Pushing on over the White Oak road, I turned southward at Five Forks, and riding on toward Judge Conway's, had just reached the road coming in from Dinwiddie Court-House, when I heard a cavalier approaching from that quarter, at a rapid gallop.

He was darting by, toward Five Forks, when by the starlight I recognized Mohun.

"Halt!" I shouted.

He knew my voice, and drew rein with an exclamation of pleasure.

"Thanks, my dear old friend," he said, grasping my hand. "I knew you would not fail me."

"Your wedding will take place, Mohun?"

"Yes, battle or no battle."

"You are right. Life is uncertain. You will hear cannon instead of marriage-bells probably, at your nuptials--but that will be inspiring.

What is the news from the Court-House?"

"Our infantry is falling back."

"The condition of the roads stopped them?"

"Yes, it was impossible to get on; and they have been recalled by order of General Lee. Listen! There is the column coming--they are falling back to Five Forks, a mile north of Judge Conway's."

In fact, as we rode on now, I heard the m.u.f.fled tramp of a column, and the rattle of artillery chains in the woods.

"The enemy will follow, I suppose?"

"Not before morning, I hope."

I smiled.

"Meanwhile you are making good use of the time to get married. What will you do with Miss Georgia?"

"You mean Mrs. Mohun, Surry!" he said, smiling.

"Yes."

"Well, she will be sent off--her father will take the whole family to Petersburg in the morning, to avoid the battle which will probably take place in this vicinity to-morrow."

"You are right. I predict a thundering fight here, in the morning."

"Which I hope I shall not balk in, my dear Surry," said Mohun, smiling.

"Is there any danger of that?"

"I really don't know. It is not good for a soldier to be too happy. It makes him shrink from bullets, and raises visions of a young widow, in mourning, bending over a tomb."

"Pshaw! stop that folly!" I said. "Is it possible that a stout-hearted cavalier like General Mohun can indulge in such apprehensions--and at a moment as happy as this?"

I saw him smile sadly, in the dim starlight. "I am much changed," he said, gently; "I no longer risk my life recklessly--trying to throw it away. Once, as you know, Surry, I was a poor outcast, and my conscience was burdened with a terrible crime. Life was little to me, then, and I would not have cared if a bullet cut it short. I was reckless, desperate, and had no hope. Now, I have hope--and a great deal more than all--I have happiness. My hands are not stained with the blood of that man and woman--I have the love of a pure girl who is going to give her life to me--and I have prayed to G.o.d for pardon, and been pardoned, I feel--else that All-merciful Being would not make my poor life bright again! But let me stop this talk! A strange conversation for a wedding night! Let me say again, however, my dear Surry, that I have no enmities now. I no longer hate _that man_, and would not harm _that woman_ for aught on earth. Let them go--they are indifferent to me. I appeal to G.o.d to witness the purity of my sentiments, and the sincerity with which I have prayed, 'Forgive us our trespa.s.ses, as we forgive those who have trespa.s.sed against us!'"

I reached out my hand in the darkness, and pressed that of the speaker.

"You are right, Mohun--there is something greater, more n.o.ble, than vengeance--it is forgiveness. More than ever, I can say now of you, what I said after hearing your history that night."

"What was that, old friend?"

"That you were no longer the bitter misanthrope, hating your species, and snarling at all things--no longer the gay cavalier rushing to battle as a pastime--that you were altered, entirely changed, rather--that your character was elevated and purified--and that now, you were a patriotic soldier, fit to live or die with Lee!"

"Would that I were!" he murmured, letting his head fall upon his breast.

"That is much to say of any man; but I will add more. You are worthy of her--the blossom of Five Forks!"

As I uttered these words, we reached the gate.

A moment afterward we had entered the grounds, tethered our horses, and were hastening to the house.

XIX.

THE CEREMONY.

On the threshold we were met by Judge Conway, with a bow and a smile.

He pressed our hands cordially, but with a covert sadness, which I suppose comes to the heart of every father who is about to part with a beloved daughter--to give up his place as it were to another--and then we entered the great drawing-room where a gentleman in a white cravat and black coat awaited us. No other persons were visible.

The great apartment was a charming spectacle, with its brilliant lights and blazing fire. The frescoed walls danced in light shadows; the long curtains were drawn down, completely excluding the March air. Coming in out of the night, this smiling interior was inexpressibly home-like and delightful.

As we entered, the clerical-looking gentleman rose, modestly, and smiled.

"The Reverend Mr. Hope," said Judge Conway, presenting him. And Mr.

Hope, with the same gentle smile upon his lips, advanced and shook hands.

At that name I had seen Mohun suddenly start, and turn pale. Then his head rose quickly, his pallor disappeared, and he said with entire calmness:

"Mr. Hope and myself are old acquaintances, I may even say, old friends."

To these words Mr. Hope made a gentle and smiling reply; and it was plain that he was very far from connecting the personage before him with the terrible tragedy which had taken place at Fonthill, in December, 1856. What was the origin of this ignorance? Had the worthy man, in his remote parsonage, simply heard of the sudden disappearance of Mohun, the lady, and _her brother_? Had his solitary life prevented him from hearing the vague rumors and surmises which must have followed that event? This was the simplest explanation, and I believe the correct one. Certain it is that the worthy Mr. Hope received us with smiling cordiality. Doubtless he recalled the past, but was too kind to spread a gloom over Mohun's feelings by _alluding to his loss_. In a few moments we were seated, and Judge Conway explained the presence of the parson.

The explanation was simple. Mohun, incessantly engaged on duty, had begged Judge Conway to send a message to the parson of his parish; the parson was absent, leaving his church temporarily in charge of his brother-clergyman, Mr. Hope; thus that gentleman by a strange chance, was about to officiate at Mohun's second marriage, as he had at his first.

I have explained thus, perhaps tediously, an incident which struck me at the time as most singular. Are there fatalities in this world? The presence of the Reverend Mr. Hope on that night at "Five Forks,"

resembled one of those strange coincidences which make us believe in the doctrine of destiny.

Having exchanged compliments with the clergyman, Mohun and I were shown to a dressing-room.