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diff --git a/38871-0.txt b/38871-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2e6302f --- /dev/null +++ b/38871-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16108 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chippinge Borough, by Stanley J. Weyman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Chippinge Borough + +Author: Stanley J. Weyman + +Release Date: February 13, 2012 [eBook #38871] +[Most recently updated: June 13, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Charles Bowen + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHIPPINGE BOROUGH *** + + + + +Chippinge Borough + +BY + +STANLEY J. WEYMAN + +Author of “The Long Night,” Etc. + +NEW YORK +McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. +MCMVI + +_Copyright_, 1906, _by_ +McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. + +Copyright, 1905, 1905, by Stanley J. Weyman. + + + CHAPTER I. The Dissolution. + CHAPTER II. The Spirit of the Storm. + CHAPTER III. Two Letters. + CHAPTER IV. Tantivy! Tantivy! Tantivy! + CHAPTER V. Rosy-fingered Dawn. + CHAPTER VI. The Patron of Chippinge. + CHAPTER VII. The Winds of Autumn. + CHAPTER VIII. A Sad Misadventure. + CHAPTER IX. The Bill for Giving Everybody Everything. + CHAPTER X. The Queen's Square Academy for Young Ladies. + CHAPTER XI. Don Giovanni Flixton. + CHAPTER XII. A Rotten Borough. + CHAPTER XIII. The Vermuyden Dinner. + CHAPTER XIV. Miss Sibson's Mistake. + CHAPTER XV. Mr. Pybus's Offer. + CHAPTER XVI. Less than a Hero. + CHAPTER XVII. The Chippinge Election. + CHAPTER XVIII. The Chippinge Election (_Continued_). + CHAPTER XIX. The Fruits of Victory. + CHAPTER XX. A Plot Unmasked. + CHAPTER XXI. A Meeting of Old Friends. + CHAPTER XXII. Women's Hearts. + CHAPTER XXIII. In the House. + CHAPTER XXIV. A Right and Left. + CHAPTER XXV. At Stapylton. + CHAPTER XXVI. The Scene in the Hall. + CHAPTER XXVII. Wicked Shifts. + CHAPTER XXVIII. Once More, Tantivy! + CHAPTER XXIX. Autumn Leaves. + CHAPTER XXX. The Mayor's Reception in Queen's Square. + CHAPTER XXXI. Sunday in Bristol. + CHAPTER XXXII. The Affray at the Palace. + CHAPTER XXXIII. Fire. + CHAPTER XXXIV. Hours of Darkness. + CHAPTER XXXV. The Morning of Monday. + CHAPTER XXXVI. Forgiveness. + CHAPTER XXXVII. In the Mourning Coach. + CHAPTER XXXVIII. Threads and Patches. + + + + +CHIPPINGE BOROUGH + + + + +I +THE DISSOLUTION + + +Boom! + +It was April 22, 1831, and a young man was walking down Whitehall in +the direction of Parliament Street. He wore shepherd’s plaid trousers +and the swallow-tail coat of the day, with a figured muslin cravat +wound about his wide-spread collar. He halted opposite the Privy +Gardens, and, with his face turned skywards, listened until the sound +of the Tower guns smote again on the ear and dispelled his doubts. To +the experienced, his outward man, neat and modestly prosperous, denoted +a young barrister of promise or a Treasury clerk. His figure was good, +he was above the middle height, and he carried himself with an easy +independence. He seemed to be one who both held a fair opinion of +himself and knew how to impress that opinion on his fellows; yet was +not incapable of deference where deference was plainly due. He was +neither ugly nor handsome, neither slovenly nor a _petit-maître_; +indeed, it was doubtful if he had ever seen the inside of Almack’s. But +his features were strong and intellectual, and the keen grey eyes which +looked so boldly on the world could express both humour and good +humour. In a word, this young man was one upon whom women, even great +ladies, were likely to look with pleasure, and one woman—but he had not +yet met her—with tenderness. + +Boom! + +He was only one among a dozen, who within the space of a few yards had +been brought to a stand by the sound; who knew what the salute meant, +and in their various ways were moved by it. The rumour which had flown +through the town in the morning that the King was about to dissolve his +six-months-old Parliament was true, then! so true that already in the +clubs, from Boodle’s to Brooks’s, men were sending off despatches, +while the long arms of the semaphore were carrying the news to the +Continent. Persons began to run by Vaughan—the young man’s name was +Arthur Vaughan; and behind him the street was filling with a multitude +hastening to see the sight, or so much of it as the vulgar might see. +Some ran towards Westminster without disguise. Some, of a higher +station, walked as fast as dignity and their strapped trousers +permitted; while others again, who thought themselves wiser than their +neighbours, made quickly for Downing Street and the different openings +which led into St. James’s Park, in the hope of catching a glimpse of +the procession before the crowd about the Houses engulfed it. + +Nine out of ten, as they ran or walked—nay, it might be said more +truly, ninety-nine out of a hundred—evinced a joy quite out of the +common, and such as no political event of these days produces. One +cried, “Hip! Hip! Hip!”; one flung up his cap; one swore gaily. +Strangers told one another that it was a good thing, bravely done! And +while the whole of that part of the town seemed to be moving towards +the Houses, the guns boomed on, proclaiming to all the world that the +unexpected had happened; that the Parliament which had passed the +People’s Bill by one—a miserable one in the largest House which had +ever voted—and having done that, had shelved it by some shift, some +subterfuge, was meeting the fate which it deserved. + +No man, be it noted, called the measure the Reform Bill, or anything +but the Bill, or, affectionately, the People’s Bill. But they called it +that repeatedly, and in their enthusiasm, exulted in the fall of its +enemies as in a personal gain. And though here and there amid the +general turmoil a man of mature age stood aside and scowled on the +crowd as it swept vociferating by him, such men were but as straws in a +backwater of the stream—powerless to arrest the current, and liable at +any moment to be swept within its influence. + +That generation had seen many a coach start laurel-clad from St. +Martin’s and listened many a time to the salvoes that told of victories +in France or Flanders. But it was no exaggeration to say that even +Waterloo had not flung abroad more general joy, nor sown the dingy +streets with brighter faces, than this civil gain. For now—now, +surely—the People’s Bill would pass, and the people be truly +represented in Parliament! Now, for certain, the Bill’s ill-wishers +would get a fall! And if every man—about which some doubts were +whispered even in the public-houses—did not get a vote which he could +sell for a handful of gold, as his betters had sold their votes time +out of mind, at least there would be beef and beer for all! Or, if not +that, something indefinite, but vastly pleasant. Few, indeed, knew +precisely what they wished and what they were going to gain, but + +_Hurrah for Mr. Brougham!_ +_Hurrah for Gaffer Grey!_ +_Hurrah for Lord John!_ + + +Hurrah, in a word, for the Ministry, hurrah for the Whigs! And above +all, three cheers for the King, who had stood by Lord Grey and +dissolved this niggling, hypocritical Parliament of landowners. + +Meanwhile the young man who has been described resumed his course; but +slowly, and without betraying by any marked sign that he shared the +general feeling. Still, he walked with his head a little higher than +before; he seemed to sniff the battle; and there was a light in his +eyes as if he saw a wider arena before him. “It is true, then,” he +muttered. “And for to-day I shall have my errand for my pains. He will +have other fish to fry, and will not see me. But what of that! Another +day will do as well.” + +At this moment a ragamuffin in an old jockey-cap attached himself to +him, and, running beside him, urged him to hasten. + +“Run, your honour,” he croaked in gin-laden accents, “and you’ll ’ave a +good place! And I’ll drink your honour’s health, and Billy the King’s! +Sure he’s the father of his country, and seven besides. Come on, your +honour, or they’ll be jostling you!” + +Vaughan glanced down and shook his head. He waved the man away. + +But the lout looked only to his market, and was not easily repulsed. +“He’s there, I tell you,” he persisted. “And for threepence I’ll get +you to see him. Come on, your honour! It’s many a Westminster election +I’ve seen, and beer running, from Mr. Fox, that was the gentleman had +always a word for the poor man, till now, when maybe it’s your honour’s +going to stand! Anyway, it’s, Down with the mongers!” + +A man who was clinging to the wall at the corner of Downing Street +waved his broken hat round his head. “Ay, down with the +borough-mongers!” he cried. “Down with Peel! Down with the Dook! Down +with ’em all! Down with everybody!” + +“And long live the Bill!” cried a man of more respectable appearance as +he hurried by. “And long live the King, God bless him!” + +“They’ll know what it is to balk the people now,” chimed in a fourth. +“Let ’em go back and get elected if they can. Ay, let ’em!” + +“Ay, let ’em! Mr. Brougham’ll see to that!” shouted the other. “Hurrah +for Mr. Brougham!” + +The cry was taken up by the crowd, and three cheers were given for the +Chancellor, who was so well known to the mob by the style under which +he had been triumphantly elected for Yorkshire that his peerage was +ignored. + +Vaughan, however, heard but the echo of these cheers. Like most young +men of his time, he leant to the popular side. But he had no taste for +the populace in the mass; and the sight of the crowd, which was fast +occupying the whole of the space before Palace Yard and even surging +back into Parliament Street, determined him to turn aside. He shook off +his attendant and, crossing into Whitehall Place, walked up and down, +immersed in his reflections. + +He was honestly ambitious, and his thoughts turned naturally on the +influence which this Bill—which must create a new England, and for many +a new world—was likely to have on his own fortunes. The owner of a +small estate in South Wales, come early to his inheritance, he had +sickened of the idle life of an officer in peacetime; and after three +years of service, believing himself fit for something higher, he had +sold his commission and turned his mind to intellectual pursuits. He +hoped that he had a bent that way; and the glory of the immortal three, +who thirty years before had founded the “Edinburgh Review,” and, by so +doing, made this day possible, attracted him. Why should not he, as +well as another, be the man who, in the Commons, the cockpit of the +nation, stood spurred to meet all comers—in an uproar which could +almost be heard where he walked? Or the man who, in the lists of +Themis, upheld the right of the widow and the poor man’s cause, and to +whom judges listened with reluctant admiration? Or best of all, highest +of all, might he not vie with that abnormal and remarkable man who wore +at once the three crowns, and whether as Edinburgh Reviewer, as knight +of the shire for York, or as Chancellor of England, played his part +with equal ease? To be brief, it was prizes such as these, distant but +luminous, that held his eyes, incited him to effort, made him live +laborious days. He believed that he had ability, and though he came +late to the strife, he brought his experience. If men living from hand +to mouth and distracted by household cares could achieve so much, why +should not he who had his independence and his place in the world? Had +not Erskine been such another? He, too, had sickened of barrack life. +And Brougham and the two Scotts, Eldon and Stowell. To say nothing of +this young Macaulay, whose name was beginning to run through every +mouth; and of a dozen others who had risen to fame from a lower and +less advantageous station. + +The goal was distant, but it was glorious. Nor had the eighteen months +which he had given to the study of the law, to attendance at the +Academic and at a less ambitious debating society, and to the output of +some scientific feelers, shaken his faith in himself. He had not yet +thought of a seat at St. Stephen’s; for no nomination had fallen to +him, nor, save from one quarter, was likely to fall. And his income, +some six hundred a year, though it was ample for a bachelor, would not +stretch to the price of a seat at five thousand for the Parliament, or +fifteen hundred for the Session—the quotations which had ruled of late. +A seat some time, however, he must have; it was a necessary +stepping-stone to the heights he would gain. And the subject in his +mind as he paced Whitehall Place was the abolition of the close +boroughs and the effect which the transfer of electoral power to the +middle-class would have on his chances. + +A small thing—no more than a quantity of straw laid thickly before one +of the houses—brought his thoughts down to the present. By a natural +impulse he raised his eyes to the house; by a coincidence, less +natural, a hand, even as he looked, showed itself behind one of the +panes of a window on the first floor, and drew down the blind. Vaughan +stood after that, fascinated, and watched the lowering of blind after +blind. And the solemn contrast between his busy thoughts and that which +had even then happened in the house—between that which lay behind the +darkened windows and the bright April sunshine about him, the +twittering of the sparrows in the green, and the tumult of distant +cheering—went home to him. + +He thought of the lines, so old and so applicable: + +_Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium_ +_Versatur urna, serius, ocius_, + +_Sors exitura, et nos in æternum_ + +_Exilium impositura cymbæ_. + + +He was still rolling the words on his tongue with that love of the +classical rhythm which was a mark of his day—and returns no more than +the taste for the prize-ring which was coeval with it—when the door of +the house opened and a man came clumsily and heavily out, closed the +door behind him, and, with his head bent low and the ungainly movements +of an automaton, made off down the street. + +The man was very stout as well as tall, his dress slovenly and +disordered. His hat was pulled awry over his eyes, and his hands were +plunged deep in his breeches pockets. Vaughan saw so much. Then the +door opened again, and a face, unmistakably that of a butler, looked +out. + +The servant’s eyes met his, and though the man neither spoke nor +beckoned, his eyes spoke for him. Vaughan crossed the way to him. “What +is it?” he asked. + +The man was blubbering. “Oh, Lord; oh, Lord!” he said. “My lady’s gone +not five minutes, and he’ll not be let nor hindered! He’s to the House, +and if the crowd set upon him he’ll be murdered. For God’s sake, follow +him, sir! He’s Sir Charles Wetherell, and a better master never walked, +let them say what they like. If there’s anybody with him, maybe they’ll +not touch him.” + +“I will follow him,” Vaughan answered. And he hastened after the stout +man, who had by this time reached the corner of the street. + +Vaughan was surprised that he had not recognised Wetherell. For in +every bookseller’s window caricatures of the “Last of the +Boroughbridges,” as the wits called him, after the pocket borough for +which he sat, were plentiful as blackberries. Not only was he the +highest of Tories, but he was a martyr in their cause; for, +Attorney-General in the last Government, he had been dismissed for +resisting the Catholic Claims. Since then he had proved himself, of all +the opponents of the Bill, the most violent, the most witty, and, with +the exception of Croker perhaps, the most rancorous. At this date he +passed for the best hated man in England; and representative to the +public mind of all that was old-fashioned and illiberal and exclusive. +Vaughan knew, therefore, that the servant’s fears were not unfounded, +and with a heart full of pity—for he remembered the darkened house—he +made after him. + +By this