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Volume Three – Chapter Seven.
On the Point

The wedding-morning, with all its flutter, flurry, and excitement! The bride pale, but collected; Nelly and her sister bridesmaids appealing vainly to one another for help; hair, that at any other time would fall into plait, or bandeau, or roll, with such ease, now obstinate and awkward, and requiring to be attended to again and again; hair-pins becoming scarce, and, where plentiful, given to bending; eyes with a disposition to look red; hands ditto – for it is winter; while, as if out of sheer spite, more than one nose follows suit, and is decidedly raw and chappy.

“O, do, do, do fetch a knife!” whimpered Nelly. “I shall never be dressed in time! I must have a knife to open these horrible old hooks, that have flattened down when ’Lisbeth ran an iron along the back plait. O, what shall I do? I shall never be ready! And the old chilblains have swelled up on my heels, and I can’t get on those little satin boots; and I can’t go in my others, because they haven’t got high heels. I could sit down and have a good cry – that I could! Here, ’Lisbeth – ’Lisbeth! why don’t Miss l’Aiguille come and help some of us?”

“Lor, miss, how you do talk!” cried the excited ’Lisbeth. “And is that what you called me back for? Miss Luggle’s a-doing of Miss Lorror, and couldn’t leave her, was it ever so. There, don’t stop me, miss; they’re waiting for pins, and there’ll be no end of a row if I don’t go.”

“But, please, come and do my back hair, ’Lisbeth,” cried one of the bridesmaids – a cousin, who was staying in the house.

“Lor, miss, I can’t. You must ask Miss Nelly!” cried ’Lisbeth, vainly struggling to get out, for Nelly was holding on with both hands to her dress, and dragging her back.

“There, do let go, Miss Nelly – pray! Here, miss, ask your cousin to leave go, and come and do it. She’ll put it right – beautiful!”

“But she has done it twice,” cried the other; “and see how it has come tumbling down again; it’s worse now than if it hadn’t been touched!”

“I don’t care; I shan’t try any more,” whimpered Nelly. “I can’t get dressed decent. But you’ll all have to wait for me; for I’m sure Charley Vining won’t go to be married if I ain’t there.”

“For goodness gracious’ sake, now just look there, Miss Nelly, at what you’ve been and done! You’ve pulled all the gathers out of my frock!”

“Don’t care!” said Nelly, throwing herself down, half-dressed, into a chair. “Fasten ’em up again: you’ve got lots of pins.”

“’Lisbeth – ’Lisbeth!” was shouted from the passage, and the girl disappeared.

We have nothing to do with the bride’s mental sufferings at present, the remarks now made appertaining to dress alone; but she must have borne something at the hands of Miss l’aiguille and her staff of assistants, before, tall, dark, and handsome, she stood amidst a diaphanous cloud of drapery, which floated from and around her, descending, as it were, from the orange wreath twined amidst her magnificent raven ringlets.

Miss l’aiguille clasped her hands, and went down upon one knee in an ecstasy of admiration at the glorious being she had made, as a gentle chorus of “O!” and “O, miss!” was raised by her satellites; while, wonderful to relate, when she descended to the drawing-room, she was not the last, for two of the bridesmaids were not ready.

But Mrs Bray was there, gorgeous to behold, bearing upon her everything in the shape of costly dress that money would purchase. To describe her costume would be simply impossible, save to say that it was as solid-looking as her daughter’s was light and airy – the plaits and folds of her silken robe literally creaked and crackled as she moved, which was all of a piece. Colour there was too; but what, it would be impossible to say, the prevailing hue being warm scarlet, which was shed upon Mr Bray, whose white vest was so stiff and grand, that nothing could have been whiter and stiffer and grander, unless it was the tremendous cravat that held his head as if he was being garotted – symptoms of strangulation being really visible in the prominence of his eyes. But then, as he said, in regard to his sufferings, he did not have a daughter married every day.

“I should have liked for Mr Maximilian to have been here,” said Mrs Bray, as they were waiting for Nelly, who, now under the hands of Miss l’Aiguille, was being made up rapidly – her thin bony form growing quite graceful under the dressmakers fingers.

“Bless me, though, what is the matter?” cried Mrs Bray. “Laura my dear, pray don’t faint in those things, whatever you do!”

“Hush!” cried Laura hoarsely, as, by a strong effort, she recovered herself. “Did you – did you say Max was here?”

