THERE was great excitement in the village of Much cum Milton—a little place about thirty miles from Chester Towers—because Lady Dunquerque’s only son, Algernon, was to be married that day to the great lawyer, Frederica Roe. Apart from the natural joy with which such an event is welcomed in a monotonous country village, Algernon was deservedly popular. No better rider, no better shot, no stouter, handsomer lad was to be found in the country-side; nor was it to his discredit that he was the personal friend of young Lord Chester, whose Case was on everybody’s lips; nor, among young people, was it to his discredit that he was suspected of being on Lady Carlyon’s side. The village girls smiled and looked meaningly at each other when he passed: there were reports that the young man had more than once shown a certain disposition to freedoms; but these, for the sake of his father’s feelings, were not spread abroad; and indeed, in country districts, things which would have ruined a young man’s reputation in town—such as kissing a dairymaid or a dressmaker—were rather regarded with favour by the girls thus outraged.

The only drawback to the general joy was the thought that the bride was over fifty years of age. Even making great allowances for the safety which experience gives, it is not often that a young man who has attracted the affections of a woman thirty years his senior, is found to study how to preserve those affections; and even considering the position offered by a woman safe of the next vacancy among the judges, a difference of thirty years did seem to these village girls, who knew little of the ways of the great world, a bar to true love. Their opinion, however, was not asked, and the festivities were not outwardly marred by them.

Early in the morning the village choir assembled on the lawn beneath the bridegroom’s chamber, and sang the well-known wedding-hymn beginning:—

The bridegroom-elect within his room made no sign; the window-blind was not disturbed. As a matter of fact, Algy was half-dressed, and was sitting in a chair looking horribly ill at ease.

They began to ring the bells at six; by eight the whole village population was out upon the Green, and the final preparations were made. Of course there were Venetian masts, with gay-coloured flags flying. The tables were spread in a great marquee for the feast which, at mid-day, was to be given to the whole village. There were to be sports and athletics for the young men on the Green; there was to be dancing in the evening; there was a band already beginning to discourse sweet music; there was a circus, which was to perform twice, and both times for nothing; there were ginger-bread booths, and rifle-galleries, and gipsies to tell fortunes; they had set up the perambulating theatre for the drama of Punch and Judy, in which the reprobate Punch, who dares to threaten his wife with violence, and disobeys her orders, is hanged upon the stage—a moral lesson of the greatest value to boys; and there was a conjuring-woman’s tent. The church was gaily dressed with flowers, and all the boys of the village were told off to strew roses, though the season was late, under the feet of bride and bridegroom.

At the Hall an early breakfast was spread; but the young bridegroom, the hero of the day, was late.

‘Poor boy,’ said his sister, ‘no doubt he is anxious and excited with so much happiness before him.’

It was a well-bred family, and the disparity of age was not allowed to be even hinted at. The marriage was to be considered a love-match on both sides: that was the social fiction, though everybody knew what was said and thought. Lady Dunquerque had got the boy off her hands very well: there was an excellent establishment, and a good position, with a better one to follow; as for love—here girls looked at each other and smiled. Love was become a thing no longer possible, except for heiresses, of whom there are never too many. Fifty years of age and more; a harsh voice, a hard face, a hard manner, an unsympathetic, exact woman, wrinkled and gray-haired,—how, in the name of outraged Cupid, could such a woman be loved by such a lad? But these things were not even spoken,—they were only conveyed to each other by looks, and smiles, and nods, and little movements of the hands.

‘I think, Robert,’ said Lady Dunquerque, ‘that you had better go up and call Algernon.’ Sir Robert obediently rose and departed.

When he came down again, his face, usually as placid as the face of a sheep, was troubled.

‘Algernon will not take any breakfast,’ he said.

‘Nonsense! the boy must take breakfast. Is he dressed?’ Lady Dunquerque was evidently not disposed to surrender her authority over her son till he had actually passed into the hands of his wife.

‘Yes, yes,—he is nearly dressed,’ stammered her husband.

‘Well, then, go and tell him to come to breakfast at once, without any nonsense.’

Sir Robert went once more. Again he came back with the intelligence that the boy refused to come down.

Thereupon Lady Dunquerque herself went up to his room. The two girls looked at each other with apprehension. Algy was hot-headed: he had already, though not before his mother, made use of very strong language about his bride; could he be meditating some disobedience? Horrible! And the guests all invited, and the day arrived, and the boy’s wedding outfit actually ready!

‘What did he say, papa?’ one of them asked.

