Away goes the rumbling chaise! too slowly for its inmates, whose impatience needs wings; too swiftly for the wretched man, who sits behind, communing with his own bitter thoughts.
What a slight partition divided the delirious lovers from the unhappy wretch who rode behind them—a partition which divided the joys of paradise from the pangs of purgatory. The captain had not only to endure the misery of unhappy love, but also the, to him, horrible torture of believing the girl he loved had given herself up to a villain, who did not intend to marry her.
"If I do force him to marry her," he said, "what happiness can she expect from such a scoundrel? Her character will be saved; but her heart will be broken ... If he refuses ... if I shoot him ... she will hate me ... will not less revere his memory ... and will have lost her name!"
And merrily the chaise rattled on.
It reached London at last. There the captain got down, and, hailing a cab, bade the driver follow the post-chaise, at a slight distance. It stopped at an hotel. They alighted, and went in.
The captain followed them to the hotel. His first act was to write this letter to Meredith Vyner.
(Don't read this aloud.)
"My DEAR VYNER,
"Before this reaches you, the flight of your daughter with Chamberlayne will have been known to you. Make yourself as easy as possible under the deplorable calamity; for I am in the same hotel with them, and will see them duly married.
"You will be astonished to hear me talk of their marriage, and of my forwarding it, instead of taking every step to prevent it. But, when I tell you that marriage is now imperative—that it is, alas! what we must all now eagerly desire—my conduct will be intelligible. Put your perfect trust in me. You know my affection for your children, and my regard for the honour of the family."