time Sir Charles was some way ahead and already involved in the +crowd. Fortunately the throng was densest opposite Old Palace Yard, +whence the King was in the act of departing; and the space before the +Hall and before St. Stephen’s Court—the buildings about which abutted +on the river—though occupied by a loosely moving multitude, and +presenting a scene of the utmost animation, was not impassable. Sir +Charles was in the heart of the crowd before he was recognised; and +then his stolid unconsciousness and the general good-humour, born of +victory, served him well. He was too familiar a figure to pass +altogether unknown; and here and there a man hissed him. One group +turned and hooted after him. But he was within a dozen yards of the +entrance of St. Stephen’s Court, with Vaughan on his heels, before any +violence was offered. There a man whom he happened to jostle recognised +him and, bawling abuse, pushed him rudely; and the act might well have +been the beginning of worse things. But Vaughan touched the man on the +shoulder and looked him in the face. “I shall know you,” he said +quietly. “Have a care!” And the fellow, intimidated by his words and +his six feet of height, shrank into himself and stood back. + +Wetherell had barely noticed the rudeness. But he noted the +intervention by a backward glance. “Much obliged,” he grunted. “Know +you, too, again, young gentleman.” And he went heavily on and passed +out of the crowd into the court, followed by a few scattered hisses. + +Behind the officers of the House who guarded the entrance a group of +excited talkers were gathered. They were chiefly members who had just +left the House and had been brought to a stand by the sight of the +crowd. On seeing Wetherell, surprise altered their looks. “Good G—d!” +cried one, stepping forward. “You’ve come down, Wetherell?” + +“Ay,” the stricken man answered without lifting his eyes or giving the +least sign of animation. “Is it too late?” + +“By an hour. There’s nothing to be done. Grey and Bruffam have got the +King body and soul. He was so determined to dissolve, he swore that +he’d come down in a hackney-coach rather than not come. So they say!” + +“Ay!” + +“But I hope,” a second struck in, in a tone of solicitude, “that as you +are here, Lady Wetherell has rallied.” + +“She died a quarter of an hour ago,” he muttered. “I could do no more. +I came here. But as I am too late, I’ll go back.” + +Yet he stood awhile, as if he had no longer anything to draw him one +way more than another; with his double chin and pendulous cheeks +resting on his breast and his leaden eyes sunk to the level of the +pavement. And the others stood round him with shocked faces, from which +his words and manner had driven the flush of the combat. Presently two +members, arguing loudly, came up, and were silenced by a glance and a +muttered word. The ungainly attitude, the ill-fitting clothes, did but +accentuate the tragedy of the central figure. They knew—none better—how +fiercely, how keenly, how doggedly he had struggled against death, +against the Bill. + +And yet, had they thought of it, the vulgar caricatures that had hurt +her, the abuse that had passed him by to lodge in her bosom, would hurt +her no more! + +Meanwhile, Vaughan, as soon as he had seen Sir Charles within the +entrance reserved for members, had betaken himself to the main door of +the Hall, a few paces to the westward. He had no hope that he would now +be able to perform the errand on which he had set forth; for the +Chancellor, for certain, would have other fish to fry and other people +to see. But he thought that he would leave a card with the usher, so +that Lord Brougham might know that he had not failed to come, and might +make a fresh appointment if he still wished to see him. + +Of the vast congeries of buildings which then encased St. Stephen’s +Chapel and its beautiful but degraded cloisters, little more than the +Hall is left to us. The Hall we have, and in the main in the condition +in which the men of that generation viewed it; as Canning viewed it, +when with death in his face he paced its length on Peel’s arm, and +suspecting, perhaps, that they two would meet no more, proved to all +men the good-will he bore his rival. Those among us whose memories go +back a quarter of a century, and who can recall its aspect in +term-time, with three score barristers parading its length, and thrice +as many suitors and attorneys darting over its pavement—all under the +lofty roof which has no rival in Europe—will be able to picture it as +Vaughan saw it when he entered. To the bustle attending the courts of +law was added on this occasion the supreme excitement of the day. In +every corner, on the steps of every court, eager groups wrangled and +debated; while above the hubbub of argument and the trampling of feet, +the voices of ushers rose monotonously, calling a witness or enjoining +order. + +Vaughan paused beside the cake-stall at the door and surveyed the +scene. As he stood, one of two men who were pacing near saw him, and +with a whispered word left his companion and came towards him. + +“Mr. Vaughan,” he said, extending his hand with bland courtesy, “I hope +you are well. Can I do anything for you? We are dissolved, but a frank +is a frank for all that—to-day.” + +“No, I thank you,” Vaughan answered. “The truth is, I had an +appointment with the Chancellor for this afternoon. But I suppose he +will not see me now.” + +The other’s eyebrows met, with the result that his face looked less +bland. He was a small man, with keen dark eyes and bushy grey whiskers, +and an air of hawk-like energy which sixty years had not tamed. He wore +the laced coat of a sergeant at law, powdered on the shoulders, as if +he had but lately and hurriedly cast off his wig. “Good G—d!” he said. +“With the Chancellor!” And then, pulling himself up, “But I +congratulate you. A student at the Bar, as I believe you are, Mr. +Vaughan, who has appointments with the Chancellor, has fortune indeed +within his grasp.” + +Vaughan laughed. “I fear not,” he said. “There are appointments and +appointments, Sergeant Wathen. Mine is not of a professional nature.” + +Still the sergeant’s face, do what he would, looked grim. He had his +reasons for disliking what he heard. “Indeed!” he said drily. “Indeed! +But I must not detain you. Your time,” with a faint note of sarcasm, +“is valuable.” And with a civil salutation the two parted. + +Wathen went back to his companion. “Talk of the Old One!” he said. “Do +you know who that is?” + +“No,” the other answered. They had been discussing the coming election. +“Who is it?” + +“One of my constituents.” + +His friend laughed. “Oh, come,” he said. “I thought you had but one, +sergeant—old Vermuyden.” + +“Only one,” Wathen answered, his eyes travelling from group to group, +“who counts; or rather, who did count. But thirteen who poll. And +that’s one of them.” He glanced frowning in the direction which Vaughan +had taken. “And what do you think his business is here, confound him?” + +“What?” + +“An appointment with old Wicked Shifts.” + +“With the Chancellor? Pheugh!” + +“Ay,” the sergeant answered morosely, “you may whistle. There’s some +black business on foot, you may depend upon it. And ten to one it’s +about my seat. He’s a broom,” he continued, tugging at the whiskers +which the late King had stamped with the imprimatur of fashion, “that +will make a clean sweep of us if we don’t take care. Whatever he does, +there’s something behind it. Some bedchamber plot, or some intrigue to +get A. out and put B. in. If it was a charwoman’s place he wanted, he’d +not ask for it and get it. That wouldn’t please him. But he’d tunnel +and tunnel and tunnel—and so he’d get it.” + +“Still,” the other replied, with secret amusement—for he had no seat, +and the woes of our friends, especially our better-placed friends, have +their comic side—“I thought that you had a safe thing, Wathen? That old +Vermuyden’s nomination at Chippinge was as good as an order on the Bank +of England?” + +“It was,” Wathen answered drily. “But with the country wild for the +Bill, there’s no saying what may happen anywhere. Safe!” he continued, +with a snarl. “Was there ever a safer seat than Westbury? Or a man who +had a place in better order than old Lopes, who owned it, and died last +month; taken from the evil to come, Jekyll said, for he never could +have existed in a world without rotten boroughs! It’s not far from +Chippinge, so I know—know it well. And I tell you his system was +beautiful—beautiful! Yet when Peel was there—after he had rattled on +the Catholic Claims and been thrown out at Oxford, Lopes made way for +him, you remember?—he would not have got in, no, by G—d, he wouldn’t +have got in if there had been a man against him. And the state in which +the country was then, though there was a bit of a Protestant cry, too, +wasn’t to compare with what it will be now. That man”—he shook his fist +stealthily in the direction of the Chancellor’s Court—“has lighted a +fire in England that will never be put out till it has consumed King, +Lords, and Commons—ay, every stick and stone of the old Constitution. +You take my word for it. And to think—to think,” he added still more +savagely, “that it is the Whigs have done this. The Whigs! who own more +than half the land in the country; who are prouder and stiffer than old +George the Third himself; who wouldn’t let you nor me into their +Cabinet to save our lives. By the Lord,” he concluded with gusto, +“they’ll soon learn the difference!” + +“In the meantime—there’ll be dead cats and bad eggs flying, you think?” + +Wathen groaned. “If that were the end of it,” he said, “I’d not mind.” + +“Still, with it all, you are pretty safe, I suppose?” + +“With that fellow closeted with the Chancellor? No, no!” + +“Who is the young spark!” the other asked carelessly. “He looked a +decentish kind of fellow. A little of the prig, perhaps.” + +“He’s that!” Wathen answered. “A d——d prig. What’s more, a cousin of +old Vermuyden’s. And what’s worse, his heir. That’s why they put him in +the corporation and made him one of the thirteen. Thought the vote safe +in the family, you see? And cheaper?” He winked. “But there’s no love +lost between him and old Sir Robert. A bed for a night once a year, and +one day in the season among the turnips, and glad to see your back, my +lad! That’s about the position. Now I wonder if Brougham is going to +try—but Lord! there’s no guessing what is in that man’s head! He’s +fuller of mischief than an egg of meat!” + +The other was about to answer when one of the courts, in which a case +of some difficulty had caused a late sitting, discharged its noisy, +wrangling, perspiring crowd. The two stepped aside to avoid the +evasion, and did not resume their talk. Wathen’s friend made his way +out by the main door near which they had been standing; while the +sergeant, with looks which mirrored the gloom that a hundred Tory faces +wore on that day, betook himself to the robing-room. There he happened +upon another unfortunate. They fell to talking, and their talk ran +naturally upon the Chancellor, upon old Grey’s folly in letting himself +be led by the nose by such a rogue; finally, upon the mistakes of their +own party. They differed on the last topic, and in that natural and +customary state we may leave them. + + + + +II +THE SPIRIT OF THE STORM + + +The Court of Chancery, the preserve for nearly a quarter of a century +of Eldon and Delay, was the farthest from the entrance on the +right-hand side of the Hall—a situation which enabled the Chancellor to +pass easily to that other seat of his labours, the Woolsack. Two steps +raised the Tribunals of the Common Law above the level of the Hall. But +as if to indicate that this court was not the seat of anything so +common as law, but was the shrine of that more august conception, +Patronage, and the altar to which countless divines of the Church of +England looked with unwinking devotion, a flight of six or eight steps +led up to the door. + +The privacy thus secured had been much to the taste of Lord Eldon. +Doubt and delay flourish best in a close and dusty atmosphere; and if +ever there was a man to whom that which was was right, it was “Old +Bags.” Nor had Lord Lyndhurst, his immediate successor, quarrelled with +an arrangement which left him at liberty to devote his time to society +and his beautiful wife. But the man who now sat in the marble chair was +of another kind from either of these. His worst enemy could not lay +dulness to his charge; nor could he who lectured the Whitbreads on +brewing, who explained their art to opticians, who vied with Talleyrand +in the knowledge of French literature, who wrote eighty articles for +the first twenty numbers of the “Edinburgh Review,” be called a +sluggard. Confident of his powers, Brougham loved to display them; and +the wider the arena the better he was pleased. His first sitting had +been graced by the presence of three royal dukes, a whole Cabinet, and +a score of peers in full dress. Having begun thus auspiciously, he was +not the man to vegetate in the gloom of a dry-as-dust court, or to be +content with an audience of suitors, whom equity, blessed word, had +long stripped of their votes. + +Again and again during the last six months, by brilliant declamations +or by astounding statement, he had filled his court to the last inch. +The lions in the Tower, the tombs in the Abbey, the New Police—all were +deserted; and countryfolk flocked to Westminster, not to hear the +judgments of the highest legal authority in the land, but to see with +their own eyes the fugleman of reform—the great orator, whose voice, +raised at the Yorkshire election, had found an echo that still +thundered in the ears and the hearts of England. + +“I am for Reform!” he had said in the castle yard of York; and the +people of England had answered: “So are we; and we will have it, or——” + +The lacuna they had filled, not with words, but with facts stronger +than words—with the flames of Kentish farmhouses and Wiltshire +factories; with political unions counting their numbers by scores of +thousands; with midnight drillings and vague and sullen murmurings; +above all, with the mysterious terror of some great change which was to +come—a terror that shook the most thoughtless and affected even the +Duke, as men called the Duke of Wellington in that day. For was not +every crown on the Continent toppling? + +Vaughan did not suppose that, in view of the startling event of the +day, he would be admitted. But the usher, who occupied a high stool +outside the great man’s door, no sooner read his card than he slid to +the ground. “I think his lordship will see you, sir,” he murmured +blandly; and he disappeared. + +He was back on the instant, and, beckoning to Vaughan to follow him, he +proceeded some paces along a murky corridor, which the venerable form +of Eldon seemed still to haunt. Opening a door, he stood aside. + +The room which Vaughan saw before him was stately and spacious, and +furnished with quiet richness. A deep silence, intensified by the fact +that the room had no windows, but was lighted from above, reigned in +it—and a smell of law-calf. Here and there on a bookcase or a pedestal +stood a marble bust of Bacon, of Selden, of Blackstone. And for a +moment Vaughan fancied that these were its only occupants. On advancing +further, however, he discovered two persons, who were writing busily at +separate side-tables; and one of them looked up and spoke. + +“Your pardon, Mr. Vaughan!” he said. “One moment, if you please!” + +He was almost as good as his word, for less than a minute later he +threw down the pen, and rose—a gaunt figure in a black frockcoat, and +with a black stock about his scraggy neck—and came to meet his visitor. + +“I fear that I have come at an untimely moment, my lord,” Vaughan said, +a little awed in spite of himself by what he knew of the man. + +But the other’s frank address put him at once at his ease. “Politics +pass, Mr. Vaughan,” the