“No – no! I said I wished he was here,” said Mrs Bray pettishly. “I do not see what you have got to turn queer about in that. Your own brother too!”

Laura gave a sigh of relief and then closed her eyes for a few moments.

“Only a little while now,” she thought.

The hour was very near, and surely nothing could stay the event.

Then, summoning her resolution she began to pace slowly up and down the room. No tremulous maiden now, but a firm determined woman, who told herself that she had persevered and won the lover – the husband soon.

“What are we waiting for?” said Mr Bray.

“Two bridesmaids,” said Mrs Bray: “Nelly and Miss Barnett. But we have plenty of time; and the Miss Lingons are not here yet. O, here they are, though!”

The young ladies were set down at the door as she spoke; and soon the Bray drawing-room was well filled.

The horses were pawing up the gravel, to the disgust of the gardener, who thought of the rolling to be done; but went and drowned his sorrows in some of the beer on the way, with ample solids, in the Bray kitchen.

A bright brisk winterly day, with a wind that kissed each cheek as bride-elect and bridesmaids descended the steps, and entered the carriages drawn up in turn. Rattle, rattle, bang! went steps and doors; footmen were more upright than ever, and raised their chests into glorious hills, crowned with white satin-and-silver wedding-favours – Mrs Bray insisting upon their being mounted at once.

A grinding of the gravel, and first one and then another carriage departing, Laura, with Mr Bray, completing the cortege; Mrs Bray going before, after declaring that she ought to have stopped behind to superintend the wedding-breakfast arrangements.

And proud was Mr Bray of the stern handsome girl before him; for he had given up the whole of the back seat to his daughter – and her dress. The pallor and look of dread seemed now to have passed away, as if Laura, by her determination, had exorcised the phantom of coming ill; and well-merited were the remarks made, as a glance was obtained at the beauty “arrayed for the bridal.”

People had plenty of ill-natured things to say when the wedding was first settled; but now all these remarks were forgotten; and again and again, as the Bray carriage rolled on towards the church, there was a cheer raised; while, on coming abreast of the Lexville Boys’ School, there was a tremendous scattering volley of shouts, followed by a rush, for the boys were to have a holiday for the occasion; and away they went to the churchyard, to cluster thickly on walls, tombstones, and iron railings – wherever they could find a post of vantage.

Carpet rolled down to the church-gate, and the clerk in a state of fume and worry, that brought him, in spite of the wintry day, into a profuse perspiration, because, no matter how he “begged and prayed,” people would walk over the carpet, and print upon it the mark of their dirty boots.

The church was filled in every part where a view of the communion-table could be obtained; and the pew-openers gave up at last in despair, for the people would stand on the cushions. The organist was ready with the “Wedding March” – Mendelssohn’s, of course – and the ringers were already giving those thirsty lips of theirs a dry wipe, in anticipation of the beer to be on the way by and by, when they made the town echo with a peal of bob-majors and grandsire-caters. While last, but not least, and posted side by side with panting Miss l’Aiguille, who had run down, and was now promising him an account of each lady’s dress, with the proper terms to be applied thereto – was the reporter of the local paper, busy at work with a spikey pencil.

He had already put down a list of the notabilities present – people whom “we observed” – and had added the name of the officiating clergyman, who was to be assisted by a couple more; the two being now engaged in robing in the vestry.

There was no mistake about its being a errand wedding; for the covers were off the communion hassocks – those worked by the Lexville ladies – and people were on the tiptoe of expectation, for the hour was at hand.

Wheels!

“Here they come: the bridegroom, of course!” “’Tain’t. It’s some ladies!” “’Tain’t, I tell you; the bridegroom always comes first.” “Sir Philip’s chariot is to have four horses, and the first and second grooms are to ride post in blue and silver, and black-velvet caps.” “There, I was right – they are ladies.”

Such were a few of the buzzing remarks made as the leading carriage drew up to the gates, and the first batch of friends and bridesmaids descended, hurried up to the old church porch, shook out their plumage, and then swept gracefully up the nave, while remarks full of admiration were passed by those excited fair ones who would not miss a wedding on any consideration, and had duly posted in their mental ledgers the account of every affair that had taken place at Lexville church for the last twenty years; though, during all that long space of time, no one had ever asked them to take the little journey for the purpose of saying, “I will.”

