V + 

There was an attempt at order, but it was an utter failure. The men came crowding after Merton’s carriage shouting and firing guns, the horses snorted, and when Violet glanced from the window, the excitement of the scene made her hesitate and draw back. + 

Merton⁠—a regular lady’s bachelor, so to say⁠—was equal to the occasion; it was not the first at which he had assisted. He at once became the soul of the ceremonies. He congratulated Waldron, hastened everybody, went into the apartment where the breakfast was laid out, and with his own hands rearranged it to his satisfaction, shouting out all the time to the bride to make haste. + 

She came at last. How few brides look well in their wedding-dresses. Even girls who are undeniably handsome fail to stand the trying ordeal; but Violet was so happy, so radiant, she could not help but appear to the best advantage. + 

Poor old Jason’s lip quivered as he gazed at his girl’s face⁠—for the last time as his⁠—his lip quivered, and the words of his blessing would not come; his throat swelled, and a tear gathered in his eye. She bent and kissed him, turned and crossed the threshold. + 

Waldron wheeled himself to the large open window, and watched her walk to the carriage along the carpet, put down that her feet might not touch the ground. + 

Who shall presume to analyse the feelings of that proud and happy old man? The carriage moved, the crowd shouted, the guns fired; he wheeled his chair a little round, and his head leant forward. Was he thinking of a day twenty-two years ago, when he⁠—not a young man, but still full of hope⁠—led another fair bride to the altar; a bride who had long since left him? + 

It was an ovation⁠—a triumph all the way along that short half-mile to the church: particularly as they entered the village. The greys pranced slowly, lifting their hoofs well up, champing the bit, proud of their burden. The bride and Miss Merton sat on one seat, Mr. Merton on the other. All the men and boys and children, all the shepherds and ploughboys for miles and miles, who had gathered together, set up a shout. The bells rang merrily, the guns popped and banged, handkerchiefs were waved. Across the village street, but a few yards from the churchyard lychgate, they had erected an arch⁠—as had been determined on at the Shepherd’s Bush⁠—an arch that would have done credit to more pretentious places, with the motto, “Joy be with you.” + 

The bride dismounted at the lychgate, which was itself covered with flowers, and set her foot upon the scarlet cloth which the good old vicar had himself provided, and which was laid down right to the porch. + 

The churchyard was full of children, chiefly girls, all carrying roses and flowers to strew the path of the happy couple when they emerged united. In the porch the ringers stood, four on each side, with their hands upon the ropes ready to clash forth the news that the deed was done. The old old clerk was there, in his black suit, which had done duty on so many occasions. + 

She entered the little church⁠—small, but extremely ancient. She passed the antique font, her light footstep pressed upon the recumbent brazen image of a knight of other days. The venerable vicar advanced to meet her, the sunshine falling on his grey head. But where was Aymer? Surely all must be well: but she could not see him⁠—not for the moment. Truehearted, loving Violet had looked for Aymer with his old battered hat, in the corduroy trousers and the green coat she had known him in so long. + 

For the moment she barely recognised the handsome, gentlemanly man before her. It was Aymer⁠—oh yes, it was Aymer⁠—and how noble he looked now that he was dressed as became him. Her heart gave another bound of joy⁠—involuntarily she stepped forward; what could be wanting to complete her happiness that day? Certainly it would have been hard to have named one single thing as lacking⁠—not one. The pews were full of women of all classes⁠—they had been mostly reserved for them⁠—the men finding standing room as best they could; and a buzz of admiration went round the church as Violet came into fall view. Her dress was good⁠—it was nothing to belles who flourish in Belgravia; but at World’s End⁠—goodness, it was Paris itself. + 

That costume formed the one great topic of conversation for years afterwards. I know nothing of these things; but Miss Merton told me a few days ago that the bride wore a wreath of white rosebuds and myrtle upon her lovely head, and a veil of real Brussels lace. Her earrings were of rubies and diamonds⁠—a present that morning from gallant Mr. Merton. She had a plain locket (with a portrait of Waldron), and wore the splendid necklace of pearls, the gift of Lady Lechester. + 