Chancellor answered lightly, “but science +remains.” He did not explain, as he pointed to a seat, that he loved, +above all things, to produce startling effects; to dazzle by the ease +with which he flung off one part and assumed another. + +Henry Brougham—so, for some time after his elevation to the peerage, he +persisted in signing himself—was at this time at the zenith of his +life, as of his fame. Tall, but lean and ungainly, with a long neck and +sloping shoulders, he had one of the strangest faces which genius has +ever worn. His clownish features, his high cheek-bones, and queer +bulbous nose are familiar to us; for, something exaggerated by the +caricaturist, they form week by week the trailing mask which mars the +cover of “Punch.” Yet was the face, with all its ugliness, singularly +mobile; and the eyes, the windows of that restless and insatiable soul, +shone, sparkled, laughed, wept, with incredible brilliance. That which +he did not know, that which his mind could not perform—save sit still +and be discreet—no man had ever discovered. And it was the knowledge of +this, the sense of the strange and almost uncanny versatility of the +man, which for a moment overpowered Vaughan. + +The Chancellor seated himself opposite his visitor, and placed a hand +on each of his wide-spread knees. He smiled. + +“My friend,” he said, “I envy you.” + +Vaughan coloured shyly. “Your lordship has little cause,” he answered. + +“Great cause,” was the reply, “great cause! For as you are I was—and,” +he chuckled, as he rocked himself to and fro, “I have not found life +very empty or very unpleasant. But it was not to tell you this that I +asked you to wait on me, Mr. Vaughan, as you may suppose. Light! It is +a singular thing that you at the outset of your career—even as I thirty +years ago at the same point of mine—should take up such a parergon, and +alight upon the same discovery.” + +“I do not think I understand.” + +“In your article on the possibility of the permanence of reflection—to +which I referred in my letter, I think?” + +“Yes, my lord, you did.” + +“You have restated a fact which I maintained for the first time more +than thirty years ago! In my paper on colours, read before the Royal +Society in—I think it was ’96.” + +Vaughan stared. His colour rose slowly. “Indeed?” he said, in a tone +from which he vainly strove to banish incredulity. + +“You have perhaps read the paper?” + +“Yes, I have.” + +The Chancellor chuckled. “And found nothing of the kind in it?” he +said. + +Vaughan coloured still more deeply. He felt that the position was +unpleasant. “Frankly, my lord, if you ask me, no.” + +“And you think yourself,” with a grin, “the first discoverer?” + +“I did.” + +Brougham sprang like a boy to his feet, and whisked his long, lank body +to a distant bookshelf. Thence he took down a much-rubbed manuscript +book. As he returned he opened this at a place already marked, and, +laying it on the table, beckoned to the young man to approach. “Read +that,” he said waggishly, “and confess, young sir, that there were +chiefs before Agamemnon.” + +Vaughan stooped over the book, and having read looked up in perplexity. +“But this passage,” he said, “was not in the paper read before the +Royal Society in ’96?” + +“In the paper read? No. Nor yet in the paper printed? There, too, you +are right. And why? Because a sapient dunder-head who was in authority +requested me to omit this passage. He did not believe that light +passing through a small hole in the window-shutter of a darkened room +impresses a view of external objects on white paper; nor that, as I +suggested, the view might be made permanent if cast instead on ivory +rubbed with nitrate of silver!” + +Vaughan was dumbfounded, and perhaps a little chagrined. “It is most +singular!” he said. + +“Do you wonder now that I could not refrain from sending for you?” + +“I do not, indeed.” + +The Chancellor patted him kindly on the shoulder, and by a gesture made +him resume his seat. “No, I could not refrain,” he continued; “the +coincidence was too remarkable. If you come to sit where I sit, the +chance will be still more singular.” + +Vaughan coloured with pleasure. “Alas!” he said, smiling, “one swallow, +my lord, does not made a summer.” + +“Ah, my friend,” with a benevolent look. “But I know more of you than +you think. You were in the service, I hear, and left it. _Cedant arma +togæ_, eh?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, I, too, after a fashion. Thirty years ago I served a gun with +Professor Playfair in the Volunteer Artillery of Edinburgh. God knows,” +he continued complacently, “if I had gone on with it, where I should +have landed! Where the Duke is, perhaps! More surprising things have +happened.” + +Vaughan did not know whether to take this, which was gravely and even +sentimentally spoken, for jest or earnest. He did not speak. And +Brougham, seated in his favourite posture, with a hand on either knee, +his lean body upright, and the skirts of his black coat falling to the +floor on either side of him, resumed. “I hear, too, that you have done +well at the Academic,” he said, “and on the right side, Mr. Vaughan. +Light? Ay, always light, my friend, always light! Let that be our +motto. For myself,” he continued earnestly, “I have taken it in hand +that this poor country shall never lack light again; and by God’s help +and Johnny Russell’s Bill I’ll bring it about! And not the +phosphorescent light of rotten boroughs and corrupt corporations, Mr. +Vaughan. No, nor the blaze of burning stacks, kindled by wretched, +starving, ignorant—ay, above all, Mr. Vaughan, ignorant men! But the +light of education, the light of a free Press, the light of good +government and honest representation; so that, whatever they lack, +henceforth they shall have voices and means and ways to make their +wants known. You agree with me? But I know you do, for I hear how well +you have spoken on that side. Mr. Cornelius,” turning and addressing +the gentleman who still continued to write at his table, “who was it +told us of Mr. Vaughan’s speech at the Academic?” + +“I don’t know,” Mr. Cornelius answered gruffly. + +“No?” the Chancellor said, not a whit put out. “He never knows +anything!” And then, throwing one knee over the other, he regarded +Vaughan with closer attention. “Mr. Vaughan,” he said, “have you ever +thought of entering Parliament?” + +Vaughan’s heart bounded, and his face betrayed his emotions. Good +heavens, was the Chancellor about to offer him a Government seat? He +scarcely knew what to expect or what to say. The prospect, suddenly +opened, blinded him. He muttered that he had not as yet thought of it. + +“You have no connection,” Brougham continued, “who could help you to a +seat? For if so, now is the time. Presently there will be a Reformed +Parliament and a crowd of new men, and the road will be blocked by the +throng of aspirants. You are not too young. Palmerston was not so old +when Perceval offered him a seat in the Cabinet.” + +The words, the tone, the assumption that such things were for him—that +he had but to hold out his hand and they would fall into it—dropped +like balm into the young man’s soul. Yet he was not sure that the other +was serious, and he made a tremendous effort to hide the emotion he +felt. “I am afraid,” he said, with a forced smile, “that I, my lord, am +not Lord Palmerston.” + +“No?” Brougham answered with a faint sneer. “But not much the worse for +that, perhaps. So that if you have any connection who commands a seat, +now is the time.” + +Vaughan shook his head. “I have none,” he said, “except my cousin, Sir +Robert Vermuyden.” + +“Vermuyden of Chippinge?” the Chancellor exclaimed, in a voice of +surprise. + +“The same, my lord.” + +“Good G—d!” Brougham cried. It was not a mealy-mouthed age. And he +leant back and stared at the young man. “You don’t mean to say that he +is your cousin?” + +“Yes.” + +The Chancellor laughed grimly. “Oh, dear, dear!” he said. “I am afraid +that he won’t help us much. I remember him in the House—an old high and +dry Tory. I am afraid that, with your opinions, you’ve not much to +expect of him. Still—Mr. Cornelius,” to the gentleman at the table, +“oblige me with Oldfield’s ‘House of Commons,’ the Wiltshire volume, +and the private Borough List. Thank you. Let me see—ah, here it is!” + +He proceeded to read in a low tone, skipping from heading to heading: +“Chippinge, in the county of Wilts, has returned two members since the +twenty-third of Edward III. Right of election in the Alderman and the +twelve capital burgesses, who hold their places for life. Number of +voters, thirteen. Patron, Sir Robert Vermuyden, Bart., of Stapylton +House. + +“Umph, as I thought,” he continued, laying down the book. “Now what +does the list say?” And, taking it in turn from his knee, he read: + +“In Schedule A for total disfranchisement, the population under 2000. +Present members, Sergeant Wathen and Mr. Cooke, on nomination of Sir +Robert Vermuyden; the former to oblige Lord Eldon, the latter by +purchase. Both opponents of Bill; nothing to be hoped from them. The +Bowood interest divides the corporation in the proportion of four to +nine, but has not succeeded in returning a member since the election of +1741—on petition. The heir to the Vermuyden interest is——” He broke off +sharply, but continued to study the page. Presently he looked over it. + +“Are you the Mr. Vaughan who inherits?” he asked gravely. + +“The greater part of the estates—yes.” + +Brougham laid down the book and rubbed his chin. “Under those +circumstances,” he said, after musing a while, “don’t you think that +your cousin could be persuaded to return you as an independent member?” + +Vaughan shook his head with decision. + +“The matter is important,” the Chancellor continued slowly, and as if +he weighed his words. “I cannot precisely make a promise, Mr. Vaughan; +but if your cousin could see the question of the Bill in another light, +I have little doubt that any object in reason could be secured for him. +If, for instance, it should be necessary in passing the Bill through +the Upper House to create new—eh?” + +He paused, looking at Vaughan, who laughed outright. “Sir Robert would +not cross the park to save my life, my lord,” he said. “And I am sure +he would rather hang outside the White Lion in Chippinge marketplace +than resign his opinions or his borough!” + +“He’ll lose the latter, whether or no,” Brougham answered, with a touch +of irritation. “Was there not some trouble about his wife? I think I +remember something.” + +“They were separated many years ago.” + +“She is alive, is she not?” + +“Yes.” + +Brougham saw, perhaps, that the subject was not palatable, and he +abandoned it. With an abrupt change of manner he flung the books from +him with the recklessness of a boy, and raised his sombre figure to its +height. “Well, well,” he said, “I hoped for better things; but I fear, +as Tommy Moore sings— + +“_He’s pledged himself, though sore bereft_ + +_Of ways and means of ruling ill_, + +_To make the most of what are left_ + +_And stick to all that’s rotten still!_ + + +And by the Lord, I don’t say that I don’t respect him. I respect every +man who votes honestly as he thinks.” And grandly, with appropriate +gestures, he spouted: + +“_Who spurns the expedient for the right_ + +_Scorns money’s all-attractive charms,_ + +_And through mean crowds that clogged his flight_ + +_Has nobly cleared his conquering arms_. + + +That’s the Attorney-General’s. He turns old Horace well, doesn’t he?” + +Vaughan coloured. Young and candid, he could not bear the thought of +taking credit where he did not deserve it. “I fear,” he said awkwardly, +“that would bear rather hardly on me if we had a contest at Chippinge, +my lord. Fortunately it is unlikely.” + +“How would it bear hardly on you?” Brougham asked, with interest. + +“I have a vote.” + +“You are one of the twelve burgesses?” in a tone of surprise. + +“Yes, by favour of Sir Robert.” + +The Chancellor, smiling gaily, shook his head. “No,” he said, “no; I do +not believe you. You do yourself an injustice. Leave that sort of thing +to older men, to Lyndhurst, if you will, d——d Jacobin as he is, +preening himself in Tory feathers, and determined whoever’s in he’ll +not be out; or to Peel. Leave it! And believe me you’ll not repent it. +I,” he continued loftily, “have seen fifty years of life, Mr. Vaughan, +and lived every year of them and every day of them, and I tell you that +the thing is too dearly bought at that price.” + +Vaughan felt himself rebuked; but he made a fight. “And yet,” he said, +“are there no circumstances, my lord, in which such a vote may be +justified?” + +“A vote against your conscience—to oblige someone?” + +“Well, yes.” + +“A Jesuit might justify it. There is nothing which a Jesuit could not +justify, I suppose. But though no man was stronger for the Catholic +Claims than I was, I do not hold a Jesuit to be a man of honour. And +that is where the difference lies. There! But,” he continued, with an +abrupt change from the lofty to the confidential, “let me tell you a +fact, Mr. Vaughan. In ’29—was it in April or May of ’29, Mr. +Cornelius?” + +“I don’t know to what you refer,” Mr. Cornelius grunted. + +“To be sure you don’t,” the Chancellor replied, without any loss of +good-humour; “but in April or May of ’29, Mr. Vaughan, the Duke offered +me the Rolls, which is £7000 a year clear for life, and compatible with +a seat in the Commons. It would have suited me better in every way than +the Seals and the House of Lords. It was the prize, to be frank with +you, at which I was aiming; and as at that time the Duke was making his +right-about-face on the Catholic question, and was being supported by +our side, I might have accepted it with an appearance of honour and +consistency. But I did not accept it. I did not, though my refusal +injured myself, and did no one any good. But there, I am chattering.” +He broke off, with a smile, and held out his hand. “However, + +“_Est et fideli tuta silentio +Merces!