I cannot tell you, my dear. I wash my hands of it. Your mother must bring him to reason. I have done my best.’ Sir Robert answered in a nervous trembling manner not usual with him.

‘Does he ... does he ... express any unwillingness?’ asked his daughter.

‘My dear, he says nothing shall make him marry the lady. That is all. The day arrived and everything. No power on earth, he says, shall make him marry the lady. That is all. What will come to us if her ladyship cannot make him hear reason, I dare not think.’

Just then Lady Dunquerque returned. Her husband, trembling visibly, dared not lift his eyes.

‘My dear girls,’ she said, with the calmness of despair, ‘we are disgraced for ever. The boy refuses to move. He disregards threats entreaties, everything. I have appealed to his obedience, to his religion, to his honour—all is of no avail. Go yourselves, if you can. Now, Sir Robert, if you have anything to advise, let me hear it.’

‘I can advise nothing,’ said her husband, quite overwhelmed with this misfortune. ‘Who could have thought that a——’

‘Yes—yes,—it is of no use lamenting. What are we to do? Heavens! there are the church bells again!’

Meantime his sisters were with Algernon. They found him sitting grim and determined. Never before had they seen that expression of determination upon a man’s face. He absolutely terrified them.

‘You are come to try your powers, I suppose?’ he said. ‘Well; have your say. But remember, no power on earth shall make me marry that detestable old woman.’

‘Algernon!’ cried his younger sister. ‘Is it possible that you ... you ... our own brother, should use these words?’

‘A great deal more is possible. I, for one, protest against this abominable sale of men in marriage. I am put up in the market; this rich old lawyer, with a skin of parchment, blood of ink, heart of brown paper, buys me: I will not be bought. Go, tell my mother that she may do her worst. I will not marry the woman.’

‘If you will not think of yourself,’ said his elder sister coldly, ‘pray think of us. Our guests are invited,—they are already assembling in the church; listen—there are the bells!’

‘I should like,’ said Algy laughing,—‘I should like to see the face of Frederica Roe in half an hour’s time.’

The two girls looked at each other in dismay. What was to be done? what could be said?

‘You two little hypocrites!’ he went on. ‘you and your goody talk about the day of happiness! and the humbugging hymn! and your sham and mockery of the Perfect Woman! and your reign of the Intellect! Wait a little, my sisters; I promise you a pleasing change in the monotony of your lives.’

‘Sister,’ said the younger, ‘he blasphemes. We must leave him. Oh, unhappy boy! what fate are you preparing for yourself?’

‘Come,’ answered the elder. ‘Come away, my dear. Algernon, if you disgrace us this day, you shall be no more brother of mine; I renounce you.’

They left him. Presently his father came back.

‘Algernon,’ he said feebly, ‘have you come to your right mind?’

‘I have,’ he replied—‘I have. That is the reason why I am here, and why I am staying here.’

‘Then I can do nothing for you. Poor boy! my heart bleeds for you.’

‘My poor father,’ said his son, speaking in a parable, ‘my heart has bled for you a long time. Patience!—wait a little.’

‘The last wedding-present has arrived,’ said Sir Robert. ‘What we are to do I cannot, dare not, think. Your mother must break the news to Frederica.’

‘Whose is the wedding-present?’

‘It is from Lord Chester—the most magnificent hunter, saddled, and all; with a note.’

Algernon sprang to his feet and rushed to the window. On the carriage-drive he saw a little stable-boy leading a horse. He knew the boy as one of Lord Chester’s—a sharp, trusty lad. What was the horse saddled for?

‘Give me the letter,’ he said almost fiercely, to his father.

Sir Robert handed him the note, which lady Dunquerque had opened and read:—

‘Among other disasters, you will lose this friend, Algy,’ moaned his father. ‘No one can ever speak to you again; no one can——’

‘Tell my mother, sir, that I am ready,’ he interrupted, with a most extraordinary change of manner. ‘I will be with her as soon as I can complete my toilet. One must be smart upon one’s wedding-day. Go, dear father, tell her I am coming downstairs, and beg her not to make a row—I mean, not to allude to the late distressing scene.’

He pushed his father out of the room.

Two minutes later he stood in the breakfast-room, actually laughing as if nothing had happened.

‘I am glad my son,’ said his mother, ‘that you have returned to your senses.’

‘Yes,’ he replied gaily, as if it had been a question of some simple act of petulance; ‘it is a good thing, isn’t it? Have you seen Lord Chester’s gift, sisters?’

The girls looked at each other in a kind of stupor. What could men be like that they should so lightly pass from one extreme to the other?