Wheels again, and another buzz of excited voices, for this time there is a volley of cheers faintly heard.

This is the bridegroom, then; and there is a perfect rustle amongst the ancient and modern doves of Lexville to catch a good glimpse of the stalwart handsome heir of Blandfield.

But the next minute the rustle subsides, for the carriage that stopped at the gate only brought friends and bridesmaids. And so did the next, and the next, till the chancel began to wear a goodly aspect, though every face was turned now towards the entrance, and all were upon the extreme point of the tiptoe of expectation.

“The bridegroom ought to be here now,” said some one in the chancel.

“Isn’t Charley Vining here, then?” whispered Nelly to her cousin.

But there was no answer.

Volume Three – Chapter Eight.
Was it an Accident?

Wheels again, and louder cheers than ever; a rolling scattering volley from a hundred young throats.

“Here he is then, now,” said some one. “The Vinings are so popular!”

More bustle, and pressing, and confusion; the steps round the font invaded, and two small boys mounted on the stove to get a good view, while no one interrupts them; the organ-gallery crammed as it never was on Sundays; and the organist hard put to it to keep people from invading his own little sanctum behind the red curtains, and treading upon the pedal keys.

The boy at the bellows has already pumped the wind-chest full, and there is a wheezing sound of escaping air. But the excitement down below is now at its height, and a murmur of admiration is heard as pudgy Mr Bray, hat in hand, leads in Laura – proud, sweeping, stately, and with her eyes cast down, but her head thrown back.

No modest retiring bride she, though the lids do droop and the long black fringes conceal the dark flashing eyes. For she has arrived at the moment of her triumph, and there is a curl to her upper lip as she leads, rather than is led, and passes between scores of the envious.

The chosen one of Charles Vining of Blandfield, the heir to the old baronetcy, Laura knows that there is many a one present who would give ten years of her life to exchange places – to become the future Lady Vining, the leader of the society of the district for miles round. How could she think of the past, when so bright a future was before her? How could she trouble now about forebodings and shadows of coming evil? All were forgotten as she swept down the long nave, each moment more queenly of aspect.

The chancel screen was passed, and the chancel entered – the chancel filled with friends, who smilingly part to allow her to pass to where the invited hedge-in the bridesmaids – a light and cloudy bevy of eight, all white and pale blue, and pale blue fading into white. Dainty forget-me-nots hidden here by lace, or peeping out there from amidst transparent tissue, while every cheek is tinged with the bright damask-rose hue of excitement. The flowers in the bouquets tell tales of the hands that hold, for they tremble and nod; and more than one of those white-gloved hands has drawn out the end of a delicately-scented and laced pocket-handkerchief, so as to have it ready for the tears that will be sure to flow anon; but for a moment the tears, are forgotten, as the bride appears.

“Are you ready?” whispers a voice; and the horribly incongruous-looking clerk comes bustling out of the vestry as the smiling pew-opener dabs the hassocks about, and then smoothes herself down and smirks at everybody, as she wonders how much the wedding will be worth to her.

“Shall I tell them to come?” says the clerk again, smiling so that you can see the two yellow teeth in his top jaw, and the one and a half below. “They’re waiting to come and begin.”

These remarks of course relate to the clergymen in the vestry, who are warming their boot-toes as they stand in front of the fire, like three shut out ghosts, and discuss the amount of the Vinings’ fortune, and talk of Laura Bray’s lucky hit. But as the questions are put in a general fashion by the clerk, no one conceives it to be his duty to answer, and consequently there is a dead silence; and now Laura feels, as it were, an icy hand slowly passing towards that heavily-throbbing heart of hers, nearer and nearer, as if about to clutch it, only holding off for a few moments to add to her torture in that dreadful pause, broken at length by an ominous whisper that runs through the length and breadth of the church:

“Where is the bridegroom?”

That pause must have lasted some thirty seconds; but to those in waiting it seemed an hour. Laura’s eyes were not cast down, but flashing fiercely, and the hand at her heart – the icy cold hand – now moved as if to clutch it, when she drew a long sighing breath of relief; for though hurt at the apparent neglect, she was once more elate and proud; for a voice at the entry was heard to cry, “Here they come!” and overbearing the whispers of the expectant crowd could be heard the rapid beat of galloping horses and the whirl of wheels.

“They’re a-coming down the road as hard as ever they can gallop,” whispered a man at one of the windows which commanded the way to Blandfield.