_ + + +You won’t forget that, I am certain. And you may be sure I shall +remember you. I am pleased to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Vaughan. +Decide on the direction, politics or the law, in which you mean to +push, and some day let me know. In the meantime follow the light! +Light, more light! Don’t let them lure you back into old Giant +Despair’s cave, or choke you with all the dead bones and rottenness and +foulness they keep there, and that, by God’s help, I’ll sweep out of +the world before it’s a year older!” + +And still talking, he saw Vaughan, who was murmuring his +acknowledgments, to the door. + +When that had closed on the young man Brougham came back, and, throwing +wide his arms, yawned prodigiously. “Now,” he said, “if Lansdowne +doesn’t effect something in that borough, I am mistaken.” + +“Why,” Cornelius muttered curtly, “do you trouble about the borough? +Why don’t you leave those things to the managers?” + +“Why? Why, first because the Duke did that last year, and you see the +result—he’s out and we’re in. Secondly, Corny, because I am like the +elephant’s trunk, that can tear down a tree or pick up a pin.” + +“But in picking up a pin,” the other grunted, “it picks up a deal of +something else.” + +“Of what?” + +“Dirt!” + +“Old Pharisee!” the Chancellor cried. + +Mr. Cornelius threw down his pen, and, turning in his seat, opened fire +on his companion. “Dirt!” he reiterated sternly. “And for what? What +will be the end of it when you have done all for them, clean and dirty? +They’ll not keep you. They use you now, but you’re a new man. What, +you—_you_ think to deal on equal terms with the Devonshires and the +Hollands, the Lansdownes and the Russells! Who used Burke, and when +they had squeezed him tossed him aside? Who used Tierney till they wore +him and his fortune out? Who would have used Canning, but he did not +trust them, and so they worried him—though they were all dumb dogs +before him—to his death. Ay, and presently, when you have served their +turn, they will cast you aside.” + +“They will not dare!” Brougham cried. + +“Pshaw! You are Samson, but you are shorn of your strength. They have +been too clever for you. While you were in the Commons they did not +dare. Harry Brougham was their master. So they lured you, poor fool, +into the trap, into the Lords, where you may spout, and spout, and +spout, and it will have as much effect as the beating of a bird’s wings +against the bars of its cage!” + +“They will not dare!” Brougham reiterated. + +“You will see. They will throw you aside.” + +Brougham walked up and down the room, his eyes glittering, his quaint, +misshapen features working passionately. + +“They will throw you aside,” Mr. Cornelius repeated, watching him +keenly. “You are a man of the people. You are in earnest. You are +honestly in favour of retrenchment, of education, of reform. But to +these Whigs—save and except to Althorp, who is that _lusus naturæ_, an +honest man, and to Johnny Russell, who is a fanatic—these are but +catchwords, stalking-horses, the means by which, after the dull old +fashion of their fathers and their grandfathers and their +great-grandfathers, they think to creep into power. Reform, if reform +means the representation of the people by the people, the rule of the +people by the people, or by any but the old landed families—why, the +very thought would make them sick!” + +Brougham stopped in his pacing to and fro. “You are right,” he said +sombrely. + +“You acknowledge it?” + +“I have known it—here!” And, drawing himself to his full height, he +clapped his hand to his breast. “I have known it here for months. Ay, +and though I have sworn to myself that they would not dare to treat me +as they treated Burke, and Sheridan, and Tierney, and as they would +have treated Canning, I knew it was a lie, my lad; I knew they would. +My mother—ay, my old mother, sitting by the chimneyside, out of the +world there, knew it, and warned me.” + +“Then why did you go into the Lords?” Cornelius asked. “Why be lured +into the gilded cage, where you are helpless?” + +“Because, mark you,” Brougham replied sternly, “if I had not, they had +not brought in this Bill. And we had waited, and the people had waited, +another twenty years, maybe!” + +“And so you went into the prison-house shorn of your strength?” + +Brougham looked at him with a gleam of ferocity in his brilliant eyes. +“Ay,” he said, “I did. And by that act,” he continued, stretching his +long arms to their farthest extent, “mark you, mark you, never forget +it, I avenged all—not only all I may suffer at their hands, but all +that every slave who ever ground in their mill has suffered, the +slights, the grudged meticulous office, the one finger lent to +shake—all, all! I went into the prison-house, but when I did so I laid +my hands upon the pillars. And their house falls, falls. I hear it—I +hear it falling even now about their ears. They may throw me aside. But +the house is falling, and the great Whig families—pouf!—they are not in +the heaven above, or in the earth beneath, or in the water that is +under the earth. You call Reform their stalking-horse? Ay, but it is +into their own Troy that they have dragged it; and the clatter of +strife which you hear is the death-knell of their power. They have let +in the waves of the sea, and dream fondly that they can say where they +shall stop and what they shall not touch. They may as well speak to the +tide when it flows; they may as well command the North Sea in its rage; +they may as well bid Hume be silent, or Wetherell be sane. You say I am +spent, Cornelius; and so I am, it may be. I know not. But this I know. +Never again will the families say ‘Go!’ and he goeth, and ‘Do!’ and he +doeth, as in the old world that is passing—passing even at this minute, +passing with the Bill. No,” he continued, flinging out his arms with +passion; “for when they thought to fool me, and to shut me dumb among +dumb things behind the gilded wires, I knew—I knew that I was dragging +down their house upon their heads.” + +Mr. Cornelius stared at him. “By G—d!” he said, “I believe you are +right. I believe that you are a cleverer man than I thought you were.” + + + + +III +TWO LETTERS + + +The Hall was empty when Vaughan came forth; and as the young man strode +down its echoing length there was nothing save his own footsteps on the +pavement to distract his mind from the scene in which he had taken +part. He was excited and a little uplifted, as was natural. The +promises made, if they were to be counted as promises, were of the +vague and indefinite character which it is as easy to evade as to +fulfil. But the Chancellor had spoken to him as to an equal and treated +him as one who had but to choose a career to succeed in it, and to win +the highest prizes which it could bestow. This was flattering; nor was +it to a young man who had little experience of the world, less +flattering to be deemed the owner of a stake in the country, and a +person through whom offers of the most confidential and important +character might be properly made. + +He walked to his rooms in Bury Street with a pleasant warmth at his +heart. And at the Academic that evening, where owing to the events of +the day there was a fuller house than had ever been known, and a +fiercer debate, he championed the Government and upheld the dissolution +in a speech which not only excelled his previous efforts, but was a +surprise to those who knew him best. Afterwards he recognised that his +peroration had been only a paraphrase of Brougham’s impassioned “Light! +More Light!” and that the whole owed more than he cared to remember to +the same source. But, after all, why not? It was not to be expected +that he could at once rise to the heights of the greatest of living +orators. And it was much that he had made a hit; that as he left the +room he was followed by all eyes. + +Nor did a qualm worthy of the name trouble him until the morning of the +27th, five days later—a Wednesday. Then he found beside his breakfast +plate two letters bearing the postmark of Chippinge. + +“What’s afoot?” he muttered. But he had a prevision before he broke the +seal of the first. And the contents bore out his fears. The letter ran +thus: + +“Stapylton, Chippinge. + +“Dear Sir—I make no apology for troubling you in a matter in which your +interest is second only to mine and which is also of a character to +make apology beside the mark. It has not been necessary to require your +presence at Chippinge upon the occasion of former elections. But the +unwholesome ferment into which the public mind has been cast by the +monstrous proposals of Ministers has nowhere been more strongly +exemplified than here, by the fact that, for the first time in half a +century, the right of our family to nominate the members for the +Borough is challenged. Since the year 1783 no serious attempt has been +made to disturb the Vermuyden interest. And I have yet to learn +that—short of this anarchical Bill, which will sweep away all the +privileges attaching to property—such an attempt can be made with any +chance of success. + +“I am informed nevertheless that Lord Lansdowne, presuming on a small +connection in the Corporation, intends to send at least one candidate +to the poll. Our superiority is so great that I should not, even so, +trouble you to be present, were it not an object to discourage these +attempts by the exhibition of our full strength, and were it not still +more important to do so at a time when the existence of the Borough +itself is at stake. + +“Isaac White will apprise you of the arrangements to be made and will +keep you informed of all matters which you should know. Be good enough +to let Mapp learn the day and hour of your arrival, and he will see +that the carriage and servants meet the coach at Chippenham. Probably +you will come by the York House. It is the most convenient. + +“I have the honour to be + +“Your sincere kinsman, + +“Robert Vermuyden. + +“To Arthur Vermuyden Vaughan, Esquire, +“17 Bury Street, St. James’s.” + +Vaughan’s face grew long, and his fork hung suspended above his plate, +as he perused the old gentleman’s epistle. When all was read he laid it +down, and whistled. “Here’s a fix!” he muttered. And he thought of his +speech at the Academic; and for the first time he was sorry that he had +made it. “Here’s a fix!” he repeated. “What’s to be done?” + +He was too much disturbed to go on with his breakfast, and he tore open +the other letter. It was from Isaac White, his cousin’s attorney and +agent. It ran thus: + +“High Street, Chippinge, + +“April 25, 1831. + +“_Chippinge Parliamentary Election_. + + +“Sir.—I have the honour to inform you, as upon former occasions, that +the writ in the above is expected and that Tuesday the 3rd day of May +will be appointed for the nomination. It has not been needful to +trouble you heretofore, but on this occasion I have reason to believe +that Sir Robert Vermuyden’s candidates will be opposed by nominees in +the Bowood Interest, and I have therefore, honoured Sir, to intimate +that your attendance will oblige. + +“The Vermuyden dinner will take place at the White Lion on Monday the +2nd, when the voters and their friends will sit down at 5 P. M. The +Alderman will preside, and Sir Robert hopes that you will be present. +The procession to the Hustings will leave the White Lion at ten on +Tuesday the 3d, and a poll, if demanded, will be taken after the usual +proceedings. + +“Any change in the order of the arrangements will be punctually +communicated to you. + +“I have the honour to be, Sir, + +“Your humble obedient servant, + +“Isaac White. + + +“Arthur V. Vaughan, Esq., +(late H.M.’s 14th Dragoons), + +“17 Bury Street, London.” + + +Vaughan flung the letter down and resumed his breakfast moodily. It was +a piece of shocking ill-fortune, that was all there was to be said. + +Not that he really regretted his speech! It had committed him a little +more deeply, but morally he had been committed before. It is a poor +conscience that is not scrupulous in youth; and he was convinced, or +almost convinced, that if he had never seen the Chancellor he would +still have found it impossible to support Sir Robert’s candidates. + +For he was sincere in his support of the Bill; a little because it +flattered his intellect to show himself above the prejudices of the +class to which he belonged; more, because he was of an age to view with +resentment the abuses which the Bill promised to sweep away. A +Government truly representative of the people, such as this Bill must +create, would not tolerate the severities which still disgraced the +criminal law. It would not suffer the heartless delays which made the +name of Chancery synonymous with ruin. Under it spring-guns and +man-traps would no longer scare the owner from his own coverts. The +poor would be taught, the slave would be freed. Above all, whole +classes of the well-to-do would no longer be deprived of a voice in the +State. No longer would the rights of one small class override the +rights of all other classes. + +He was at an age, in a word, when hope invites to change; and he was +for the Bill. “Ay, by Jove, I am!” he muttered, casting the die in +fancy, “and I’ll not be set down! It will be awkward! It will be +odious! But I must go through with it!” + +Still, he was sorry. He sprang from the class which had profited by the +old system—that system under which some eight-score men returned a +majority of the House of Commons. He had himself the prospect of +returning two members. He could, therefore enter, to a degree—at times +to a greater degree than he liked,—into the feelings with which the +old-fashioned and the interested, the prudent and the timid, viewed a +change so great and so radical. But his main objection was personal. He +hated the necessity which forced him to cross the wishes and to trample +on the prejudices of an old man whom he regarded with respect, and even +with reverence: a solitary old man, the head of his family, to whom he +owed the very vote he must withhold; and who would hardly, even by the +logic of facts, be brought to believe that one of his race and breeding +could turn against him. + +Still it must be done; the die was cast. The sooner, therefore, it was +done, the better. He would go down to Stapylton at once, while his +courage was high; and he would tell Sir Robert. Then, whatever came of +it, he would have nothing with which to reproach himself. In the heat +of resolve he felt very brave and very virtuous; and the moment he rose +from breakfast he went to the coach office, and finding that the York +House, the fashionable Bath, coach was full for the following day, he +booked an outside seat on the Bristol White Lion Coach, which also +passed through Chippenham. From Chippenham, Chippinge is distant a +short nine miles. + +That evening proved to be memorable; for the greater part of London was +illuminated by the Reformers in honour of the Dissolution; not without +rioting and drunkenness, violence on the part of the mob, and rage on +the side of the minority. When Vaughan passed through the streets +before six next morning, on his way to the White Horse Cellars, traces +of the night’s work still remained; and where the early sun fell on +them showed ugly and grisly and menacing enough. A moderate reformer +might well have blenched at the sight, and questioned—as many did +question—whither this was tending. But Vaughan was late; the coach, one +out of three which were waiting to start, was horsed. He had only eyes, +as he came hurriedly up, for the seat he had reserved behind the +coachman. + +It was empty, and so far his fears were vain. But it annoyed him to +find that his next-door neighbour was a young lady travelling alone. +She had the seat on the near side. + +He climbed up quickly, and to reach his place had to pass before her. +The space between the seat and the coachman’s box was narrow, and as +she rose to allow him to pass she glanced up. Their eyes met; Vaughan +raised his hat in mute apology, and took his seat. He said no word. But +a miracle had happened, as miracles do happen, when the world is young. +In his mind, as he sat down, he was not repeating, “What a nuisance!” +but was saying, “What eyes! What a face! And, oh, heaven, what beauty! +What blush-rose cheeks! What a lovely mouth!” + +_For ’twas from eyes of liquid blue_ + +_A host of quivered Cupids flew_, + +_And now his heart all bleeding lies_ + +_Beneath the army of the eyes_. + + +He gazed gravely at the group of watermen and night-birds who stood in +the roadway below waiting to see the coach start. And apparently he was +unmoved. Apparently he was the same Arthur Vermuyden Vaughan who had +passed round the boot of the coach to reach the ladder and his place. +But he was not the same. His thoughts were no longer querulous, full of +the haste he had made, and the breakfast he had to make; but of a pair +of gentle eyes which had looked for one instant into his, of a modest +face, sweet and shy, of a Quaker-like bonnet that ravished as no other +bonnet had ever ravished the most susceptible! + +He was still gazing at the group of loiterers, without seeing them, +when he became aware that an elderly woman plainly but respectably +dressed, who was standing by the forewheel of the coach, was looking up +at him, and trying to attract his attention. Seeing that she had caught +his eye she spoke: + +“Gentleman! Gentleman!” she said—but in a restrained voice, as if she +did not wish to be generally heard. “The young lady’s address! Please +say that she’s not left it! For the laundress!” + +He turned and made sure that there was only one of the sex on the +coach. Then—to be honest, not without a tiny flutter at his heart—he +addressed his neighbour. “Pardon me,” he said “but there is someone +below who wants your address.” + +She turned her eyes on him and his heart gave a perceptible jump. “My +address?” she echoed in a voice as sweet as her face. “I think that +there must be some