Her dress was white satin, trimmed with Brussels lace, and her feet were shod in satin boots. Of course the “rosy, slender fingers” were cased in the traditional white kid, and around her wrist was a bracelet of solid dull gold⁠—the bridegroom’s present, only delivered just as she stepped into the carriage. She carried a bouquet of stephanotis, orange, and myrtle. + 

It is very likely I have misunderstood Miss Merton’s lively description, but I think that the above was something like it. Miss Merton herself wore a white silk trimmed with turquoise, blue, a gold locket with monogram in turquoise and pearls, and earrings to match⁠—a gift from Mr. Waldron⁠—and a bouquet, I think, chiefly of white roses and jessamine. + 

It was a lovely sight. The sunshine fell upon the bride as she advanced up the aisle⁠—fell upon her through the antique panes which softened and mellowed the light. Never did a fairer bride mount the chancel steps. + 

Aymer waited for her. Till now Violet had been comparatively calm; but now, face to face with the clergyman robed in white, near to the altar and its holy associations, as the first tones of his sonorous voice fell upon her ear, what wonder that her knees trembled and the blood forsook her cheek. Aymer surreptitiously, and before he had a right in etiquette to do so, touched her hand gently⁠—it strengthened and revived her; she blushed slightly, and the vicar’s voice, as he gazed upon her beauty, involuntarily softened and fell. While his lips uttered the oft-repeated words, so known by heart that the book in his hand was unneeded, his soul offered up a prayer that this fair creature⁠—yes, just this one⁠—should be spared those pains and miseries which were ordained upon the human race. + 

The flag upon the church tower waved in the gentle breeze; the children were marshalled beside the path in two long rows, with their hands full of flowers; the women in the cottages were hunting up the old slippers and shoes; the men looked to the caps upon the nipples of their guns; the handsome greys snorted at the gate; and the grand old sun, above all, bathed the village in a flood of light. I cannot linger over it longer. + 

The solemn adjuration was put, the question asked, and Aymer in an audible voice replied, “I will.” The still more solemn adjuration to the woman was repeated⁠—it is but a few words, but it conveys a world of meaning, it sums up a lifetime⁠—and Violet’s answer was upon her lips, when, before she could form the words, the chancel side-door burst open, and there⁠— + 

There before her very eyes, before the bride to whom that day was consecrated, who for that one day was by all law human and divine to be kept from all miserable things, there stood an awestruck, gasping man, whose white shirtfront was one broad sheet of crimson blood. + 

It is difficult to gather together, from the confused narratives of those who were present, what really happened in consecutive order, but this is nearly it. Not only was his shirtfront blood, but his grey hair and partially bald head were spotted that awful red, and his trembling hands dripped⁠—the blood literally dripped from them on to the stone pavement. For one awful moment there was a pause⁠—utter silence. The man staggered forward and said in broken tones, but audible over the whole church⁠— + 

“Miss Violet; your father is dead!” And the bride dropped like a stone before Aymer at her side, or Merton just behind, could grasp her arm. She was down upon the cold stone floor, her wedding-dress all crumpled up, her wreath fallen off, the light of life and love gone from her eyes, the happy glow from her cheek. Even in that moment the clergyman’s heart smote him. His impious prayer! That this one because of her beauty should be spared⁠—and struck down before his very eyes in the midst of her joy and triumph. All that they could see in the body of the church was a shapeless heap of satin where but a moment before had stood the most envied of them all. + 

Aymer knelt and lifted her head; it lay helpless upon his hands. As he did so the wedding-ring, which he had ready, slipped unnoticed from his grasp and was lost. When it was missed, days afterwards, and a search was instituted, it could not be found, and this the superstitious treasured up as a remarkable fact. + 

Merton raised her up; her frame was limp and helpless in their arms. They carried her to the vestry and brought water. Miss Merton, trembling as she was, did not faint; but, good, brave girl, did her best. + 