“But is it them?” said another aloud.

“Them! Of course it is; chariot and four; blue and silver. And, my word, how they are going it!”

It was an insult, certainly, his not being there in time – a cruel insult to his bride-elect; but Laura would forgive anything, for he had much to forgive in her, she whispered to herself.

“It’s all right,” said Mr Bray, nervously looking at his watch. “Blandfield time is always correct; but this church-clock is a perfect disgrace, although we are so foolish as to set our watches by it. Here he is, though!”

Cheering from the boys; galloping horses; whirring wheels, and a rapid rattling rush; and a chariot and four had dashed past the church-gates, and away down the High-street of Lexville, as fast as four well-bred horses could tear.

Away it went, swaying from side to side on its springs, faster and faster as the horses warmed to their work; and those nearer to the door ran out into the churchyard.

“They’ve taken fright and run away!”

“The horses were too fresh; they’ve done no work lately.”

“Why didn’t they have post-horses from the Lion?”

“Sir Philip and Master Charles were both in it!”

“They weren’t: there was only one.”

“I tell you the chariot was empty.”

“Them two grooms have been at the ’all ale, that’s about it.”

“The carriage must be smashed!”

Remarks in a perfect, or rather imperfect, chaos jumbled one another as opinions were passed. But at last the news was taken to where, with the icy hand now clutching her heart, stood Laura, not fainting, but stern, pale, and erect, that there was nothing to fear, the grooms had evidently been drinking, and the horses had taken fright, but that the chariot was empty.

“Yes, yes, it’s all right. Here they come!” cried a voice at the door; and two bridesmaids about to faint, refrained – “here’s the barouche, and one, two – yes, there’s four inside.”

And once more there was a buzz of expectation. Such an accident couldn’t have been helped, of course; horses would be restive sometimes, but it was hard on the poor bride. But, all the same, those who took more interest in the smashing of a carriage than the linking together of hearts, set off at a brisk run down the High-street.

Volume Three – Chapter Nine.
Resignation

There was a look of calm resignation on Charley Vining’s face as he met his father at their early breakfast that morning, to which he had descended without a trace of excitement. He was certainly carefully dressed, his dark-blue morning coat and vest and grey trousers fitting his fine figure admirably, while the utter want of constraint displayed told of breeding as plainly as did his well-cut handsome features.

Well might Sir Philip gaze with pride in his son’s face, lit up now by the pleasant smile of greeting; and even he, the smooth cleanly-shaven old courtier of a bygone school, owned to himself that it would be a sin and a shame to cut off even a hair of the crisp golden beard that swept down upon his son’s breast.

Charley’s face was paler now than when we first met him. The ruddy tan had disappeared, to leave his skin pure, fair, and soft as a woman’s; but there was no show of effeminacy there. His firm look of determination swept that away, and he was, indeed, that morning a bridegroom of whom any woman might have been proud.

“A good half-hour yet,” said Charley, referring to his watch. “I shall have a cigar in the shrubbery before we start, dad.” And he nodded to his father and the friends who were to accompany them. “Shall you have both carriages?”

“Yes, my dear boy, yes!” exclaimed Sir Philip nervously, as his snuff-box came out as if by instinct. “But, Charley!” he said in a whisper, “you won’t – I don’t think I’d smoke this morning!”

“Not smoke, dad!” laughed Charley. “Why not? Perhaps as soon as the knot is tied, I may be forbidden.”

“Stuff, my dear boy! But this morning, think of the odour; the ladies, Charley, the ladies!”

“My dear father,” laughed the young man quite merrily, “surely you are not going to sprinkle that elaborate frill with snuff. Think, dad, the ladies, the ladies!”

“Go and have your havana,” laughed Sir Philip. “I daresay the fresh air will take off the smell.”

“You won’t smoke, of course?” said Charley to his friends.

“O, no, not this morning, thank you,” said one. “We’ll pay attention to your boxes when we come back.”

Charley nodded carelessly, strolled out in his wedding trim, stood upon the broad façade, and lit a cigar, and then walked slowly down towards the avenue.

“Mind, Charley, at half-past ten precisely. Don’t forget the carriages!” cried Sir Philip, throwing up a window as his son passed.

“All right,” said Charley quietly; and the next instant he had disappeared among the trees.

Volume Three – Chapter Ten.
Not by Post

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.