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Volume Three – Chapter Eleven.
In Chase

Those who ran off on foot, upon first seeing the carriage clash by, gave up after a two-mile race, and the most impetuous of them were standing at a corner when the barouche came in view.

“What is it? Have you seen them?” cried Sir Philip, who was standing up in front, and holding on by the driver’s seat, directing him so that the horses were now arrested.

“No, Sir Philip,” said one man, “they’ve gone right on ahead, but they were nearly over here.” And he pointed to the wheel-marks, which, in the sudden curve, showed that the chariot must have torn round at a fearful rate; so swiftly, indeed, that the equilibrium had been destroyed, and the corner cleared only on two wheels.

“Drive on!” exclaimed Sir Philip Vining hoarsely. “Gallop!” And away sped the barouche for another mile along the unfrequented country road.

“Seen a carriage – Sir Philip’s carriage and four?” shouted the coachman to a man driving a cart.

“Ah, raight on ahead, going full gallop,” shouted the man in reply; and away once more sped the barouche, till white specks of foam began to appear upon the horses’ glossy coats, to be succeeded by a lather wherever there was the play of rein or trace. Cart after cart was passed, and the same news was obtained of all, till, after a two-mile run without seeing any trace of vehicle or pedestrian of whom to inquire, a farmer’s gig was overtaken.

“No, sir,” was the reply; “I’ve seen no carriage but yours.”

“Not one with four horses and postillions?” exclaimed Sir Philip.

“No, sir,” said the fanner, “but you’d better not trust to me; I’ve not been long on this road.”

“Drive on!” impatiently cried Sir Philip, who now became less agitated. Above four miles from Lexville, and no upset, there must have been time for the first heat of the excited beasts to cool down, and for the postillions to regain command over them; so that he was in momentary expectation of encountering the returning chariot; but still it did not appear.

“Should we be in time if we found him now?” exclaimed Sir Philip.

“What, to get back to the church?” said Mr Bray, nervously referring to his watch. “I fear not, I fear not.”

“How unfortunate!” exclaimed Sir Philip; and then he relapsed into silence, save when at intervals he spoke to the coachman, who kept the well-bred pair of horses at a brisk gallop.

“Stop here,” cried Sir Philip, as they neared a roadside inn, where a wagon and half a dozen labourers were standing, ready enough to stare at the rapidly-approaching vehicle.

“Carriage and four go by here a few minutes ago?” cried Sir Philip to the landlord, who now came bustling out.

“No, sir; not by here.”

“Are you sure?” exclaimed Sir Philip, with a perplexed air.

“Sure, sir? O yes, sir, quite sure,” said the landlord, “or must have seen it. We see everything that goes by here, sir. – Haven’t seen a four-horse coach go by, have you, lads?” he continued, addressing the wagoners.

“No, no,” cried Sir Philip. “A chariot with four horses and postillions – post-boys in bluejackets?”

“No, sir – no, sir – not come by here!” was chorused.

“We could not have passed them, upset in one of the ditches, could we?” hinted Mr Bray.

“Impossible!” cried Sir Philip. “But where could they have turned off?”

“Like to take the horses out and wait, sir? They may come soon,” said the landlord.

“No, no, my man,” hastily cried Sir Philip. “There is nowhere for a carriage to turn off from the high-road during these last two miles, is there?”

“Whoy yes, sur,” said one of the wagoners, “there’s Bogle’s-lane as goes to Squire Lethbridge’s fa-arm; and the low lane down by the beck.”

“Ay, lad, and theer’s ta by-ro-ad as goes to Bellby and La-a-anton.”

“Laneton – Laneton?” Sir Philip exclaimed. “Here, my lads,” he cried, and he threw two or three coins amongst the men. “To be sure! Turn back quick, William; they may have gone that way.”

The coachman turned his panting horses, and they went back at a smart trot towards the by-lane mentioned, a good mile and a half back; while a flood of thought passed the while through Sir Philip’s troubled brain.