In the excitement over the bride, even the man who had brought this awful news was for the moment forgotten. When they looked for him he was leaning against the altar-rails, as if about to fall, and some of the blood was spotted on the sacred altar-cloth. The men rushed at him; the women, afraid, held back and watched what new harm must come. They deemed that it was some horrible creature; they could not believe that it was only the old gardener at The Place⁠—Waldron’s oldest servant. + 

Only the gardener. He was as helpless as themselves. He had overexerted himself running to the church with his dreadful tidings, and being subject to heart disease, he could barely stand, and only gasp out that “Master was killed, and quite dead!” + 

The men, finding nothing could be got from him, ran out, and made direct for The Place. Some leapt on their horses, but those on foot crossing the meadow, as the gardener had done, got there first. All the men made for The Place⁠—all the women stayed to see what would become of the bride. + 

It was a dead faint, but it was not long before she came to, and immediately insisted upon being taken home. They would have detained her in the vestry till at least confirmation of the dreadful intelligence had arrived. But no, she begged and prayed them to take her; and fearing lest uncertainty should do more harm than certainty, they half-led, half-carried her from the church. + 

There was not a dry eye among the sympathising women who had remained⁠—not one among those rude, half-educated people whose heart was not bursting with sorrow for the poor shrinking form that was borne through their midst. + 

But a few short moments since, and how proud and happy had she been advancing up the aisle! The children were gone from the churchyard; their flowers cast away, not in the pathway of the bride, but on the graves. In their haste, they had trod upon the scarlet cloth laid down, and discoloured and stained it. The ringers had deserted the bell-ropes, the village street was empty and silent⁠—only the unconscious flag waved upon the tower, and the arch stood for them to pass beneath, with its motto⁠—now a bitter mockery⁠—“Joy be with you!” + 

The carriage rolled along the road, and as they approached The Place, Merton began to recover his professional calm; and the return of his mind to a more normal state was marked by doubt⁠—Was it true? + 

But no sooner had they entered the garden than he saw it was. The faces of the knots of men, their low, hushed voices, all told but one tale⁠—death had been there! + 

They tried to get Violet to go upstairs to her own room, but she would not. “I must see him!” was her cry. “I must see him!” + 

She pushed through them. All gave way before her. Not there, surely? Yes, there⁠—in the very room where the wedding-breakfast was laid out, where the cake stood upon the table, and the champagne-bottles at the side; there, in the place of joy, was the dead⁠—dead in his armchair, close to the window, with a ghastly wound upon the once-peaceful brow! + 

She threw up her hands⁠—she uttered a great cry. Those that heard it say it rings even now in their ears. She threw herself upon him. The crimson blood dyed her veil, as it hung loose and torn, and tinged the innocent pearls around her neck with its terrible hue. She fainted the second time, and would have fallen, but Aymer caught her; and they bore her upstairs, unconscious even of her misery. + 

The Place was silent. The guns were not fired, the bells were stilled. Men moved with careful footsteps, women hushed their voices, and in the stillness they heard the church clock slowly striking the hour of noon. At that moment she should have been returning, radiant and blissful in triumph, to meet the welcome from her father’s lips. + 

There was one that could not understand it⁠—one dumb beast that could not be driven away. It was Dando, the mastiff dog. Strangely enough, he avoided the chamber of the dead, and crouched at the door of Violet’s room. + 

When Merton saw it he said, “Let the dog go in; maybe, he will relieve her a little.” + 

But Violet, lying on a couch, conscious now and tearless, despairing in the darkened room, motioned him away. “Take him away,” she said. “If he had been faithful, he would have watched and guarded.” + 

It was a natural thought, but it was not just. Poor Dando, like the rest, had gone to the church with the crowd; and just at the moment when he was most wanted, then he was absent from his duty. + 

The great sun still bathed the village in a flood of light, the fleecy clouds sailed slowly in the azure, the yellow mist hung over the distant hills, and the leaves now and again rustled to the ground. But the chamber that should have resounded with laughter and joy was darkened. One more human leaf had fallen from the earthly tree of life. Once more those that were left behind were worse off than those that were taken. In the words of the dear old ballad⁠— + 

My summer’s day, in lusty May, + 

Is darked afore the noon. + 