the publishing of banns is so often received
in a village church, convinced him that he had heard aright. The blood
was rioting to his brain, and the beating in his throat made him put up
his hand with the vain endeavour to loosen his collar lest he should
choke there and then with the passion that could find no outlet. For
one instant he was possessed by a wild wish to stand up and forbid the
banns; but what end would be gained by making himself a greater
laughing-stock to the village than he was at present, for already he
felt the derisive finger of scorn pointed at him as the man whom Rose
had jilted. Even now he saw one or two of the lads nudge each other
and look at him with curious eyes. To be watched at such a moment was
torture, and, like an animal in pain, Tom longed for solitude. He
groped blindly under the seat for his hat, made his way to the door and
slipped out. He stumbled on like a man in delirium, looking neither to
the right nor left, but following instinctively the path across the
fields which led to the river. The turbulence of its grey waters, as
it rushed on to the sea, seemed most in keeping with the wild, wicked
thoughts that surged unchecked through his brain, and were bearing him
he knew not whither. He threw himself upon the long, rank grass on the
bank, still wet with the heavy mist of night, and, pillowing his chin
in his hands, watched with dilating eyes the swirling river as it swept
by. A giddiness dimmed his vision, a singing filled his ears.

"If I slipped over and was carried along with it, there'd be an end of
it all," thought Tom. And the chill wind came sighing across the
water, and shook the heavy rushes at the edge, which seemed
whisperingly to echo his thought, "an end of it all."

Then Tom half-angrily roused himself, and pressed his hands to the eyes
that burned like fire, and tried to collect his bewildered senses.
What!--slip out of life like a drowned rat and never see Rose again,
nor tell her what he knew of the man she had chosen in preference to
him. She would be glad to know he was dead, he told himself with
fierce bitterness. She had played with him like a cat with a mouse for
more than a year but in the long run the mouse died squeaking. Surely
she could not be so false-hearted as to break faith with him to-night;
she would meet him and say good-bye? She _should_ meet him, whether
she liked it or not; and if Dixon were with her so much the
better,--and T