mistake.” And then for a moment she looked at him as +if she doubted his intentions. + +The doubt was intolerable. “It’s for the laundress,” he said. “See, +there she is!” + +The girl rose to look over the side of the coach and perforce leant +across him. He saw that she had the slenderest waist and the prettiest +figure—he had every opportunity of seeing. Then the coach started with +a jerk, and if she had not steadied herself by laying her hand on his +shoulder, she must have relapsed on his knees. As it was she fell back +safely into her seat. She blushed. + +“I beg your pardon,” she said. + +But he was looking back. He had his eye on the woman, who remained in +the roadway, pointing after the coach and apparently asking a bystander +some question respecting it—perhaps where it stopped. “There she is!” +he exclaimed. “The woman with the umbrella! She is pointing after us.” + +His neighbour looked back but made nothing of it. “I know no one in +London,” she said a little primly—but with sweet primness—“except the +lady at whose house I stayed last night. And she is not able to leave +the house. It must be a mistake.” And with a gentle reserve which had +in it nothing of coquetry, she turned her face from him. + +Tantivy! Tantivy! Tantivy! They were away, bowling down the slope of +broad empty Piccadilly with the four nags trotting merrily, and the +April sun gilding the roofs of the houses, and falling aslant on the +verdure of the Green Park. Then merrily up the rise to Hyde Park +Corner, where the new Grecian Gates looked across at the equally new +arch on Constitution Hill; and where Apsley House, the residence of +“the Duke,” hiding with its new coat of Bath stone the old brick walls, +peeped through the trees at the statue of Achilles, erected ten years +back in the Duke’s honour. + +But, alas! what was this? Wherefore the crowd that even at this early +hour was large enough to fill the roadway and engage the attention of +the New Police? Vaughan looked and saw that every blind in Apsley House +was lowered, and that more than half of the windows were shattered. And +the little French gentleman who, to the coachman’s disgust, had taken +the box-seat, saw it too; nay, had seen it before, for he had come that +way to the coach office. He pointed to the silent, frowning mansion, +and snapped his fingers. + +“That is your reward for your Vellington!” he cried, turning in his +excitement to the two behind him. “And his lady, I am told, she lie +dead behind the broken vindows! They did that last night, your +_canaille!_ But he vill not forget! And when the refolution come—bah—he +vill have the iron hand! He vill be the Emperor and he vill repay!” + +No one answered; they treated him with silent British scorn. But they +one and all stared back at the scene, at the grim blind house in the +early sunshine, and the gaping crowd—as long as it remained in sight. +And some, no doubt, pondered the sight. But who, with a pretty face +beside him and a long day’s drive before him, a drive by mead and +shining river, over hill and down, under the walls of grey churches and +by many a marketplace and cheery inn-yard—who would long dwell on +changes past or to come? Or fret because in the womb of time might lie +that “refolution” of which the little Frenchman spoke? + + + + +IV +TANTIVY! TANTIVY! TANTIVY! + + +The White Lion coach was a light coach carrying only five passengers +outside, and merrily it swept by Kensington Church, whence the +travellers had a peep of Holland House—home of the Whigs—on their +right. And then in a twinkling they were swinging through Hammersmith, +where the ale-houses were opening and lusty girls were beginning to +deliver the milk. They passed through Turnham, through Brentford, +awakening everywhere the lazy with the music of their horn. They saw +Sion House on their left, and on their right had a glimpse of the +distant lawns of Osterley—the seat of Lady Jersey, queen of Almack’s, +and the Holland’s rival. Thence they travelled over Hounslow Heath, and +by an endless succession of mansions and lawns and orchards rich at +this season with apple blossom, and framing here and there a view of +the sparkling Thames. + +Vaughan breathed the air of spring and let his eyes dwell on scene +after scene; and he felt that it was good to be young and to sit behind +fast horses. He stole a glance at his neighbour and judged by the +brightness of her eyes, her parted lips and rapt expression, that she +felt with him. And he would have said something to her, but he could +think of nothing worthy of her. At last: + +“It’s a beautiful morning,” he ventured, and cursed his vapidity. + +But she did not seem to find bathos in the words. “It is, indeed!” she +answered with an enthusiasm which showed that she had forgotten her +doubts of him. “And,” she added simply, “I have not been on a coach +since I was a child!” + +“Not on a coach?” he cried in astonishment. + +“No. Except on the Clapham Stage. And that is not a coach like this!” + +“No, perhaps it is not,” he said. And he thought of her, and—oh, +Lord!—of Clapham! And yet after all there was something about her, +about her grey, dove-like dress and her gentleness, which smacked of +Clapham. He wondered who she was and what she was; and he was still +wondering when she turned her eyes on him, and, herself serenely +unconscious, sent a tiny shock through him. + +“I enjoy it the more,” she said, “because I—I am not usually free in +the morning.” + +“Oh, yes!” + +He could say no more; not another word. It was the stupidest thing in +the world, but he was tongue-tied. Seeing, however, that she had turned +from him and was absorbed in the view of Windsor rising stately amid +its trees, he had the cleverness to steal a glance at the neat little +basket which nestled at her feet. Surreptitiously he read the name on +the label. + +Mary Smith + +Miss Sibson’s + +Queen’s Square, Bristol. + +Mary Smith! Just Mary Smith! For the moment—it is not to be denied—he +was sobered by the name. It was not a romantic name. It was anything +but high-sounding. The author of “Tremayne” or “De Vere,” nay, the +author of “Vivian Grey”—to complete the trio of novels which were in +fashion at the time—would have turned up his nose at it. But what did +it matter? He desired no more than to make himself agreeable for the +few hours which he and this beautiful creature must pass together—in +sunshine and with the fair English landscape gliding by them. And that +being so, what need he reck what she called herself or whence she came. +It was enough that under her modest bonnet her ears were shells and her +eyes pure cornflowers, and that a few pleasant words, a little April +dalliance—if only that Frenchman would cease to peep behind him and +grin—would harm neither the one nor the other. + +But opportunities let slip do not always recur. As he turned to address +her they rose the ascent of Maidenhead Bridge, had on either hand a +glimpse of the river framed in pale green willows, and halted with +sweating horses before the King’s Arms. The boots advanced, amid a +group of gazers, and reared a ladder against the coach. “Half an hour +for breakfast, gentlemen!” he cried briskly. And through the windows of +the inn the travellers had a view of a long table whereat the +passengers on the up night-coach were already feasting. + +Our friends hastened to descend, but not so fast that Vaughan failed to +note the girl’s look of uncertainty, almost of distress. He guessed +that she was not at ease in a scene so bustling and so new to her. And +the thought gave him the courage that he needed. + +“Will you allow me to find you a place at the table?” he said. “I know +this inn and they know me. Guard, the ladder here!” And he took her +hand—oh, such a little, little hand!—and aided her in her descent. + +“Will you follow me?” he said. And he made way for her through the knot +of starers who cumbered the doorway. But once in the coffee-room he +had, cunning fellow, an inspiration. “Find this lady a seat!” he +commanded one of the attendant damsels. And when he had seen her seated +and the coffee set before her, he took himself deliberately to the +other end of the room. But whether he did so out of pure respect for +her feelings, or because he thought—and hugged himself on the +thought—that he would be missed, he did not himself know. Nor was he so +much a captive, though he counted how many rolls she ate, and looked a +dozen times to see if she looked at him, as to be unable to make an +excellent breakfast. + +The cheery, noisy throng at the tables, the brisk coming and going of +the servants, the smell of hot coffee, the open windows, and the +sunshine outside—where the fresh team of the up night-coach were +already tossing their heads impatiently—he wondered how it all struck +her, new to such scenes and to this side of life. And then while he +wondered he saw that she had risen from the table and was going out +with one of the waiting-maids. To reach the door she had to pass near +him; and, oh bliss, her eyes found him—and she blushed. She blushed, ye +heavens! He saw it clearly, and he sat thinking about it until, though +the coach was not due to start for another five minutes and he might +count on the guard summoning him, he was taken with fear lest some one +should steal his seat. And he hurried out. + +She was alone on the top of the coach, and a youthful waterman, one of +the crowd of loiterers below, was making eyes at her to the delight of +his companions. When Vaughan came forth, “I’d like to be him,” the wag +said, winking with vulgar gusto. And the bystanders grinned at the +good-looking young man who stood in the doorway buttoning up his +box-coat. The position might soon have become embarrassing to her if +not to him; but in the nick of time the eye of an inside passenger, who +had followed him through the doorway, alighted on a huge placard which +hung behind the coach. + +“Take that down!” the stranger cried loudly and pompously. And in a +moment all eyes were upon him. He prodded with his umbrella at the +offending bill. “Do you hear me? Take it down, sir,” he repeated, +turning to the guard. He was a portly man, reddish about the gills. +“Take it down, sir, or I will! It is disgraceful! I shall report this +conduct to your employers.” + +The guard hesitated. “It don’t harm you, sir,” he pleaded, anxious, it +was clear, to propitiate a man who would presently be good for half a +crown. + +“Don’t harm me?” the choleric gentleman retorted. “Don’t harm me? +What’s that to do with it? What right—what right have you, man, to put +party filth like that on a public vehicle in which I pay to ride? ‘The +Bill, the whole Bill, and nothing but the Bill!’ D—n the Bill, sir!” +with violence. “Take it down! Take it down at once!” he repeated, as if +his order closed the matter. + +The guard frowned at the placard, which bore, largely printed, the +legend which the gentleman found so little to his taste. He rubbed his +head. “Well, I don’t know, sir,” he said. And then—the crowd about the +coach was growing—he looked at the driver. “What do you say, Sammy?” he +asked. + +“Don’t touch it,” growled the driver, without deigning to turn his +head. + +“You see, sir, it is this way,” the guard ventured civilly. “Mr. Palmer +has a Whig meeting at Reading to-day and the town will be full. And if +we don’t want rotten eggs and broken windows—we’ll carry that!” + +“I’ll not travel with it!” the stout gentleman answered positively. “Do +you hear me, man? If you don’t take it down I will!” + +“Best not!” cried a voice from the little crowd about the coach. And +when the angry gentleman turned to see who spoke, “Best not!” cried +another behind him. And he wheeled about again, so quickly that the +crowd laughed. This raised his wrath to a white heat. + +He grew purple. “I shall have it taken down!” he said. “Guard, remove +it!” + +“Don’t touch it,” growled the driver—one of a class noted in that day +for independence and surly manners. “If the gent don’t choose to travel +with it, let him stop here and be d—d!” + +“Do you know,” the insulted passenger cried, “that I am a Member of +Parliament?” + +“I’m hanged if you are!” coachee retorted. “Nor won’t be again!” + +The crowd roared at this repartee. The guard was in despair. “Anyway, +we must go on, sir,” he said. And he seized his horn. “Take your seats, +gents! Take your seats!” he cried. “All for Reading! I’m sorry, sir, +but I’ve to think of the coach.” + +“And the horses!” grumbled the driver. “Where’s the gent’s sense?” + +They all scrambled to their seats except the ex-member. He stood, +bursting with rage and chagrin. But at the last moment, when he saw +that the coach would really go without him, he swallowed his pride, +plucked open the coach-door, and amid the loud jeers of the crowd, +climbed in. The driver, with a chuckle, bade the helpers let go, and +the coach swung cheerily away through the streets of Maidenhead, the +merry notes of the horn and the rattle of the pole-chains drowning the +cries of the gutter-boys. + +The little Frenchman turned round. “You vill have a refolution,” he +said solemnly. “And the gentleman inside he vill lose his head.” + +The coachman, who had hitherto looked askance at Froggy, as if he +disdained his neighbourhood, now squinted at him as if he could not +quite make him out. “Think so?” he said gruffly. “Why, Mounseer?” + +“I have no doubt,” the Frenchman answered glibly. “The people vill +have, and the nobles vill not give! Or they vill give a leetle—a +leetle! And that is the worst of all. I have seen two refolutions!” he +continued with energy. “The first when I was a child—it is forty years! +My bonne held me up and I saw heads fall into the basket—heads as young +and as lofly as the young Mees there! And why? Because the people would +have, and the King, he give that which is the worst of all—a leetle! +And the trouble began. And then the refolution of last year—it was +worth to me all that I had! The people would have, and the Polignac, +our Minister—who is the friend of your Vellington—he would not give at +all! And the trouble began.” + +The driver squinted at him anew. “D’you mean to say,” he asked, “that +you’ve seen heads cut off?” + +“I have seen the white necks, as white and as small as the Mees there; +I have seen the blood spout from them; bah! like what you call pump! +Ah, it was ogly, it was very ogly!” + +The coachman turned his head slowly and with difficulty, until he +commanded a full view of Vaughan’s pretty neighbour; at whom he gazed +for some seconds as if fascinated. Then he turned to his horses and +relieved his feelings by hitting one of the wheelers below the trace; +while Vaughan, willing to hear what the Frenchman had to say, took up +the talk. + +“Perhaps here,” he said, “those who have will give, and give enough, +and all will go well.” + +“Nefer! Nefer!” the Frenchman answered positively. “By example, the +Duke whose château we pass—what you call it—Jerusalem House?” + +“Sion House,” Vaughan answered, smiling. “The Duke of Northumberland.” + +“By example he return four members to your Commons House. Is it not so? +And they do what he tell them. He have this for his nefew, and that for +his niece, and the other thing for his _maître d’hôtel!_ And it is he +and the others like him who rule the country! Gives he up all that? To +the _bourgeoisie?_ Nefer! Nefer!” he continued with emphasis. “He will +be the Polignac! They will all be the Polignacs! And you will have a +refolution. And by-and-by, when the _bourgeoisie_ is frightened of the +_canaille_ and tired of the blood-letting, your Vellington he will be +the Emperor. It is as plain as the two eyes in the face! So plain for +me, I shall not take off my clothes the nights!” + +“Well, King Billy for me!” said the driver. “But if he’s willing, +Mounseer, why shouldn’t the people manage their own affairs?” + +“The people! The people! They cannot! Your horses, will they govern +themselves? Will you throw down the reins and leave it to them, up +hill, down hill? The people govern themselves Bah!” And to express his +extreme disgust at the proposition, the Frenchman, who had lost his all +with Polignac, bent over the side and spat into the road. “It is no +government at all!” + +The driver looked darkly at his horses as if he would like to see them +try it on. “I am afraid,” said Vaughan, “that you think we are in +trouble either way then, whether the Tories give or withhold?” + +“Eizer way! Eizer way!” the Frenchman answered _con amore_. “It is +fate! You are on the edge of the what you call it—_chute!