By Birth a Lady

“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.

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.