By Birth a Lady
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But, as time wore on, though the past was never again reverted to, pudgy quiet Mr Bray more than once had a snug tête-à-tête club dinner with his old friend Sir Philip Vining, and they parted in the best of fellowship.
And now we must ask our readers to follow us hastily through a few scenes, whose intent is to fill up voids in our narrative, and to bring it more quickly to a close.
Any one who knows the neighbourhood of Blandfield and Laneton will acknowledge that no more pleasant piece of rural undulating country can be found within a radius of fifty miles round London; and through those pleasant dales and glades, day after day of the bright spring-time, might one or other of Sir Philip Vining’s carriages be seen with the old gentleman himself in constant attendance upon his chosen daughter. His love had long been withheld, but now it was showered down abundantly.
The slightest increase of pallor, a warm flush, anything, was sufficient to arouse the worthy old man’s alarms. And they were not quite needless; for the struggle back to health was on Ella Bedford’s part long and protracted.
Charley Vining used to declare that he was quite excluded, and that he did not get anything like a fair share of Ella’s heart; but the warm glow of pleasure which suffused his face, as he saw the pride and affection Sir Philip had in his son’s choice, was, as Mrs Brandon used to say, “a sight to make any one happy.”
Often and often Mrs Brandon used to declare that the Vinings might just as well come and take up their residence altogether at Copse Hall, for she should never think of parting with Ella; while, as the summer came in, and with it strength and brightness of eye to the invalid, Sir Philip Vining’s great pleasure was, just before leaving of an evening, just as it was growing dusk, to lead Ella to the piano, where, unasked, she would plaintively sing him the old ballad that had once drawn a tear from Charley Vining’s eye, when he had told the singer that he was glad Sir Philip was not present.
And on those occasions, seated with his back to the light, and his forehead down upon his hand, the old man would be carried far back into the days of the past, when the wife he loved was with him; and as the sweet low notes rose and fell, now loud and clear, now soft and tremulous with pathos, Sir Philip’s lip would tremble, and more than once, when he bade her good-night, Ella felt that his cheek was wet.
Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Six.
At Last
The summer was drawing to an end; the ripe tints of the coming autumn were beginning to appear in many a rich clump of trees; but Sir Philip said, in his quiet courtly style, that Blandfield Court had never looked to greater advantage; for Mrs Brandon, her daughters, and Ella, had spent the day there.
And now, in the warm glow of a pleasant evening, just before dew-fall, Charley Vining was leading his fair betrothed along alley after alley, her light dress rustling from time to time among the first-fallen leaves. Hours upon hours they had spent alone together during her return to health; but never till this eve had Ella felt so great a tremor as that which now pervaded her frame. Was it that his eyes had spoken more eloquently than usual? She could not say; but now that he halted by the tree from which a rose had once been plucked, and led her to the garden-seat, there was no resistance, and she suffered him to draw her to his side closer, closer, closer still, till her fair hair mingled with his crisp curls, and her soft breath played upon his cheek.
“My own,” he cried softly, but in tremulous tones, “six months have passed now since I made you a promise.”
“Yes,” she whispered, as her hands rested upon his shoulder; and she nestled closer to his broad breast, dove-like in the gentleness and aspect of seeking protection where she knew she would be safe.
“I have kept the promise,” he said again. “Yes,” she replied, “to forgive, as we hope to be forgiven.”
There was silence then for a few moments before he spoke again.
“And now,” he said, “I claim my reward. Ella dearest, my own, can you forgive my weakness, my doubts, my boyish folly?”
“Forgive?” she said; and as she gazed up in his face there was a look of proud joy before her eyes sank, and her head drooped, blushing before his loving glance.
“I was weak, I own, mad; but tell me, Ella dearest. I have been patient.”
His voice was low as he pressed her still closer to his heart.
“Tell me,” he said, “tell me when;” and his voice had sunk to a whisper.
“Charley – husband,” she whispered, raising her eyes once more to his, “I am yours – when you will!”
Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Reward of Merit – Bai Jove!
People will talk, and the more you try to regulate your life by their opinions, the worse you will fare. Vide “The Old Man and his Ass.”
They said it was too bad that the heir to Blandfield Court should be married in London; but whether too bad or no, in the course of the autumn Charles Vining and his lady were announced as having departed for the Continent after a particular ceremony at Saint George’s, Hanover-square; a church where the wedding-fees must amount to something tolerably respectable in the course of the year; while, if at any time it should be announced that the clerk, beadle, and pew-opener all have country houses at Sydenham, Teddington, or some other pleasant spot a few miles from Babel smoke, and give champagne dinners, the writer, for one, will feel no surprise; though a feeling of envy may spring up in his breast the next time he encounters the gorgeous beadle sunning himself upon the broad steps of the sacred fane.
But the wedding trip was short on account of Sir Philip, who, though he did not complain, showed by his letters how eagerly he was looking forward to their return, which soon followed; and for them life glided on in a pleasant round of social enjoyment, either at Blandfield or the house Sir Philip had secured in Westbournia.
Two years had glided by, when, so as to do as others do in the season, Charley Vining was escorting his bonnie wife through the exhibition of the Royal Academy, though, truth to say, Charley had more than once been guilty of yawning as he stood before a grand specimen of Turneresque painting, for he said that he liked to see that sort of thing in a state of nature.
They were passing from one room to another, when suddenly there fell upon Charley Vining’s ears a strange sound – not loud, in fact it was very faint, but it was peculiar, and being somewhat bored and tired by the pictures, any little thing sufficed to attract his attention.
“Squea-eek, squea-eek, squea-eek!” went the noise, as of some mechanism slightly in want of oil; when, as Charley turned, his face suddenly became suffused, his broad chest swelled, his teeth were set, and his fists clenched, as, with flashing eyes, he looked like some refined and polished lion about to make a spring upon an enemy.
