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 liv............