_ And you must +go over! We have gone over. We have bumped once, twice! We shall bump +once, twice more, _et voilà_—Anarchy! Now it is your turn, sir. The +government has to be—shifted—from the one class to the other!” + +“But it may be peacefully shifted?” + +The little Frenchman shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “I have nefer +seen the government shifted without all that that I have told you. +There will be the guillotine, or the barricades. For me, I shall not +take off my clothes the nights!” + +He spoke with a sincerity so real and a persuasion so clear that even +Vaughan was a little shaken, and wondered if those who watched the game +from the outside saw more than the players. As for the coachman: + +“Dang me,” he said that evening to his cronies in the tap of the White +Lion at Bristol, “if I feel so sure about this here Reform! We want +none of that nasty neck-cutting here! And if I thought Froggy was right +I’m blest if I wouldn’t turn Tory!” + +And for certain the Frenchman voiced what a large section of the timid +and the well-to-do were thinking. For something like a hundred and +fifty years a small class, the nobility and the greater gentry, turning +to advantage the growing defects in the representation—the rotten +boroughs and the close corporations—had ruled the country through the +House of Commons. Was it to be expected that the basis of power could +be shifted in a moment? Or that all these boroughs and corporations, in +which the governing class were so deeply interested, could be swept +away without a convulsion; without opening the floodgates of change, +and admitting forces which no man could measure? Or, on the other side, +was it likely that, these defects once seen and the appetite of the +middle class for power once whetted, their claims could be refused +without a struggle from which the boldest must flinch? No man could say +for certain, and hence these fears in the air. The very winds carried +them. They were being discussed in that month of April not only on the +White Lion coach, not on the Bath road only, but on a hundred coaches, +and a hundred roads over the length and breadth of England. Wherever +the sway of Macadam and Telford extended, wherever the gigs of “riders” +met, or farmers’ carts stayed to parley, at fair and market, sessions +and church, men shook their heads or raised their voices in high +debate; and the word _Reform_ rolled down the wind! + +Vaughan soon overcame his qualms; for his opinions were fixed. But he +thought that the subject might serve him with his neighbour, and he +addressed her. + +“You must not let them alarm you,” he said. “We are still a long way, I +fancy, from guillotines or barricades.” + +“I hope so,” she answered. “In any case I am not afraid.” + +“Why, if I may ask?” + +She glanced at him with a gleam of humour in her eyes. “Little shrubs +feel little wind,” she murmured. + +“But also little sun, I fear,” he replied. + +“That does not follow,” she said, without raising her eyes again. +“Though it is true that I—I am so seldom free in a morning that a +journey such as this, with the sunshine, is like heaven to me.” + +“The morning is a delightful time,” he said. + +“Oh!” she cried, as if she now knew that he felt with her. “That is it! +The afternoon is different.” + +“Well, fortunately, you and I have—much of the morning left.” + +She made no reply to that, and he wondered in silence what was the +employment which filled her mornings and fitted her to enjoy with so +keen a zest this early ride. The Gloucester up-coach was coming to meet +them, the guard tootling merrily on his horn, and a blue and yellow +flag—the Whig colours—flying on the roof of the coach, which was +crowded with smiling passengers. Vaughan saw the girl’s eyes sparkle as +the two coaches passed one another amid a volley of badinage; and +demure as she was, he was sure that she had a store of fun within. He +wished that she would remove her cheap thread gloves that he might see +if her hands were as white as they were small. She was no common +person, he was sure of that; her speech was correct, though formal, and +her manner was quiet and refined. And her eyes—he must make her look at +him again! + +“You are going to Bristol?” he said. “To stay there?” + +Perhaps he threw too much feeling into his voice. At any rate the tone +of her answer was colder. “Yes,” she said, “I am.” + +“I am going as far as Chippenham,” he volunteered. + +“Indeed!” + +There! He had lost all the ground he had gained. She thought him a +possible libertine, who aimed at putting himself on a footing of +intimacy with her. And that was the last thing—confound it, he meant +that to do her harm was the last thing he had in his mind. + +It annoyed him that she should think anything of that kind. And he +cudgelled his brain for a subject at once safe and sympathetic, without +finding one. But either she was not so deeply offended as he fancied, +or she thought him sufficiently punished. For presently she addressed +him; and he saw that she was ever so little embarrassed. + +“Would you please to tell me,” she said, in a low voice, “how much I +ought to give the coachman?” + +Oh. bless her! She did not think him a horrid libertine. “You?” he said +audaciously. “Why nothing, of course.” + +“But—but I thought it was usual?” + +“Not on this road,” he answered, lying resolutely. “Gentlemen are +expected to give half a crown, others a shilling. Ladies nothing at +all. Sam,” he continued, rising to giddy heights of invention, “would +give it back to you, if you offered it.” + +“Indeed!” He fancied a note of relief in her tone, and judged that +shillings were not very plentiful. Then, “Thank you,” she added. “You +must think me very ignorant. But I have never travelled.” + +“You must not say that,” he returned. “Remember the Clapham Stage!” + +She laughed at the jest, small as it was; and her laugh gave him the +most delicious feeling—a sort of lightness within, half exhilaration, +half excitement. And of a sudden, emboldened by it, he was grown so +foolhardy that there is no knowing what he would not have said, if the +streets of Reading had not begun to open before them and display a +roadway abnormally thronged. + +For Mr. Palmer’s procession, with its carriages, riders, and flags, was +entering ahead of them; and the train of tipsy rabble which accompanied +it blocked King Street, and presently brought the coach to a stand. The +candidate, lifting his cocked hat from time to time, was a hundred +paces before them and barely visible through a forest of flags and +banners. But a troop of mounted gentry in dusty black, and smiling +dames in carriages—who hardly masked the disgust with which they viewed +the forest of grimy hands extended to them to shake—were under the +travellers’ eyes, and showed in the sunlight both tawdry and false. Our +party, however, were not long at ease to enjoy the spectacle. The crowd +surrounded the coach, leapt on the steps, and hung on to the boot. And +presently the noise scared the horses, which at the entrance to the +marketplace began to plunge. + +“The Bill! The Bill!” cried the rabble. And with truculence called on +the passengers to assent. “You lubbers,” they bawled, “shout for the +Bill! Or we’ll have you over!” + +“All right! All right!” replied Sammy, controlling his horses as well +as he could. “We’re all for the Bill here! Hurrah!” + +“Hurrah! Palmer for ever, Tories in the river!” cried the mob. +“Hurrah!” + +“Hurrah!” echoed the guard, willing to echo anything. “The Bill for +ever! But let us pass, lads! Let us pass! We’re for the Bear, and we’ve +no votes.” + +“Britons never will be slaves!” shrieked a drunken butcher as the +marketplace opened before them. The space was alive with flags and gay +with cockades, and thronged by a multitude, through which the +candidate’s procession clove its way slowly. “We’ll have votes now! +Three cheers for Lord John!” + +“Hurrah! Hurrah!” + +“And down with Orange Peel!” squeaked a small tailor in a high +falsetto. + +The roar of laughter which greeted the sally startled the horses +afresh. But the guard had dropped down by this time and fought his way +to the head of one of the leaders; and two or three good-humoured +fellows seconded his efforts. Between them the coach was piloted slowly +but safely through the press; which, to do it justice, meant only to +exercise the privileges which the Election season brought with it. + + + + +V +ROSY-FINGERED DAWN + + +“_Beaucoup de bruit, pas de mal!_” Vaughan muttered in his neighbour’s +ear; and saw with as much surprise as pleasure that she understood. + +And all would have gone well but for the imprudence of the inside +passenger who had distinguished himself by his protest against the +placard. The coach was within a dozen paces of the Bear, the crowd was +falling back from it, the peril, if it had been real, seemed past, the +most timid was breathing again, when he thrust out his foolish head, +and flung a taunt—which those on the roof could not hear—at the rabble. + +Whatever the words, their effect was disastrous. A bystander caught +them up and repeated them, and in a trice half-a-dozen louts flung +themselves on the door and strove to drag it open, and get at the man; +while others, leaning over their shoulders, aimed missiles at the +inside passengers. + +The guard saw that more than the glass of his windows was at stake; but +he could do nothing. He was at the leaders’ heads. And the passengers +on the roof, who had risen to their feet to see the fray, were as +helpless. Luckily the coachman kept his head and his reins. “Turn ’em +into the yard!” he yelled. “Turn ’em in!” + +The guard did so, almost too quickly. The frightened horses wheeled +round, and, faster than was prudent, dashed under the low arch, +dragging the swaying coach after them. + +There was a cry of “Heads! Heads!” and then, more imperatively, “Heads! +Stoop! Stoop!” + +The warning was needed. The outsides were on their feet engrossed in +the struggle at the coach door. And so quickly did the coach turn +that—though a score of spectators in the street and on the balcony of +the inn saw the peril—it was only at the last moment that Vaughan and +the two passengers at the back, men well used to the road, caught the +warning, and dropped down. And it was only at the very last moment that +Vaughan felt rather than saw that the girl was still standing. He had +just time, by a desperate effort, and amid a cry of horror—for to the +spectators she seemed to be already jammed between the arch and the +seat—to drag her down. Instinctively, as he did so, he shielded her +face with his arm; but the horror was so near that, as they swept under +the low brow, he was not sure that she was safe. + +He was as white as she was, when they emerged into the light again. But +he saw that she was safe, though her bonnet was dragged from her head; +and he cried unconsciously, “Thank God! Thank God!” Then, with that +hatred of a scene which is part of the English character, he put her +quickly back into her seat again, and rose to his feet, as if he wished +to separate himself from her. + +But a score of eyes had seen the act; and however much he might wish to +spare her feelings, concealment was impossible. + +“Christ!” cried the coachman, whose copper cheeks were perceptibly +paler. “If your head’s on your shoulders, Miss, it is to that young +gentleman you owe it. Don’t you ever go to sleep on the roof of a coach +again! Never! Never!” + +“Here, get a drop of brandy!” cried the landlady, who, from one of the +doors flanking the archway, had seen all. “Do you stay where you are, +Miss,” she continued, “and I’ll send it up to you.” + +Then amid a babel of exclamations and a chorus of blame and praise, the +ladder was brought, and Vaughan made haste to descend. A waiter tripped +out with the brown brandy and water on a tray; and the young lady, who +had not spoken, but had remained, sitting white and still, where +Vaughan had placed her, sipped it obediently. Unfortunately the +landlady’s eyes were sharp; and as Vaughan passed her to go into the +house—for the coach must be driven up the yard and turned before they +could set off again—she let fall a cry. + +“Lord, sir!” she said, “your hand is torn dreadful! You’ve grazed every +bit of skin off it!” + +He tried to silence her; and failing, hurried into the house. She +fussed after him to attend to him; and Sammy, who was not a man of the +most delicate perceptions, seized the opportunity to drive home his +former lesson. “There, Miss,” he said solemnly, “I hope that’ll teach +you to look out another time! But better his hand than your head. You’d +ha’ been surely scalped!” + +The girl, a shade whiter than before, did not answer. And he thought +her, for so pretty a wench, “a right unfeelin’ un!” + +Not so the Frenchman. “I count him a very locky man!” he said +obscurely. “A very locky man.” + +“Well,” the coachman answered with a grunt, “if you call that lucky——” + +“_Vraiment! Vraiment!_ But I—alas!” the Frenchman answered with an +eloquent gesture, “I have lost my all, and the good fortunes are no +longer for me!” + +“Fortunes!” the coachman muttered, looking askance at him. “A fine +fortune, to have your hand flayed! But where’s”—recollecting +himself—“where’s that there fool that caused the trouble! D—n me, if he +shall go any further on my coach. I’d like to double-thong him, and +it’d serve him right!” + +So when the ex-M.P. presently appeared, Sammy let go his tongue to such +purpose that the political gentleman; finding himself in a minority of +one, retired into the house and, with many threats of what he would do +when he saw the management, declined to go on. + +“And a good riddance of a d—d Tory!” the coachman muttered. “Think all +the world’s made for them! Fifteen minutes he’s cost us already! Take +your seats, gents, take your seats! I’m off!” + +Vaughan, with his hand hastily bandaged, was the last to come out. He +climbed as quickly as he could to his place, and, without looking at +his neighbour, he said some common-place word. She did not reply, and +they swept under the arch. For a moment the sight of the thronged +marketplace diverted him. Then he looked at her, and he saw that she +was trembling. + +If he was not quite so wise as the Frenchman, having had no _bonnes +fortunes_ to speak of, he had, nevertheless, keen perceptions. And he +guessed that the girl, between her maiden shyness and her womanly +gratitude, was painfully placed. It could not be otherwise. A girl who +had spent her years, since childhood, within the walls of a school at +Clapham, first as genteel apprentice, and then as assistant; who had +been taught to consider young men as roaring lions with whom her own +life could have nothing in common, and from whom it was her duty to +guard the more giddy of her flock; who had to struggle at once with the +shyness of youth, the modesty of her sex, and her inexperience—above +all, perhaps with that dread of insult which becomes the instinct of +lowly beauty—how was she to carry herself in circumstances so different +from any which she had ever imagined? How was she to express a tithe of +the feelings with which her heart was bursting, and which overwhelmed +her as often as she thought of the hideous death from which he had +snatched her? + +She could not; and with inborn good taste she refrained from the +commonplace word, the bald acknowledgment, in which a shallow nature +might have taken refuge. On his side, he guessed some part of this, and +discerned that if he would relieve her he must himself speak. +Accordingly, when they had left the streets behind them and were +swinging merrily along the Newbury Road, he leant towards her. + +“May I beg,” he said in a low voice, “that you won’t think of what has +happened? The coachman would have done as much, and scolded you! I +happened to be next you. That was all.” + +In a strangled voice, “But your hand,” she faltered. “I fear—I——” She +shuddered, unable to go on. + +“It is nothing!” he protested. “Nothing! In three days it will be +well!” + +She turned her eves on him, eyes which possessed an eloquence of which +their owner was unconscious. “I will pray for you,” she murmured. “I +can do no more.” + +The pathos of her simple gratitude was such that Vaughan could not +laugh it off. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “We shall then be more than +quits.” And having given her a few moments in which to recover herself, +“We are nearly at Speenhamland,” he resumed cheerfully. “There is the +George and Pelican! It’s a great baiting-house for coaches. I am afraid +to say how much corn and hay they give out in a day. They have a man +who does nothing else but weigh it out.” And so he chattered on, doing +his utmost to talk of indifferent matters in an indifferent tone. + +She could not repulse him after what had passed. And now and then, by a +timid word, she gave him leave to talk. Presently he began to speak of +things other than those under their eyes, and when he thought that he +had put her at her ease, “You understand French?” he said looking at +her suddenly. + +“I spoke it as a child,” she answered. “I was born abroad. I did not +come to England until I was nine.” + +“To Clapham?” + +“Yes. I have been employed in a school there.” + +Prudently he hastened to bring the talk back to the road again. And she +took courage to steal a look at him when his eyes were elsewhere. He +seemed so strong and gentle and courteous; this unknown creature which +she had been taught to fear. And he was so thoughtful of her! He could +throw so tender a note into his voice. Beside d’Orsay or Alvanley—but +she had never heard of them—he might have passed muster but tolerably; +but to her he seemed a very fine gentleman. She had a woman’s eye for +the fineness of his linen, and the smartness of his waistcoat—had not +Sir James Graham, with his chest of Palermo stuffs, set the seal of +Cabinet approval on fancy waistcoats? Nor was she blind to the easy +carriage of his head, and his air of command. + +And there she caught herself up: reflecting with a blush that it was by +the easy path of thoughts such as these that the precipice was +approached; that so it was the poor and pretty let themselves be led +from the right road. Whither was she travelling? In what was this to +end? She trembled. And if they had not at that moment swung out of +Savernake Forest and sighted the red roofs of Marlborough, lying warm +and sung at the foot of the steep London Hill, she did not know what +she should have done, since she could not repulse him. + +They rattled in merry style through the town, the leaders cantering, +the bars swinging, the guard tootling, the sun shining; past a score of +inn signs before which the heavy stages were baiting; past the two +churches, while all the brisk pleasantness of this new, this living +world, appealed to her to go its way. Ta-ra-ra! Ta-ra-ra! Swerving to +the right they pulled up bravely, with steaming horses, before the door +of the far-famed Castle Inn. Ta-ra-ra! Ta-ra-ra! “Half an hour for +dinner, gentlemen!” + +“Now,” said Vaughan, thinking that all was well, or rather declining to +think of anything but her shy glances and the delightful present. “You +must cut my meat for me!” + +She did not reply, and he saw that her eyes went to the basket at her +feet. He guessed that she wished to avoid the expense of dining. “Or, +perhaps, you are not coming in?” he said. + +“I did not intend to do so,” she replied. “I suppose,” she continued +timidly, “that I may stay here?” + +“Certainly. You have something with you?” + +“Yes.” + +He nodded pleasantly and left her; and she remained in her seat. As she +ate, the target for many a sly glance of admiration, she was divided +between gratitude and self-reproach; now thinking of him with a +quickened heart, now taking herself to task for her weakness. The +result was that when he strode out, confident and at ease, and looked +up at her with laughing eyes, she blushed furiously—to her own +unspeakable mortification. + +Vaughan was no Lothario, and for a moment the telltale colour took him +aback. Then he told himself that at Chippenham, less than twenty miles +down the road, he was leaving her. It was absurd to suppose that, in +the short space which remained, either could be harmed. And he mounted +gaily, and masking his knowledge of her emotion with a skill which +surprised himself, he chatted pleasantly, unaware that with every word +he was stamping the impression of her face, her long eyelashes, her +graceful head, her trick of this and that, more deeply upon his memory. +While she, reassured by the same thought that they would part in an +hour—and in an hour what harm could happen?—closed her eyes and drank +the sweet draught—the sweeter for its novelty, and for the bitter which +lurked at the bottom of the cup. Meantime Sammy winked sagely at his +horses, and the Frenchman cast envious glances over his shoulders, and +Silbury Hill, Fyfield, and the soft folds of the downs swept by, and on +warm commons and southern slopes the early bees hummed above the gorse. + +Here was Chippenham at last; and the end was come. He must descend. A +hasty touch, a murmured word, a pang half-felt; she veiled her eyes. If +her colour fluttered and she trembled, why not? She had cause to be +grateful to him. And if he felt as his foot touched the ground that the +world was cold, and the prospect cheerless, why not, when he had to +face Sir Robert, and when his political embarrassments, forgotten for a +time, rose nearer and larger? + +It had often fallen to him to alight before the Angel at Chippenhan. +From boyhood he had known the wide street, in which the fairs were +held, the red Georgian houses, and the stone bridge of many arches over +the Avon. But he had never seen these things, he had never alighted +there, with less satisfaction than on this day. + +Still this was the end. He raised his hat, saluted silently, and turned +to speak to the guard. In the act he jostled a person who was +approaching to accost him. Vaughan stared. “Hallo, White!” he said. “I +was coming to see you.” + +White’s hat was in his hand. “Your servant, sir,” he said. “Your +servant, sir. I am glad to be here to meet you, Mr. Vaughan.” + +“But you didn’t expect me?” + +“No, sir, no; I came to meet Mr. Cooke, who was to arrive by this +coach. But I do not see him.” + +A light broke in upon Vaughan. “Gad! he must be the man we left behind +at Reading,” he said. “Is he a peppery chap?” + +“He might be so called, sir,” the agent answered with a smile. “I +fancied that you knew him.” + +“No. Sergeant Wathen I know; not Mr. Cooke. Any way, he’s not come, +White.” + +“All the better, sir, if I can get a message to him by the up-coach. +For he’s not needed. I am glad to say that the trouble is at an end. My +Lord Lansdowne has given up the idea of contesting the borough, and I +came over to tell Mr. Cooke, thinking that he might prefer to go on to +Bristol. He has a house at Bristol.” + +“Do you mean,” Vaughan said, “that there will be no contest?” + +“No, sir, no. Not now. And a good thing, too. Upset the town for +nothing! My lord has no chance, and Pybus, who is his lordship’s man +here, he told me himself——” + +He paused with his mouth open, and his eyes on a tall lady wearing a +veil, who, after standing a couple of minutes on the further side of +the street, was approaching the coach. To enter it she had to pass by +him, and he stared, as if he saw a ghost. “By Gosh!” he muttered under +his breath. And when, with the aid of the guard, she had taken her seat +inside, “By Gosh!” he muttered again, “if that’s not my lady—though +I’ve not seen her for ten years—I’ve the horrors!” + +He turned to Vaughan to see if he had noticed anything. But Vaughan, +without waiting for the end of his sentence, had stepped aside to tell +a helper to replace his valise on the coach. In the bustle he had noted +neither White’s emotion nor the lady. + +At this moment he returned. “I shall go on to Bristol for the night, +White,” he said. “Sir Robert is quite well?” + +“Quite well, sir, and I shall be happy to tell him of your promptness +in coming.” + +“Don’t tell him anything,” the young man said, with a flash of +peremptoriness. “I don’t want to be kept here. Do you understand, +White? I shall probably return to town to-morrow. Anyway, say nothing.” + +“Very good, sir,” White answered. “But I am sure Sir Robert would be +pleased to know that you had come down so promptly.” + +“Ah, well, you can let him know later. Good-bye, White.” + +The agent, with one eye on the young squire and one on the lady, whose +figure was visible through the small coach-window, seemed to be about +to refer to her. But he checked himself. “Good-bye, sir,” he said. “And +a pleasant journey! I’m glad to have been of service, Mr. Vaughan.” + +“Thank you, White, thank you,” the young man answered. And he swung +himself up, as the coach moved. A good-natured nod, and—Tantivy! +Tantivy! Tantivy! The helpers sprang aside, and away they went down the +hill, and over the long stone bridge, and so along the Bristol road; +but now with the shades of evening beginning to spread on the pastures +about them, and the cawing rooks, that had been abroad all day on the +uplands, streaming across the pale sky to the elms beside the river. + +But _varium et mutabile femina_. When he turned, eager to take up the +fallen thread, Clotho could not have been more cold than his neighbour, +nor Atropos with her shears more decisive. “I’ve had good news,” he +said, as he settled his coat about him. “I came down with a very +unpleasant task before me. And it is lifted from me.” + +“Indeed!” + +“So I am going on to Bristol instead of staying at Chippenham.” + +No answer. + +“It is a great relief to me,” he continued cheerfully. + +“Indeed!” She spoke in the most distant of voices. + +He raised his brows in perplexity. What had happened to her? She had +been so grateful, so much moved, a few minutes before. The colour had +fluttered in her cheek, the tear had been visible in her eye, she had +left her hand the fifth of a second in his. And now! + +Now she was determined that she would blush and smile and be kind no +more. She was grateful—God knew she was grateful, let him think what he +would. But there were limits. Her weakness, as long as she believed +that Chippenham must part them, had been pardonable. But if he had it +in his mind to attend her to Bristol, to follow her or haunt her—as she +had known foolish young cits at Clapham to haunt the more giddy of her +flock—then her mistake was clear; and his conduct, now merely +suspicious, would appear in its black reality. She hoped that he was +innocent. She hoped that his change of plan at Chippenham had been no +subterfuge; that he was not a roaring lion. But appearances were +deceitful and her own course was plain. + +It was the plainer, as she had not been blind to the respect with which +all at the Angel had greeted her companion; even White, a man of +substance, with a gold chain and seals hanging from his fob, had stood +bareheaded while he talked to him. It was plain that he was a fine +gentleman; one of those whom young persons in her rank of life must +shun. + +So he drew scarcely five words out of her in as many miles. At last, +thrice rebuffed, “I am afraid you are tired,” he said. Was it for this +that he had chosen to go on to Bristol? + +“Yes,” she answered. “I am rather tired. If you please I would prefer +not to talk.” + +He was a little huffed then, and let her be; nor did he guess, though +he was full of conjectures about her, how she hated her seeming +ingratitude. But there was nought else for it; better seem thankless +now than be worse hereafter. For she was growing frightened. She was +beginning to have more than an inkling of the road by which young +things were led to be foolish. Her ear retained the sound of his voice +though he was silent. The fashion in which he had stooped to her—though +he was looking another way now—clung to her memory. His laugh, though +he was grave now, rang for her, full of glee and good-fellowship. She +could have burst into tears. + +They stayed at Marshfield to take on the last team. And she tried to +divert her mind by watching a woman in a veil who walked up and down +beside the coach, and seemed to return her curiosity. But she tried to +little purpose, for she felt strained and weary, and more than ever +inclined to cry. Doubtless the peril through which she had passed had +shaken her. + +So that she was thankful when, after descending perilous Tog Hill, they +saw from Kingswood heights the lights of Bristol shining through the +dusk; and she knew that she was at her journey’s end. To arrive in a +strange place on the edge of night is trying to anyone. But to alight +friendless and alone, amid the bustle of a city, and to know that new +relations must be created and a new life built up—this may well raise +in the most humble and contented bosom a feeling of loneliness and +depression. And doubtless that was why Mary Smith, after evading +Vaughan with a success beyond her hopes, felt as she followed her +modest trunk through the streets that—but she bent her head to hide the +unaccustomed tears. + + + + +VI +THE PATRON OF CHIPPINGE + + +Much about the time that the “Spectator” was painting in Sir Roger the +most lovable picture of an old English squire which our gallery +contains, Cornelius Vermuyden, of a younger branch of the Vermuydens +who drained the fens, was making a fortune in the Jamaica trade. Having +made it in a dark office at Bristol, and being, like all Dutchmen, of a +sedentary turn, he proceeded to found a family, purchase a borough, +and, by steady support of Whig principles and the Protestant +succession, to earn a baronetcy in the neighbouring county of Wilts. + +Doubtless the first Vermuyden had things to contend with, and at assize +ball and sessions got but two fingers from the De Coverleys and their +long-descended dames. But he went his way stolidly, married his son +into a family of like origin—the Beckfords—and, having seen little +George II. firmly on the throne, made way for his son. + +This second Sir Cornelius rebuilt Stapylton, the house which his father +had bought from the decayed family of that name, and after living for +some ten years into the reign of Farmer George, vanished in his turn, +leaving Cornelius Robert to succeed him, Cornelius George, the elder +son, having died in his father’s lifetime. + +Sir Cornelius Robert was something after the pattern of the famous Mr. +Onslow— + +_What can Tommy Onslow do? +He can drive a chaise and two. +What can Tommy Onslow more? +He can drive a chaise and four._ + + +Yet he fitted the time, and, improving his father’s pack of +trencher-fed hounds by a strain of Mr. Warde’s blood, he hunted the +country so conscientiously that at his death a Dutch bottle might have +been set upon his table without giving rise to the slightest +reflection. He came to an end, much lamented, with the century, and Sir +Robert, fourth and present baronet, took over the estates. + +By that time, rid of the foreign prenomen, well allied by three good +marriages, and since the American war of true blue Tory leanings, and +thorough Church and King principles, the family was able to hold up its +head among the best in the south of England. There might be some who +still remembered that— + +_Saltash was a borough town +When Plymouth was a breezy