Ella saw what had attracted his attention at the same moment, and trembling like an aspen, the blood fled from her face, and her hands closed on her husband’s arm as she tried to draw him away.
But she might as well have tried to move an oak, as the stalwart frowning Hercules who stood there gazing over his shoulder at a most carefully-dressed man, walking with a peculiar limp – a halt which told of a cork leg, without the wheezing squeak it gave at every mincingly-taken step.
Apparently familiarised to the noise himself, the dandy did not perceive that it attracted the attention of others as he moved along, catalogue in one hand, in the other the thin red-leather cord attached to a vixenish-looking toy terrier – an uncomfortable-looking little beast, that kept running between his legs or over the sweeping train of the elderly vinegary-featured lady by his side, winding the leather thong round the sound or else the cork leg, and once, in a rapid pas, securely binding the two; so that, what with his eyeglass, his catalogue, and the dog, the gentleman seemed to have his hands completely filled.
“What picture is that, Maximilian?” suddenly exclaimed the lady, in a tone that was as acid as her looks; and she stopped short, with her back to Charley and Ella, and by the help of a gold eyeglass inspected a painting.
There was no response; for the dog, the cork leg, and the thong, were in a state of tangle.
“Maximilian, I asked you the name of that picture!” cried the lady more shrilly.
“Bai Jove, there, don’t be in such a hurry; don’t you see what a confounded mess I’m in? There, now, hold Finette, while I look at the catalogue. Let me see, ah! yaas! Number 369. ‘Dandy of the days of Charles II.’ Bai Jove, ah! very fair indeed. Pity that style of dress don’t come in again.”
“Squea-eek, squea-eek, squea-eek” went the leg, as the admirers of the cavalier passed slowly on; while, as they mingled with the throng, a long pent-up breath escaped from Charley Vining’s breast, and apparently greatly relieved, he exclaimed aloud:
“Poor devil!”
“Pray take me out, Charley,” whispered Ella; and for the first time he noticed her pallor.
“Take you out? to be sure!” he cried, as he tenderly drew her hand farther through his arm. “Really, though, for a moment or two, I felt as if I could have wrung his neck.”
“Charley, dear husband!” whispered Ella; for at that moment there was again the sound of the leg, and Charley’s breast began to swell and his eyes to flash.
“All right, little one, take me away,” he said, smiling; “for I feel like a big dog scenting a rat. But there, my own, I’m frightening you; come along.”
He drew her rapidly away towards the entrance, her breath coming more freely at every step; but not so fast but that they caught another glimpse of the lady and gentleman, standing in rapt attention before a fresh picture, and at the same moment heard, in tones that seemed as if they were expressive of profound admiration:
“Bai Jove!”
But that was the last time they ever saw Max Bray.
Volume Three – Chapter Twenty Eight.
Home
A week after, Charley and Ella were in the hall, and about to leave their house, when there was a summons at the door, and they retreated to the drawing-room.
“Mr and Mrs Hugh Lingon,” announced the butler the next minute; and a fair fat young man entered, with a tall handsome lady, who threw back her mantle, and rushed at Ella, to clasp her in her arms, kissing and sobbing over her for a minute, before darting away, rushing at Charley Vining, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing him with a loud smack.
“There! I forgot!” she exclaimed the next moment, half laughing, half crying; “but you won’t mind, dear Hugh, it’s only old Charley Vining, whom I’ve loved ever since I was a tiny girl. But my own dear, dear, darling Miss Bedford – for I can’t ever call you anything else – I am so, so, so glad to see you again. And we were only married yesterday, and I wouldn’t go anywhere else till Hugh brought me to see you both. And you will love me still, won’t you?”
As she spoke she threw herself on the carpet at Ella’s feet, clasping her round the waist, and nestling closely to her, and in spite of every effort, insisting upon staying there till they left.
There was no going out that day; for London ceremony had to be set aside for country hospitality, and it was late when the Lingons left, to start the next morning for Paris; as quaint, but as amiable and happy a couple as ever the sun shone upon.
But before leaving, heedless of his dark-veiled brow, Nelly Lingon told Charley that Max was married to “such an old screw-cum – a rich old dowager; while Laura” – and she spoke now sadly – “Laura ran off with a French count, when we were all at Baden; and I’m afraid he’s a brute to her. But I’m sorry for Laura, Charley,” said Nelly; “for, after her fashion, I think she loved you!”
How the years glide by! Blandfield again, with Charley Vining more portly and noble-looking than ever. It is a glorious sunshiny day, and in his broad hat and velvet coat he looks free, happy, and hearty, as he leads a little gem of an Exmoor pony in either hand, on one of which is a sturdy-looking curly-headed boy, shouting with glee, and drumming the pony’s sides with his little heels; on the other, a sweet-faced girl a couple of years older, whose fair hair hangs down to the waist of her tiny riding-habit.
But we have not done. Standing by a chair, placed upon the lawn, her hand held by Sir Philip Vining, not looking a day older, but watching with a grandfather’s fondness the children led round and round, is Ella – the same sweet-faced gentle Ella as of old, with the same glorious clusters and braids looped back from her pure white forehead. There is a glow, too, upon her countenance – it may be from pride, or merely that from the sun, as she holds a shade above her shapely head.
And there we leave her in her home of peace, rich in the love of her husband, her children, and that of her new parent, whose great delight upon one occasion it was to superintend the placing of Ella’s portrait in the library, side by side with the picture upon which he loved to gaze.
“How well they match, Charley!” Sir Philip said. “It is like making my room complete – her face is so soft and gentle. It is a splendid likeness. God bless her! she makes glad my old age; and,” he added, with a glance of his old pride, “she is by birth a lady! – ”
The End