The sun shone brightly through the bare branches, and the soft blue
vapour from Charley Vining's cigar floated upwards, but without
poisoning the atmosphere, as red-hot opponents of tobacco--the disciples
of the British Solomon, the counter-blaster--so strongly assert. In
fact, Charley's pure havana was fragrant to inhale, and under its soft
seductive influence the young man strolled on and on, forgetful of
everything but the train of thought upon which his ideas were gliding
back into the past.
For as he strolled onward, sending light cloud after light cloud to the
skies, there came to him a sense of sadness that he could not control:
Laura, the wedding, passed away as that fair reproachful face floated
before him, the soft grey eyes fixed on his, and the white lips seeming
to quiver and tremble. He tried angrily to crush it out from his mental
sight; but its gentle appealing look disarmed his anger, and back came
gently all that he had seen of her, all he had heard, all that she had
said to him; and now, for the first time, he asked himself whether his
eyes had not deceived him, whether it was possible that she, Ella, so
pure, so holy, could have been the woman who hurried by, leaning upon
Max Bray's arm.
Sorrow, sorrow, a strange feeling of regret, almost of repentance,
seemed to come upon him, as for an instant he recalled the fact that
this was his wedding-morn, that a great change was about to be made, and
that henceforth even the right would not be his to dream upon the past.
He felt then that he must dream upon it now by way of farewell; and
again that soft, appealing, pleading face fleeted before him, so that a
strange shiver, almost of fear, passed through his frame.
What did it mean? he asked himself. Was there such a thing among the
hidden powers of nature as a means by which soul spake to soul,
impressing it for good or bad, unless some more subtle power was brought
to bear? If not, why did the past come before him as it did? for there
again was that night when in the pleasant summer time he had told her of
his love, and pressed upon her that rose.
Yes, but that was in the pleasant summer time, when there was a summer
of hope and joy in his heart, when he believed that there was truth
where he had found naught but falsity; while now it was winter, and all
was cold and bleak and bare. He had been thoroughly awakened from his
dream; but he would not blame her for what was but his own folly.
Heedless of wet grass and fallen leaves, he struck off now across the
park, walking swiftly, as if seeking in exertion to tame the wild flow
of his thoughts; and at last calm came once more, and after making a
long circuit he entered the park avenue, intending to return to the
house.
His cigar was extinct, and it was time now to return to life and action.
He must dream no more.
Time? He drew out his watch, and a flush of shame and vexation crossed
his countenance, as he saw that it was close upon the hour when he
should be at the church.
"I must be mad!" he exclaimed; and then he started aside, as close
behind came the sound of galloping hoofs from the direction of Lexville.
"They are coming to seek the tardy bridegroom," he said with a little
laugh; "but _she_ will forgive me."
"Is this the way to the house--Mr Charles Vining's?" cried a voice
roughly.
"Yes; what do you want?" said Charley. "I am Mr Vining."
"Letter, sir," said the man hastily. "I was to ride for life or death;
and I was afraid I should be too late."
"Too late for what?" said Charley hastily.
"To catch you before you went to church, sir," said the man. "I heard
as I came through that there was a wedding."
The next instant Charley had taken the letter, and was gazing at the
direction; but he did not recognise the hand.
"Where do you come from?" he said. "Is it very important? I am
engaged."
And then he stopped; for he hardly knew what he was saying, and he
dreaded to open the letter.
"Better read and see, sir," said the man gruffly. "My horse is dead
beat."
Rousing himself, he tore open the envelope, and read a few lines, reeled
back on to the sward by the road, struggled to regain his firmness, and
then, with a countenance white as ashes, he read to the end, when a
groan tore its way from his breast.
That, then, was the meaning of the strange forebodings, of that soft
pleading face; and now it was too late, too late!
"Curses, the bitterest that ever fell, be on them!" he muttered,
grinding his teeth, and in his clenched fists that letter was crushed up
to a mere wisp. "And now it is too late! No, not yet;" and to the
surprise of the messenger he turned and dashed off furiously towards the
house, where upon the broad entrance steps stood Sir Philip and the two
friends anxiously awaiting him, the former watch in hand. The chariot
with its four fine horses, and postillions in their gay new liveries of
blue and silver, was at the door, and another open carriage behind;
while a couple of servants were running at a distance in the park,
evidently in search of him.