“Laneton – Laneton! What could be the meaning of that? But absurd; the horses had taken fright and been turned up there. Of course, the lane would be very heavy at this time of the year, and it was done to tire out the horses. But then Mrs Brandon lived at Laneton. It was there that that interview took place with Miss Bedford. But absurd; Miss Bedford had left there for long enough, and no doubt they would find at the entrance of the lane that the carriage had turned down there, and now exhibited the back tracks. They had overshot the mark, and it was a great pity. It was unfortunate altogether, but one thing was evident: the wedding could not take place that day.”

So mused Sir Philip, till, as they neared the narrow entrance that they had barely noticed, another troublous thought flashed upon his mind.

“Did you send a man on horseback from the church?” he asked eagerly of Mr Bray.

“Man on horseback?” said Mr Bray, looking confusedly up at where Sir Philip stood upon the front cushions.

“Yes, a messenger. Did you send one to the Court?”

“No,” said Mr Bray decidedly.

“Did any one, then? do you know of one being sent?” exclaimed Sir Philip.

“No,” said Mr Bray stoutly. “We sent no messenger.”

What did it mean, then, that strange man on the panting horse, who had brought a message for his son? Something must, then, be wrong, and this was no accident.

“Gone down here, Sir Philip, after all,” said the coachman, pointing with his whip, as he drew up at the entrance of the narrow lane.

“And come back again, have they not?” cried Sir Philip eagerly, peering down at the wheel-tracks in the hope of finding that in his own mind he had been raising up a bugbear of undefined shape and dread portent.

“No, Sir Philip, they ain’t come back,” said the coachman, turning his horses into the lane.

The carriage had to be driven here slowly through rut and hole, worn by the farmers’ heavy wagons; but still at a good sharp trot where the road admitted, till a wagon blocked the way about a mile down, when a good deal of contriving had to be exercised for the two vehicles to pass.

“Did you see a carriage lower down?” asked Sir Philip of the wagoner.

“Ay, sur. A foine un it were, too: four bosses, and chaps in blue, and torsels in their caps. Passed me, ah, moren half an hour agoo.”

“Were the horses running away asked?” Mr Bray, for Sir Philip was silent.

“Roonnin’ awa-ay, sur? Noa, cos they had to wa-ait while I drawed up to ta hedgeside, for t’ la-ane’s narrerer lower deown.”

“Go on, William!” said Sir Philip fiercely, for his suspicions were now assuming a bodily form; and it was with anger gathering in his breast that he sat there thinking – knowing, too, the goal to which to shape his course. But he said no word to Mr Bray, only sat down now, with his brow knit, as he felt the impossibility of overtaking the other carriage; but from time to time he started up impatiently, to urge the coachman to renewed efforts; so that whenever a plain hard piece of road presented itself, the horses appeared almost to fly.

Shame and disgrace seemed to Sir Philip to have marked him for their own; and he shrank from his companion, dreading, after awhile, to hear him speak; for his son’s acts were as his own; nay, he felt that they would fall upon him more heavily. It was cruel, cruel, cruel; or was he mad? Impossible! But what could he do, what could he say?

“Wait awhile,” he muttered at last; and then, starting up once more, he ordered the coachman to drive faster. And onward they tore, till the carriage jolted here and there, and the springs threatened to snap; but Sir Philip heeded nothing but his own thoughts, as his heart asked him where was his son. A question that he could have answered again and again, as his brow grew more deeply marked with the anger and shame that oppressed him; but he forbore.

“Quicker, William, quicker!” exclaimed Sir Philip at last; and the coachman lashed the horses into a gallop, but only to hasten the catastrophe that had been predicted for the chariot; for, as the horses sprang forward, and the barouche swayed again with the speed, there was a sharp crack, a swerve, a crash, and the handsome carriage was over, with the horses kicking madly, and the driver and occupants lying stunned and senseless in the muddy road.

Volume Three – Chapter Twelve.
Going Back

As the old novelists used to say, in their courtly polished style, that makes us think that they must have written with a handsome bead-work presentation pen dipped in scented ink, and held by a delicate hand clothed in a white-kid glove, “Gentle reader, we must now return to our heroine.”

