They stood before the altar. He was staring up at the east

window, that glowed intensely, a sort of blue purple: it was

deep blue glowing, and some crimson, and little yellow flowers

held fast in veins of shadow, in a heavy web of darkness. How it

burned alive in radiance among its black web.

"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" He felt

somebody touch him. He started. The words still re-echoed in his

memory, but were drawing off.

"Me," he said hastily.

Ann bent her head and smiled in her veil. How absurd he

was.

Brangwen was staring away at the burning blue window at the

back of the altar, and wondering vaguely, with pain, if he ever

should get old, if he ever should feel arrived and established.

He was here at Anna's wedding. Well, what right had he to feel

responsible, like a father? He was still as unsure and unfixed

as when he had married himself. His wife and he! With a pang of

anguish he realized what uncertainties they both were. He was a

man of forty-five. Forty-five! In five more years fifty. Then

sixty--then seventy--then it was finished. My

God--and one still was so unestablished!

How did one grow old-how could one become confident? He

wished he felt older. Why, what difference was there, as far as

he felt matured or completed, between him now and him at his own

wedding? He might be getting married over again--he and his

wife. He felt himself tiny, a little, upright figure on a plain

circled round with the immense, roaring sky: he and his wife,

two little, upright figures walking across this plain, whilst

the heavens shimmered and roared about them. When did one come

to an end? In which direction was it finished? There was no end,

no finish, only this roaring vast space. Did one never get old,

never die? That was the clue. He exulted strangely, with

torture. He would go on with his wife, he and she like two

children camping in the plains. What was sure but the endless

sky? But that was so sure, so boundless.

Still the royal blue colour burned and blazed and sported

itself in the web of darkness before him, unwearyingly rich and

splendid. How rich and splendid his own life was, red and

burning and blazing and sporting itself in the dark meshes of

his body: and his wife, how she glowed and burned dark within

her meshes! Always it was so unfinished and unformed!

There was a loud noise of the organ. The whole party was

trooping to the vestry. There was a blotted, scrawled

book--and that young girl putting back her veil in her

vanity, and laying her hand with the wedding-ring

self-consciously conspicuous, and signing her name proudly

because of the vain spectacle she made: "Anna Theresa Lensky."




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