THE PROPHECY.
"A very impatient young man," said the good old vicar. "No man in his
senses would want to be married before ten in the morning. I call it
unchristian."
Good old Mr. Barnes had been roused from his early slumbers by the
announcement that the young man had come to be married.
Married, while the early morning sun was shining, and the birds singing
their morning hymn.
He was almost blind, this good old vicar, who had lived so long at
Oheton. He was very deaf, and could hardly hear, but then he did not
require very keen sight or hearing at Oheton; there was never more than
one marriage in a year, and funerals were very rare; but to be called
before nine in the morning to perform the marriage ceremony was
something unheard of. He had duly announced the bans, and no one had
taken the least notice of them; but to come so early, it was positively
cruel.
Others had risen early that morning. Leone had not slept well, for this
July morning, which was to bring such mingled joy and sorrow to others,
was a day of deepest emotion to her.
Her love-dream was to be realized. She was to marry the ardent young
lover who swore that he would not live without her.
She had thought more of her love than of the worldly advantages it would
bring her. She had not thought much of those until they stood, on the
evening before their wedding-day, once more by the mill-stream. It was
bright moonlight, for the smiling summer day was dead. It was their
farewell to the beautiful spot they both loved.
"I am so glad," said Lord Chandos, "that we can say good-bye to it by
the light of the moon. I wonder, Leone, when we shall see the
mill-stream again? I have a fancy that the pretty water has helped me in
my wooing."
As they sat there the wind rose and stirred the branches of the
alder-trees. In some way the great wavy masses of dark hair became
unfastened, and fell like a thick soft veil over Leone's shoulders. Lord
Chandos touched it caressingly with his hand.
"What beautiful hair, Leone--how thick and soft; how beautiful those
wavy lines are--what makes them?"
"A turn of Dame Nature's fingers," she replied, laughingly.
"I should like to see diamonds shining in these coils of hair," he said.
"Leone, one of the first things we must do to-morrow when we reach
London, is to buy a very handsome traveling-dress. I have written to-day
to my father to ask him to meet us at Dunmore House."
She repeated the words.
"Where is Dunmore House?" she asked.
"I forgot," he said, "that all places so familiar to me are strange to
you. One of my father's titles is Baron Dunmore, and his London
residence is called Dunmore House. We shall meet him there to-morrow,
and then you will be my wife."
For the first time she realized what an immense difference there was in
their positions. She glanced at him in sudden fear.
"Lance," she said, "shall I seem very much out of place in your home,
and among your friends?"
"My darling, you would grace any home," he replied; "mine has had no
fairer mistress in all the generations it has stood."
"I am half frightened," she said, gently.
"You need not be, sweet. Before this time next year all London will know
and admire the beautiful Lady Chandos."
"It seems a long leap to take in life," she said, "from being Farmer
Noel's niece to bear the name of Lady Chandos."
"You will grace the name, Leone," he replied. "I shall be the proudest
man in England--I shall have the most beautiful wife in England. This is
our last separation, our last parting; after this, we need never part."
He stooped down and caught some of the running water in his hand.
"A libation," he said, as he poured it back again. "I feel as though I
were losing a friend when I leave the mill-stream."
Loving and loved, no thought came to them there of how they should see
the mill-stream again.
"Leone, Lady Chandos." More than once that evening she said those words
to herself. It was after eight when she came in, and the farmer had long
finished his supper; he sat thinking over his pipe.
"You are late, my lady lass," he said; "sit down and talk to me before I
go to rest."
Obediently enough, she sat down while he told her the history of his
visits to the different markets. She heard, but did not take in the
sense of one single word he uttered. She was saying to herself over and
over again, that by this time to-morrow she should be Lady Chandos. Her
happiness would have been complete if she could have told her uncle. He
had been so kind to her. They were opposite as light and darkness, they
had not one idea in common, yet he had been good to her and she loved
him. She longed to tell him of her coming happiness and grandeur, but
she did not dare to break her word.
Robert Noel looked up in wonder. There was his beautiful niece kneeling
at his feet, her eyes dim with tears.
"Uncle," she was saying, "look at me, listen to me. I want to thank you.
I want you always to remember that on this night I knelt at your feet
and thanked you with a grateful heart for all you have ever done for
me."