In the plain English and more matter-of-fact way of the year of grace eighteen hundred and seventy, it is given to my hard steel broad-point to be dipped in the ordinary infusion of galls and copperas – rather bitty by the way, and given to turn mouldy – and then, when well-charged with the ink-rusting fluid to declare that we have a long arrear to fetch up relative to the proceedings of Ella Bedford, which could not well be told until the career of the two country families had reached the point recorded in the last chapter.

Ella’s had been a weary life at Crescent Villas, and she had had much to contend with: the evil tempers of three spoiled children, who resented every word of correction, complained to their weak mother, and enlisted her sympathy; the pettish frivolous complaints of the lady herself; and the bitter knowledge that, according to all appearances, she was being made a screen for the foolish flirting attentions of Max Bray.

At one time she was under the impression that the attentions to Mrs Marter were an excuse for obtaining the entrée of the house; but the conduct of Max was so entirely different: he spoke to her so seldom, and then in so quiet and gentlemanly a tone, that, from being watchful and distant, Ella was at length completely thrown off her guard, though there seemed no occasion now for her to trouble herself respecting the visits paid to the house.

Vain to an excess, both Mr and Mrs Marter seemed to approve highly of the visits of so distinguished a leader of the fashion; but Mr Marter had his own ideas upon the subject, telling his lady that it would be a fine thing for Miss Bedford; whereupon the weak little woman nodded and smiled.

To use a very trite expression, there was not the slightest harm in Mrs Marter; but, all the same, she adored incense and the offerings of concert and opera tickets with an escort; when, had it not been for the said escort, she could not have gone, Mr Marter being a man without, so his lady said, a single taste; but all the same we must do Mrs Marter the credit of saying that she would not have stirred an inch to have seen the finest opera in the world without Ella Bedford was of the party; and hence it followed that, willing or no, Ella’s visits to places of amusement were not very few.

But Ella was far from being at ease in her mind. She foresaw that the present state of things could not last; and during some capricious fit of Mrs Marter, when ill-temper, weakness, and petty annoyance were all employed to make her wretched, she would think that to stay out the year was a sheer impossibility. At such times, too, she would feel convinced that Max Bray was playing a part; so that, in spite of his distant respect, she became more cool and guarded in her behaviour; while, as to leaving, she determined to bear all, telling herself, with a feeling of something like despair, that, go where she would, she must be tracked. Then her thoughts turned on Charley Vining, whom she knew to have called; and, as she congratulated herself upon having escaped him – upon his having given up the quest in despair – the warm tears fell, and she knew in her heart of hearts that she was bitterly disappointed.

But it was quite right, – it was as matters should be, she thought; and she hastily dashed away the tears, little thinking that letter after letter had been sent to her, to be smiled over by Mrs Marter and Max, as the latter redirected them to the sender, telling Mrs Marter the while that she was doing an act of kindness and thoughtfulness towards the motherless girl looking to her for protection.

In fact, Max Bray most carefully flattered the self-esteem of Mrs Marter, till the foolish little woman felt herself to be a perfect paragon of matronly greatness and virtue. Mr Marter, too, was taken into their confidence upon this matter of Charley Vining’s attentions to Ella.

“Of course, Mr and Mrs Marter, you can act as you please; for you see, bai Jove! it would ill become me to be offering advice upon such a matter; but for my part, I should never let him write to her, or see her for a moment. It’s a great pity, bai Jove it is, that the young men of the present day have not better aspirations.”

“Quite agree with you, Mr Bray – I do indeed!” said Mr Marter, while his lady smiled her approbation.

“You see, bai Jove! it hardly becomes me, as a near neighbour, to say anything against Vining: but I know as a fact that he worried the poor girl till she was obliged to leave Mrs Brandon’s, the lady’s, you know, where she went to last; and when a man has behaved, bai Jove! shabbily to another man’s own sister, bai Jove! it’s enough to make another man speak!”

“Very true, Mr Bray – very true. I quite agree with you,” said Mr Marter, in a satisfied air.

