id; "no skulking, it's too late to draw back.
The bridegroom's carriage stops the way."

There are resolute people in the world, who can look as they please,
who can receive a mortal blow, and smile all the time, or worse, look
gravely self-possessed, as if nothing had ever happened to them, or
could happen to the end of time. Dick Cavendish was not of this heroic
kind, but yet he managed to make himself look as a bridegroom ought, as
he went through the little crowd and made his way downstairs. He said to
himself it was not possible; had not her death been certified beyond
doubt, had not Saunders attended the funeral and brought that photograph
and the poor little ring? Was the certainty of all these facts to be
shaken by the random recollection of a foolish child; or a chance
resemblance which that child might imagine in a passer-by? He said to
himself that there could be no greater folly than to pay any attention
to such a piece of absurdity. But as he went out, and all the way along
as he drove, hearing without paying any attention to the occasional
remarks of his best man, who was with him, his eyes were searching among
the wayfarers, the little crowd round the door, the other little crowd
round the church. Just as he stepped inside the portico, turning round
for a last look, he saw something approaching in a hansom--something
rather than some one, a gray veil covering an unseen face. Was it some
woman peacefully going about her own business, or was it----? He went
in, feeling the faces in the church turn round to look at him, wondering
if his face was like the face of a man who was going to marry Chatty, or
of one who was standing by the side of a grave? When he got up to the
altar and took his place to wait for his bride there was a moment of
silence, during which no intrusive fool could talk to him. And in the
quiet he stood and closed his eyes and felt himself--oh, not here at the
altar, waiting for Chatty in her orange flowers, but by the side of the
dark pit into which the coffin was descending, straining his eyes to see
through the lid if indeed the other was there. But then again, with an
effort, he shook his miserable nightmare off. It was not possible he
could be deceived. What motive could any one have to deceive him? Saunders
had seen her buried, and had brought the photograph and that ring. The
ring was conclusive; unless a horrible trick had been played upon him
there was no room for doubt, and to whos