Volume Three—Chapter Four.
Of What are Men’s hearts Composed?
“Hooray, here’s Charley Vining!” cried Nelly, as Sir Philip and his son entered the Brays’ drawing-room; and bounding over the carpet, she ran up, and caught the latter by the hand; but as Charley shook both her thin hands warmly, he glanced across the room to where Laura was standing, flushed and happy.
“Are you better?” he said, as he crossed over.
“Better? yes,” she said softly; “and so happy!”
There was such a look of intensified joy in Laura’s face, that as he took his seat beside her, Charley Vining smiled pleasantly. He was accepting his fate.
And why not, he asked himself, when, with all their eccentricities, the family seemed ready to worship him? Sir Philip and Mr Bray had no sooner taken their places in a corner of the lesser drawing-room, and commenced their discussion upon the projected improvements, than Mrs Bray crossed over to where Charley was seated, and probably for the first time in her life forbore to shriek, and, leaning over him, actually whispered, as she stooped and kissed him on the forehead.
“Bless you, Vining! you have made us all so happy! But I have not said a word to him.”
Charley felt disposed to frown; but there was a genuine mother’s tear left upon his forehead, and he pressed Mrs Bray’s hand as she left him, carrying off Nelly at the same time.
It was all settled, then; it was to be. And why not? Let it be so, then. Some people said there was no fate in these things; what, then, was this, if it were not fate?
But he accepted it all, asking himself the while, could the gentle tremulous woman at his side be the Laura of old? How she drank in his every glance, eagerly listening for each word! Could he, as he had said he would, thoroughly dismiss the past, life might, after all, be endurable.
So he reasoned, as the evening passed away.
They had had tea, and Nelly had been sent to the piano to play piece after piece, not one of which was listened to, for those present were intent upon their own affairs. Charley talked in a low voice to Laura, Mrs Bray dozed in an easy-chair, and Nelly kept to her music.
Meanwhile the question of draining Holt Moors had been discussed and rediscussed. Farming matters had been talked over, and the state of Blandfield Park; Mr Bray strongly advising a particular breed of sheep for keeping the grass short and lawnlike, giving his opinions freely, and at the same time listening with deference to those of his old friend.
At last, during a pause, Sir Philip caught Mr Bray’s eye, and nodded towards the other room.
“That’s a picture, Bray!” he said. “Ah,” said Mr Bray, as he gazed for a few moments at where—a noble-looking couple—Charley and Laura sat together in the soft light shed by the lamps, “I wish, Vining, I had had such a son. It seems hard to speak against one’s own flesh and blood, but my Max—”
He did not finish his sentence, but shrugged his shoulders, laughing pleasantly, as tall thin Nelly came and rested her weak loose body against his shoulder, before laying her cheek against his bald head, afterwards polishing the shiny white hemisphere with her little hand, rubbing it round and round, round and round; while, apparently approving thereof, Papa Bray drew his child upon his knee, and went on talking.
But suddenly he ceased; for, rising, and with her hand in his, and one arm round her waist, Charley Vining walked with Laura towards where the old men sat, and Nelly, with the tears in her eyes, glided away to the seat just vacated.
“Mr Bray—father,” said Charley quietly, as he stopped in front of them, “Laura has promised to be my wife: have you any objection?”
The next moment Sir Philip Vining had folded Laura in his arms, kissing her lovingly, as Mr Bray caught Charley’s hands in his, shaking them warmly.
“My dear boy,” he exclaimed, “you make me very proud—happiest day of my life!”
“Charley, my son,” said Sir Philip, stretching out one hand to take his son’s, and speaking in a voice that showed how he was moved, “thank you, thank you; you have made me very happy.”
Half an hour after, they were leave-taking; and as Charley kissed Nelly and bade her warmly “good-night,” there was a tear left upon his lips.
“What, little one!” he said gaily, “in trouble? What is it? You don’t think I’ve jilted you, do you?”
“Don’t talk stuff, Charley!” she said gravely. “I’m very happy; but I feel like marble—just as if there were dark veins running all through me.”
“Marble? veins?” said Charley in a puzzled tone.
“Yes; dark veins, like sorrowful thoughts; for though I’m very glad that you are going to be my own dear brother—and something like a brother too!—I can’t help feeling sorry about my poor Miss Bedford.”
Charley started from her as if he had been stung; but no one but Nelly noticed it. Five minutes after, Sir Philip and he were in the Brays’ carriage, and on their way home, for Mr Bray had insisted upon their having it in place of a cab.
There was no farther talk of going back to Blandfield Court till the Brays left town next week, and to all intents and purposes the Vinings lived in Harley-street. But Charley found time for a visit to Mr Whittrick, to see if there was any payment due.
“Happy to attend upon you, if you require my services again, Mr Vining,” he said, as he pocketed a cheque; and then he bowed his client out.
It was that same morning that, returning to lunch in Harley-street, Charley found Laura seated frowningly over a note, which she made as if to conceal upon his entrance; but directly after, as if blushing for her weakness, she stood up, holding the letter in her hand.
“Am I to be jealous?” he said laughingly, as he saluted her.
“I was afraid it might hurt your feelings, Charley,” she said, as her arms were resting on his shoulder. “Can you bear to hear its contents? It is from Max.”
“Yes,” said Charley moodily, and with the veins in his forehead swelling.
“He asks me to try and mediate—to try and make you think less angrily of him.”
“Where is he?” said Charley abruptly.
“I do not know,” said Laura. “Somewhere in the west of England. The postmark is Plymouth.”
“Laura,” said Charley sternly, “I cannot forgive him. Max and I must never meet! Don’t look so serious—I cannot help it. I am, I know, hard and unrelenting—But there, no tears! Why, you are trembling. I am not angry.”
“No, no; I know you are not,” she whispered, nestling closer to him. “You must not be. I shall be so glad to get down to the old place again.”
“And I as well,” said Charley.
And, probably in deference to their wishes, both families started on the following day for their country seats.