By Birth A Lady Part 47

"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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 cus.h.i.+ons.

"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 pa.s.s.

"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. Pa.s.sed 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 a.s.suming 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 3, Chapter XII.

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.