“But, there, bai Jove! don’t let me come hyar dictating to you. It’s like my dooced confounded impudence to say a word. I’m only too grateful to find a welcome, and a little refined female society; for to a man situated as I am, London is a very dreary place. One can get amongst set after set of fellows, and into plenty of inane fashionable drawing-rooms; but, bai Jove! Mr Marter, that isn’t the sort of thing, if I may be allowed to say so, that a man of soul thirsts after. He wants something to satisfy his brain – something that when he’s spent an evening, he can go and lay his head down upon his pillow, bai Jove! and say to himself, ‘Look here, bai Jove! old fellow: you’ve been out this evening; you’ve been in refined and improving society; and, bai Jove! here you are, just as you ought to be at the end of another day – a better man, bai Jove!’”

“Ah, Saint Clair,” sighed Mrs Marter, “if you could only say that of a night!”

“To be sure,” said Max, “mai dear fellow, you’ve no idea how much better you feel – you haven’t indeed; but, bai Jove! we must change the conversation.”

With all due modesty on his part, Max changed the conversation; for just then Ella, in obedience to orders, entered the room, playing pianoforte piece after piecer till the hour for Mr Bray’s departure, when – was she deceived? or was that a quiet firm pressure of the hand he was bestowing upon her at parting?

The next minute he had gone, and Ella felt a strange shiver pass through her; for if there had been any mistake about the pressure of the hand, there could have been none concerning the look which followed.

“Bai Jove!” ejaculated Max, as he sought a cab on his departure, “how confoundedly slow! But it’s nearly ripe at last!”

Then to make up for the slowness, Max Bray had himself driven to a highly genteel tavern in Saint James’s, where the society was decidedly fast; so that, on returning about three to his apartments, and laying his head upon his pillow, the slow and the fast society must have balanced one another; for he snored very pleasantly, no doubt feeling a better man, bai Jove!

Volume Three – Chapter Thirteen.
Rather Close

“Bai Jove, Mrs Marter, it does a man good to see you,” said Max Bray, sauntering one afternoon into the Marter drawing-room, carefully dressed, as a matter of course, and with a choice Covent-garden exotic in his button-hole. “I declare it makes one quite disgusted with the flowers one buys, it does, bai Jove!” and then showing his white teeth, he raised her hand, touched the extreme tips of her nails with his lips, and then resigned the hand, which fell gracefully upon the side of the couch. “Bai Jove, Marter, I envy you – I do, bai Jove! You’re one of the lucky ones of this earth, only you don’t know it: feast of reason, flow of soul, and all that sort of thing’s blooming, if I may say so, upon your own premises.”

“I’m sure,” simpered Mrs Marter, “there ought to be a new official made at the palace – Court flatterer – and Mr Bray given the post.”

“Wouldn’t be amiss, if there was a good salary,” said Mr Marter, looking up from his newspaper.

“Bai Jove, now, that’s too bad – ’tis indeed, bai Jove! There are some of you people get so hardened by contact with the world, that, bai Jove! you’ve no more faith in a fler’s sincerity than if there wasn’t such a thing to be found anywhere.”

“O! but,” simpered Mrs Marter, “do you think we can’t tell when you are sincere?”

“Bai Jove, no!” said Max earnestly, and with a wonderful deal of truth. “But look here: I’ve got tickets for Her Majesty’s to-night – three, you know – for La Figlia. You’ll go, of course, Marter?”

“Go to an opera!” said Mr Marter, with a shake of the head. “I never go to operas – I only go to sleep.”

“O, bai Jove! that’s too bad!” cried Max. “You’ve never been with us anywhere yet; and I do think you ought to go for once in a way.”

“No, I sha’n’t go!” said Mr Marter; “and besides, I have promised to dine out. Take Miss Bedford.”

“Bother Miss Bedford! Bai Jove, one can’t stir without your governess. I say, Marter, do go!”

“Can’t, I tell you; and, besides, I shouldn’t go, if I had no engagement,” said Mr Marter testily. “You three can go if you like.”

