He dreamed that it was late autumn in England. Leaves drifted down from
the trees beneath the breath of a strong, damp wind, and ran or floated
along the road till they vanished into a ditch, or caught against a pile
of stones that had been laid ready for its repair. He knew the road well
enough; he even knew the elm tree beneath which he seemed to stand on
the crest of a hill. It was that which ran from Mr. Champers-Haswell's
splendid house, The Court, to the church; he could see them both, the
house to the right, the church to the left, and his eyesight seemed to
have improved, since he was able to observe that at either place there
was bustle and preparation as though for some big ceremony.
Now the big gates of The Court opened and through them came a funeral.
It advanced toward him with unnatural swiftness, as though it floated
upon air, the whole melancholy procession of it. In a few seconds it had
come and gone and yet during those seconds he suffered agony, for there
arose in his mind a horrible terror that this was Barbara's burying. He
could not have endured it for another moment; he would have cried out or
died, only now the mourners passed him following the coffin, and in the
first carriage he saw Barbara seated, looking sad and somewhat troubled,
but well.
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