“Yes, yes; where is he,” cried Sir Philip, trembling as he spoke.
“They say the horses must have taken fright and galloped away. The chariot dashed by here a few minutes ago; but they said it was empty.”
“Mr Charles Vining in the carriage, and borne away at that mad rate!” was the whisper through the church, which soon did not contain a man who had not hurried down the road in the expectation of coming at every turn upon the wreck of Sir Philip Vining’s chariot, with horses and men in a tangle of harness and destruction.
But before those on foot had gone far, they were passed by Sir Philip Vining and Mr Bray in the barouche; for they had hurried away from the scene in the church, where Laura was seated, pale, despairing and stony, Nelly sobbing violently, and a couple of bridesmaids had fainted.
“It all comes of having such horrible wild horses,” said Mrs Lingon, whose conveyance was a basket carriage, drawn by a punchy cob, given to meditation and genuflections. “But there, I hope the poor young man isn’t hurt; and on his wedding-morning, too!”
“Will you hold your tongue?” exclaimed Mrs Bray fiercely. “Do you think matters are not bad enough without prophesying ill? There, there, my darling, don’t cry,” she said softly the next moment to Nelly, who was sobbing convulsively, as she trembled for the fate of him whom she indeed loved as a dear brother. But at last the Reverend Mr Lingon and his aides appeared upon the scene, and pending the arrival of news, the wedding party were screened from curious eyes by the refuge offered to them in the vestry, till twelve o’clock striking, carriages were summoned, and, sad and disappointed, all returned to The Elms.