"Why, my lady lass," he replied, "you have always been to me as a child
of my own," he replied.
"A tiresome child," she said, half laughing, half crying. "See. I take
this dear, brown hand, so hard with work, and I kiss it, uncle, and
thank you from my heart."
He could not recover himself, so to speak. He looked at her in blank,
wordless amazement.
"In the years to come," she continued, "when you think of me, you must
say to yourself, that, no matter what I did, I loved you."
"No matter what you did you loved me," he repeated. "Yes, I shall
remember that."
She kissed the toil-worn face, leaving him so entirely bewildered that
the only fear was lest he might sit up all night trying to forget it.
Then she went to her room, but not to sleep--her heart beat, every pulse
thrilled. This was to be the last night in her old home--the last of her
girlish life; to-morrow she would be Lady Chandos--wife of the young
lover whom she loved with all her heart and soul.
The birds woke her with their song, it was their wedding-day. She would
not see Robert Noel again; he took his breakfast before six and went off
to the fields again. She had but to dress herself and go to the station.
Oheton was some three miles from the station, but on a summer's morning
that was a trifle.
They were all three there at last--Sir Frank looking decidedly vexed and
cross, Lord Chandos happy as the day was long, and Leone beautiful as a
picture.
"Look," said the young lordling to his friend, "have I no excuse?"
Sir Frank looked long and earnestly at the beautiful southern face.
"Yes," he replied; "so far as beauty and grace can form an excuse, you
have one; but, Lance, if I loved that girl a thousand times better than
my life, I should not marry her."
"Why?" asked Lord Chandos, with a laugh.
"Because she has a tragedy in her life. She could not be happy. She will
neither have a happy life nor a happy death."
"My dear Frank, do not prophesy such evil on our wedding-day."
"I do not mean to prophesy, I say what I think; it is a beautiful face,
full of poetry and passion, but it is also full of power and unrest."
"You shall not look at her again if you say such things," cried Lord
Chandos.
And then the good vicar, still distressed at being aroused so early,
came to the church. Had it been less pitiful and pathetic, it would have
been most comical, the number of times the old vicar dropped his book,
forgot the names, the appalling mistakes he made, the nervous hesitation
of his manner. Sometimes Lord Chandos felt inclined to say hard, hot
words; again, he could not repress a smile. But at length, after
trembling and hesitating, the vicar gave the final benediction, and
pronounced them man and wife.
In the vestry, when the names were signed, some ray of light seemed to
dawn on the old vicar.
"Chandos," he said, "that is not a common name about here."
"Is it not?" said the young lord; "it seems common enough to me."
"Chandos," repeated the minister, "where have I heard that name!"
"I have heard it so often that I am tired of it," said the young
husband.
And then it was all over.
"Thank God to be out in the sunlight," he cried, as he stood, with his
beautiful wife, in the churchyard. "Thank God it is all over, and I can
call my love my wife. I thought that service would never end. Frank,
have you no good wishes for my wife?"
Sir Frank went to Leone.
"I wish you joy," he said; "I wish you all happiness--but----"
And then he played nervously with the hat he held in his hand.
"But," she said with a bright smile, "you do not think I shall get it?"
Sir Frank made no answer; he did not think she would be happy, but she
had chosen her own way; he had said all he could. Perhaps his eyes were
clearer than others, for he could read a tragedy in her face. Then Sir
Frank left them, having performed his part with a very ill grace.
"Leone, have you said good-bye to your uncle?" asked Lord Chandos.
"I left a little note to be given him when he returns home this evening.
How he will miss me."
"And how fortunate I am to have you, my darling; there is no one in the
wide world so happy. We will drive over to Rashleigh Station. I do not
care who sees me now, no one can part us. Dr. Hervey thinks I went home
to London this morning, but I won a wife before starting, did I not,
Leone, my beautiful love? You are Lady Chandos now. What are you
thinking of, my darling?"
"I was wondering, Lance, if there was anything in our marriage that
could possibly invalidate it and make it illegal?"
"No," he replied, "I have been too careful of you, Leone, for that. You
are my wife before God and man. Nothing shall take you from me but
death."
"But death," she repeated slowly.
And in after years they both remembered the words.