Max Bray seemed rather put out by the refusal, and for a time it almost appeared as if he were about to throw the stall tickets behind the fire; but by degrees he cooled down, and after it had been decided that he was to call for the ladies about half-past seven, he rose to leave.

“But why not have an early dinner here?” said Mr Marter.

“No, bai Jove, no!” said Max. “I’m always here; and besides, I’ve some business to attend to. Till half-past seven, then —au revoir.”

Max kissed the tips of his gloves to Mrs Marter as he left the room; and soon after he was being driven to his chambers, where he wrote a long letter to Laura, sent it by special messenger, and then sat impatiently waiting for an answer, gnawing his nails the while.

The reply came at last, very short and enigmatical, but it was sufficient to make him draw a long breath, as if of satisfaction, though the words were only —

“Yes! No more; for we are going out.”

Then Max Bray lit a cigar, and sat thinking over the events of the past few days, and of what he had done. He had been several times to the Marters’; he had run down, on the previous day, to Lexville; and a couple of days before that he had posted a letter, the reply to which he now anxiously awaited.

What time would it come? He kept referring to his watch, and then he went over and over again the arrangements for some project he evidently had in view, before sauntering off to his club and dining; when, to his great delight, upon his returning to dress for the evening’s engagement, he found a couple of letters awaiting him, one of which he tore open, and then threw into the fire with an impatient “Pish!” the other he took up and examined carefully, reading the several postmarks, and then, smiling as he glanced at the round legal writing, placed it unopened in his breast-pocket.

There was a strange exultant look in Max Bray’s eye as he drew on his white-kid gloves that evening, and started for the residence of Mrs Saint Clair Marter, where he found the ladies ready, and did not scruple to behave almost rudely to Ella as he prepared to take them down, hardly condescending to speak to her; but as the evening wore on, and they were seated in front of the orchestra, he condescended to make to her a few remarks, more than one of which drew forth a smile, from their satirical nature, as, evidently in a bitter spirit, he drew attention to the various eccentricities of dress in their neighbourhood.

Max Bray did not know, though, that within a few yards sat the man whom he had again and again maligned; neither did Ella Bedford divine that a pair of blood-shot eyes were gazing upon her almost fiercely, as she turned from time to time to respond to the remarks of Max, who talked on, till, towards the end of the opera, he stood up to direct his opera-glass here and there, for indulgence in that graceful, truly refined, nineteenth-century act, so much in vogue at the higher-class places of entertainment.

He had tried in three or four different directions; but, perhaps from being in a satirical mood, he did not see a single face to attract his attention, till, concluding with a grand sweep of the best tier, he suddenly stopped short, kept the glass tightly to his eyes, whisked round swiftly, and sat down; for the field of the glass had for the moment been filled by the figures of Mrs Bray and Sir Philip Vining.

“Bai Jove!” muttered Max to himself; and had Charley Vining and Laura been there all the evening, close behind him? They must have been, and be sitting now at the back of the private box. Bai Jove! what should he do? It was horrible to have gone so far – so near – and then to have all spoiled! What an ass he must have been! Laura had said that they were going out; but who would have thought that they were coming here?

Max sat rigidly still for the rest of the evening, encouraging Mrs Marter to stay through the ballet; and at last, cautiously peering round, he found, to his great satisfaction, that the private box occupied by the Brays was empty.

Ella had not seen who was so near, for she was calm and unmoved.

“Bai Jove, what an escape!” thought Max; and a cold chill ran through him – one that would have been more icy, had he known how close they had been to a rencontre. But there was still another peril – Charley Vining might be waiting yet, and she would see him!

They reached the fly, however, uninterrupted, and Max Bray’s spirits rose; but, though he stayed to a late meal – half-tea, half-supper – at Crescent Villas, he was more distant than ever in his behaviour to Ella – so distant, indeed, that Mrs Marter was half-disposed to ask him if Miss Bedford had given him any offence.

It was past one when Max departed; and, hardly knowing why, Ella went to her bed that night tearful and sad, little thinking that it was a pillow she would never again press.