‘Tell the boy,’ he ordered the footman, ‘to lead the horse to the Green; I should like all the lads to see it. Tell them it is Lord Chester’s gift, with his congratulations on the dawn of the happy day—tell them to remember the dawn of the happy day.’

He seemed to talk nonsense in his excitement. But Sir Robert, overjoyed at this sudden return to obedience, shed tears.

‘Now,’ said Lady Dunquerque, ‘we have no time to lose. Girls, you can go on with your father. Algernon, of course, accompanies me.’

When they were left alone, his mother began a lecture, short but sharp, on the duty of marital obedience.

‘I say no more,’ she concluded,’ on the lamentable display of temper of this morning. Under the circumstances, I pass it over on condition that you look your brightest and best all day, and that you show yourself alive to the happiness of the position I have gained for you.’

‘I think,’ he replied, ‘that in the future, if not to-day, you will congratulate yourself on my line of action.’

A strange thing for the young man to say. Afterwards they remembered it, and understood it.

Meantime the churchyard was full of the village people, and the church was crammed with the guests in wedding-favours; on the Green the band was discoursing sweet music; in the centre, an object of the deepest admiration for the village lads, stood Lord Chester’s gift, led by his boy.

At a quarter to eleven punctually, the carriage containing the bride and principal bridesmaid, a lady also of the Inner Bar, about her own age, arrived. The bride was beautifully dressed in a rich white satin. She was met in the porch by the other bridesmaids, including the groom’s sisters. All were in great spirits, and even the harsh face of the bride looked smiling and kind. The sisters, reassured on the score of their brother, were rejoicing in the sunshine of the day, the crowds, and the general joy. Sir Robert and the other elderly gentlemen were standing in meditation, or devoutly kneeling before the chancel.

Hush! silence! Hats off in the churchyard! There are the wheels of the bridegroom’s carriage. Here come the Vicar and the Choir ready to strike up the Processional Hymn. Clash, clang the bells! one more, and altogether, if it brings down the steeple! Now the lads make a lane outside. Off hats! Cheer with a will, boys! Hurrah for the bridegroom! He sits beside his mother, his head back, his eyes flashing; he laughs a greeting to the crowd.

‘Capital, Algernon!’ says his mother. ‘Now subdue your joy; we are at the lych-gate.’

The carriage stopped. Algernon sprang out, and assisted his mother to alight. Then the procession, already formed, began slowly to move up the aisle singing the hymn, and the notes of the organ rolled among the old low arches of the little village church; and the Vicar walked last, carrying her hymn-book in her hand, singing lustily, and thinking, poor woman, that the marriage procession was advancing behind her.

Well, it was not; and when she turned round, having reached the altar, she stared blankly, because there was no marriage procession, but a general looking at each other, and whispering.

What happened was this.

After helping Lady Dunquerque out of the carriage, Algernon quietly left her, and without the slightest appearance of hurry, calmly walked across the Green and mounted Lord Chester’s gift.

Then he rode to the churchyard gate, and took off his hat to his bride, and shouted, so that all could hear him, even in the church, ‘Very sorry, old lady, but you must look for another husband.’ Then he turned his horse and cantered quickly away through the crowd, laughing and waving his hand.

Half an hour later, Frederica Roe, after a stormy scene with Lady Dunquerque, which ended in the latter thanking Providence for having delivered her headstrong boy, even at the last moment, from so awful a temper, returned with her best-maid to town. There was laughter that evening when the news reached the Club. Cruel things, too, were said by the Juniors. There would have been more cruel things but for the circumstances which followed.

It was naturally a day of Rebuke at the village. The circus, the gipsies, the conjurors, and the acrobats, were all packed off about their business; there was no feast; the children were sent back to school; the wedding-guests dispersed in dismay; and Lady Dunquerque, with rage and despair in her heart, sat amid her terror-stricken household, none daring to say a word to soothe and comfort her. Later on, her husband suggested the consolations of religion, but these failed.

The summons reached Clarence Veysey on the next day. The boy who brought him the letter had ridden fifty miles.

He was waiting at home in great despondency. The perpetual acting, the deception, tortured his earnest soul; he lacked companionship; he wanted the conversation of Grace Ingleby; his sisters wearied him with their talk, and their aims—aims which he was about to make impossible for them. The boy, who was the son of one of Lord Chester’s keepers, came to the house by the garden entrance, and found Clarence walking on the lawn. He tore open the note, which was as follows:—

Then Clarence waited for nothing, but started to walk to Chester Towers. He walked for four-and-twenty hours; when he arrived he was faint with hunger and fatigue, but he was there. The Rebellion had begun, and he was with the rebels.