"My dear Charley, we shall be late," cried Sir Philip, as, wet and
spattered with mud, his son dashed furiously up. "How you have excited
yourself to get back! Pray make haste."
"Stand back!" cried Charley hoarsely, as, bounding up to the steps, he
tore open the chariot-door and leaped in, dragging the door after him.
The next moment he had dashed down the front window, and shouted to the
postillions to go on.
The men turned in their saddles, touched their caps, and before Sir
Philip and his friends could recover from their surprise, the carriage
was going down the avenue at a sharp trot.
"Poor boy, he was excited at being so late. Ah, to be sure, here's a
messenger who has evidently come to seek him. It must be later than I
thought, for our time must be slow. I must ride with you, gentlemen,
instead of with him. Make haste, or we shall be too late."
In less than a minute the barouche was in motion, and as they passed the
messenger, Sir Philip leaned over the carriage side, and shouted a
question to the man:
"Did you bring a message for Mr Charles Vining?"
"Yes, sir," shouted the man in answer; and the next moment they were out
of hearing.
"Good heavens, though," exclaimed Sir Philip anxiously, "look at him!"
And at a turn of the road Charley could be seen in the distance leaning
out of the carriage window, fiercely gesticulating to the postillions,
who, apparently in obedience to his orders, had broken into a smart
gallop, and the chariot was being borne through the lodge-gate at a
rapid rate.
It was a two-mile ride to Lexville church, and as Sir Philip's carriage
passed the lodge-gate in turn, he caught one more glimpse of the chariot
ascending a hill in front, not at a moderate rate, but at a furious
gallop, the vehicle swaying from side to side, till it crowned the hill
and disappeared.
"I suppose it is excusable," said Sir Philip, turning pale with
apprehension; "but what a pity that he should have gone out!"
Directly after, though, the old gentleman smilingly observed to his
friends that they would only be in at the death; and then speaking to
the coachman, that functionary applied his whip, and the horses went
along at a brisk canter.
"More behind even than I thought for," said Sir Philip anxiously, as the
carriage drew up to the churchyard gates, amidst a burst of cheering
from the crowd, and then, smiling and raising his hat, Sir Philip walked
up to the church, as there was a loud cry of "Here they are!" passed
along the nave, entered the chancel, and taking Laura's hand in his,
kissed it with a mingling of love and respect.
"But surely you have not got it over? Where is Charley?" exclaimed the
old man.
It was Nelly who gave the sharp cry as he made the inquiry, while Laura
stood the image of despair as a rumour ran through the church.
"Was he--was he in the chariot?" whispered Mr Bray, catching his old
friend by the arm.
"Yes, yes; where is he," cried Sir Philip, trembling as he spoke.
"They say the horses must have taken fright and galloped away. The
chariot dashed by here a few minutes ago; but they said it was empty."
"Mr Charles Vining in the carriage, and borne away at that mad rate!"
was the whisper through the church, which soon did not contain a man who
had not hurried down the road in the expectation of coming at every turn
upon the wreck of Sir Philip Vining's chariot, with horses and men in a
tangle of harness and destruction.
But before those on foot had gone far, they were passed by Sir Philip
Vining and Mr Bray in the barouche; for they had hurried away from the
scene in the church, where Laura was seated, pale, despairing and stony,
Nelly sobbing violently, and a couple of bridesmaids had fainted.
"It all comes of having such horrible wild horses," said Mrs Lingon,
whose conveyance was a basket carriage, drawn by a punchy cob, given to
meditation and genuflections. "But there, I hope the poor young man
isn't hurt; and on his wedding-morning, too!"
"Will you hold your tongue?" exclaimed Mrs Bray fiercely. "Do you
think matters are not bad enough without prophesying ill? There, there,
my darling, don't cry," she said softly the next moment to Nelly, who
was sobbing convulsively, as she trembled for the fate of him whom she
indeed loved as a dear brother. But at last the Reverend Mr Lingon and
his aides appeared upon the scene, and pending the arrival of news, the
wedding party were screened from curious eyes by the refuge offered to
them in the vestry, till twelve o'clock striking, carriages were
summoned, and, sad and disappointed, all returned to The Elms.
Volume 3, Chapter XI.