the date fell at the beginning of the hunting season, he insisted on a “pink” wedding.  Honoria consulted the Bishop by letter.  “Did he approve of a ‘pink’ wedding so soon after the bride’s confirmation?” The Bishop saw no harm in it.

So a “pink” wedding it was, and the scarlet coats made a lively patch of colour in the gray churchyard:  but it gave Taffy a feeling that he was left out in the cold.  He escorted his mother to the church, and left her for a few minutes in the Vicarage pew.  The bridegroom and his friends were gathered in a showy cluster by the chancel step, but the bride had not arrived, and he stepped out to help in marshalling the crowd of miners and mine-girls, fishermen, and mothers with unruly children—­a hundred or so in all, lining the path or straggling among the graves.

Close by the gate he came on a girl who stood alone.

“Hullo, Lizzie—­you here?”

“Why not?” she asked, looking at him sullenly.

“Oh, no reason at all.”

“There might ha’ been a reason,” said she, speaking low and hurriedly.  “You might ha’ saved me from this, Mr. Raymond; and her too; one time, you might.”

“Why, what on earth is the matter?” He looked up.  The Tredinnis carriage and pair of grays came over the knoll at a smart trot, and drew up before the gate.