down_. + + +But the property was good, the borough safe, and any time these twenty +years their owner might have franked his letters “Chippinge” had he +willed it. As it was, he passed, almost as much as Mr. Western in the +east or Sir Thomas Acland in the west, for the type of a country +gentleman. The most powerful Minister gave him his whole hand; and at +county meetings, at Salisbury or Devizes, no voice was held more +powerful, nor any man’s hint more quickly taken than Sir Robert +Vermuyden’s. + +He was a tall and very thin man, of almost noble aspect, with a nose +after the fashion of the Duke’s, and a slight stoop. In early days he +had been something of a beau, though never of the Prince’s following, +and he still dressed finely and with taste. With a smaller sense of +personal dignity, or with wider sympathies, he might have been a +happier man. But he had married too late—at forty-five; and the four +years which followed, and their sequel, had darkened the rest of his +life, drawn crow’s-feet about his eyes and peevish lines about his +mouth. Henceforth he had lived alone, nursing his pride; and the +solitude of this life—which was not without its dignity, since no word +of scandal touched it—had left him narrow and vindictive, a man just +but not over-generous, and pompous without complacency. + +The neighbourhood knew that he and Lady Sybil—he had married the +beautiful daughter of the last Earl of Portrush—had parted under +circumstances which came near to justifying divorce. Some held that he +had divorced her; but in those days an Act of Parliament was necessary, +and no such Act stood on the Statute-book. Many thought that he ought +to have divorced her. And while the people who knew that she still +lived and still plagued him were numerous, few save Isaac White were +aware that it was because his marriage had been made and marred at +Bowood—and not purely out of principle—that Sir Robert opposed the very +name of Lansdowne, and would have wasted a half of his fortune to wreck +his great neighbour’s political power. + +Not that his Tory principles were not strong. During five Parliaments +he had filled one of his own seats, and had spoken from time to time +after a dignified fashion, with formal gestures and a copious +sprinkling of classical allusions. The Liberal Toryism of Canning had +fallen below his ideal, but he had continued to sit until the betrayal +of the party by Peel and the Duke—on the Catholic Claims—drove him from +the House in disgust, and thenceforth Warren’s Hotel, his residence +when in town, saw him but seldom. He had fancied then that nothing +worse could happen; that the depths were plumbed, and that he and those +who thought with him might punish the traitor and take no harm. With +the Duke of Cumberland, the best hated man in England—which was never +tired of ridiculing his moustachios—Eldon, Wetherell, and the +ultra-Tories, he had not rested until he had seen the hated pair flung +from office; nor was any man more surprised and confounded when the +result of the work began to show itself. The Whigs, admitted to power +by this factious movement, and after an exile so long that Byron could +write of them— + +_Naught’s permanent among the human race +Except the Whigs not getting into place_ + + +—brought in no mild and harmless measure of reform, promising little +and giving nothing, such as foe and friend had alike expected; but a +measure of reform so radical that O’Connell blessed it, and Cobbett +might have fathered it: a measure which, if it passed, would sweep away +Sir Robert’s power and the power of his class, destroy his borough, and +relegate him to the common order of country squires. + +He was at first incredulous, then furious, then aghast. To him the Bill +was not only the doom of his own influence but the knell of the +Constitution. Behind it he saw red revolution and the crash of things. +Lord Grey was to him Mirabeau, Lord John was Lafayette, Brougham was +Danton; and of them and of their kind, when they had roused the +many-headed, he was sure that the end would be as the end of the +Gironde. + +He was not the less furious, not the less aghast, when the moderates of +his party pointed out that he had himself to thank for the catastrophe. +From the refusal to grant the smallest reform, from the refusal to +transfer the franchise of the rotten borough of Retford to the +unrepresented city of Birmingham—a refusal which he had urged his +members to support—the chain was complete; for in consequence of that +refusal Mr. Huskisson had left the Duke’s Cabinet. The appointment of +Mr. Fitzgerald to fill his seat had rendered the Clare election +necessary. O’Connell’s victory at the Clare election had converted Peel +and the Duke to the necessity of granting the Catholic Claims. That +conversion had alienated the ultra-Tories, and among these Sir Robert. +The opposition of the ultra-Tories had expelled Peel and the Duke from +power—which had brought in the Whigs—who had brought in the Reform +Bill. + +_Hinc illæ lacrimæ!_ For, in place of the transfer of the franchise of +one rotten borough to one large city—a reform which now to the most +bigoted seemed absurdly reasonable—here were sixty boroughs to be swept +away, and nearly fifty more to be shorn of half their strength, a +Constitution to be altered, an aristocracy to be dethroned! + +And Calne, Lord Lansdowne’s pocket borough, was spared! + +Sir Robert firmly believed that the limit had been fixed with an eye to +Calne. They who framed the Bill, sitting in wicked, detestable +confabulation, had fixed the limit of Schedule B so as to spare Calne +and Tavistock—_Arcades ambo_, Whig boroughs both. Or why did they just +escape? In the whole matter it was this, strangely enough, which +troubled him most sorely. For the loss of his own borough—if the worst +came to the worst—he could put up with it. He had no children, he had +no one to come after him except Arthur Vaughan, the great-grandson of +his grandmother. But the escape of Calne, this clear proof of the +hypocrisy of the righteous Grey, the blatant Durham, the whey-faced +Lord John, the demagogue Brougham—this injustice kept him in a state of +continual irritation. + +He was thinking of this as he paced slowly up and down the broad walk +beside the Garden Pool, at Stapylton—a solitary figure dwarfed by the +great elms. The placid surface of the pool, which mirrored the shaven +lawns beyond it and the hoary church set amidst the lawns, the silence +about him, broken only by the notes of song-birds or a faint yelp from +the distant kennels, the view over the green undulations of park and +covert—all vainly appealed to him to-day, though on summer evenings his +heart took sad and frequent leave of them. For that which threatened +him every day jostled aside for the present that which must happen one +day. The home of his fathers might be his for some years yet, but shorn +of its chief dignity, of its pride, its mastery; while Calne—Calne +would survive, to lift still higher the fortunes of those who had sold +their king and country, and betrayed their order. + +Daily a man and horse awaited the mail-coach at Chippenham that he +might have the latest news; and, seeing a footman hurrying towards him +from the house, he supposed that the mail was in. But when the man, +after crossing the long wooden bridge which spanned the pool, +approached with no diminution of speed, he remembered that it was too +early for the post; and hating to be disturbed in his solitary +reveries, he awaited the servant impatiently. + +“What it is?” he asked. + +“If you please, Sir Robert, Lady Lansdowne’s carriage is at the door.” + +Only Sir Robert’s darkening colour betrayed his astonishment. He had +made his feelings so well known that none but the most formal +civilities now passed between Stapylton and Bowood. + +“Who is it?” + +“Lady Lansdowne, Sir Robert. Her ladyship bade us say that she wishes +to see you urgently, sir.” The man, as well as the master, knew that +the visit was unusual. + +The baronet was a proud man, and he bethought him that the +drawing-rooms, seldom used and something neglected, were not in the +state in which he would wish his enemy’s wife to see them. “Where have +you put her ladyship?” he asked. + +“In the hall, Sir Robert.” + +“Very good. I will come.” + +The man hastened away over the bridge, and Sir Robert followed, more at +leisure, but still quickly. When he had passed the angle of the church +which stood in a line with the three blocks of building, connected by +porticos, which formed the house, and which, placed on a gentle +eminence, looked handsomely over the park, he saw that a carriage with +four greys ridden by postillions and attended by two outriders stood +before the main door. In the carriage, her face shaded by the large +Tuscan hat of the period, sat a young lady reading. She heard Sir +Robert’s footstep, and looked up, and in some embarrassment met his +eyes. + +He removed his hat. “It is Lady Louisa, is it not?” he said, looking +gravely at her. + +“Yes,” she said; and she smiled prettily at him. + +“Will you not go into the house?” + +“Thank you,” she replied, with a faint blush; “I think my mother wishes +to see you alone, Sir Robert.” + +“Very good.” And with a bow, cold but perfectly courteous, he turned +and passed up the broad, shallow steps, which were of the same +time-tinted lichen-covered stone as the rest of the building. Mapp, the +butler, who had been looking out for him, opened the door, and he +entered the hall. + +In his heart, which was secretly perturbed, was room for the wish that +he had been found in other than the high-buttoned gaiters and breeches +of his country life. But he suffered no sign of that or of his more +serious misgivings to appear, as he advanced to greet the still +beautiful woman, who sat daintily warming one sandalled foot at the red +embers on the hearth. She was far from being at ease herself. Warnings +which her husband had addressed to her at parting recurred and +disturbed her. But it is seldom that a woman of the world betrays her +feelings, and her manner was perfect as he bent low over her hand. + +“It is long,” she said gently, “much longer than I like to remember, +Sir Robert, since we met.” + +“It is a long time,” he answered gravely; and when she had reseated +herself he sat down opposite her. + +“It is an age,” she said slowly; and she looked round the hall, with +its panelled walls, its deep window-seats, and its panoply of fox-masks +and antlers, as if she recalled the past, “It is an age,” she repeated. +“Politics are sad dividers of friends.” + +“I fear,” he replied, in a tone as cold as courtesy permitted, “that +they are about to be greater dividers.” + +She looked at him quickly, with appeal in her eyes. “And yet,” she +said, “we saw more of you once.” + +“Yes.” He was wondering much, behind the mask of his civility, what had +drawn her hither. He knew that it could be no light, no passing matter +which had brought her over thirteen miles of Wiltshire roads to call +upon a man with whom intercourse had been limited, for years past, to a +few annual words, a formal invitation as formally declined, a measured +salutation at race or ball. She must have a motive, and a strong one. +It was only the day before that he had learned that Lord Lansdowne +meant to drop his foolish opposition at Chippinge; was it possible that +she was here to make a favour of this? And perhaps a bargain? If that +were her errand, and my lord had sent her, thinking to make refusal +less easy, Sir Robert felt that he would know how to answer. He waited. + + + + +VII +THE WINDS OF AUTUMN + + +Lady Lansdowne looked pensively at the tapering sandal which she held +forward to catch the heat. “Time passes so very, very quickly,” she +said with a sigh. + +“With some,” Sir Robert answered. “With others,” he bowed, “it stands +still.” + +His gallantry did not deceive her. She knew it for the salute which +duellists exchange before the fray, and she saw that if she would do +anything she must place herself within his guard. She looked at him +with sudden frankness. “I want you to bear with me for a few minutes, +Sir Robert,” she said in a tone of appeal. “I want you to remember that +we were once friends, and, for the sake of old days, to believe that I +am here to play a friend’s part. You won’t answer me? Very well. I do +not ask you to answer me.” She pointed to the space above the mantel. +“The portrait which used to hang there?” she said. “Where is it? What +have you done with it? But there, I said I would not ask, and I am +asking!” + +“And I will answer!” he replied. This was the last, the very last thing +for which he had looked; but he would show her that he was not to be +overridden. “I will tell you,” he repeated. “Lady Lansdowne, I have +destroyed it.” + +“I do not blame you,” she rejoined. “It was yours to do with as you +would. But the original—no, Sir Robert,” she said, staying him +intrepidly—she had taken the water now, and must swim—“you shall not +frighten me! She was, she is your wife. But not yours, not your +property to do with as you will, in the sense in which that picture—but +there, I am blaming where I should entreat. I——” + +He stayed her by a peremptory gesture. “Are you here—from her?” he +asked huskily. + +“I am not.” + +“She knows?” + +“No, Sir Robert, she does not.” + +“Then why,”—there was pain, real pain mingled with the indignation in +his tone—“why, in God’s name, Madam, have you come?” + +She looked at him with pitying eyes. “Because,” she said, “so many +years have passed, and if I do not say a word now I shall never say it. +And because—there is still time, but no more than time.” + +He looked at her fixedly. “You have another reason,” he said. “What is +it?” + +“I saw her yesterday. I was in Chippenham when the Bristol coach +passed, and I saw her face for an instant at the window.” + +He breathed more quickly; it was evident that the news touched him +home. But he would not blench nor lower his eyes. “Well?” he said. + +“I saw her for a few seconds only, and she did not see me. And of +course—I did not speak to her. But I knew her face, though she was +changed.” + +“And because”—his voice was harsh—“you saw her for a few minutes at a +window, you come to me?” + +“No, but because her face called up the old times. And because we are +all growing older. And because she was—not guilty.” + +He started. This was getting within his guard with a vengeance. “Not +guilty?” he cried in a tone of extreme anger. And he rose. But as she +did not move he sat down again. + +“No,” she replied firmly. “She was not guilty.” + +His face was deeply red. For a moment he looked at her as if he would +not answer her, or, if he answered, would bid her leave his house. +Then, “If she had been,” he said grimly, “guilty, Madam, in the sense +in which you use the word, guilty of the worst, she had ceased to be my +wife these fifteen years, she had ceased to bear my name, ceased to be +the curse of my life!” + +“Oh, no, no!” + +“It is yes, yes!” And his face was dark. “But as it was, she was guilty +enough! For years”—he spoke more rapidly as his passion grew—“she made +her name a byword and dragged mine in the dirt. She made me a +laughing-stock and herself a scandal. She disobeyed me—but what was her +whole life with me, Lady Lansdowne, but one long disobedience? When she +published that light, that foolish book, and dedicated it to—to that +person—a book which no modest wife should have written, was not her +main motive to harass and degrade me? Me, her husband? While we were +together was not her conduct from the first one long defiance, one long +harassment of me? Did a day pass in which she did not humiliate me by a +hundred tricks, belittle me by a hundred slights, ape me before those +whom she should not have stooped to know, invite in a thousand ways the +applause of the fops she drew round her? And when”—he rose, and paced +the room—“when, tried beyond patience by what I heard, I sent to her at +Florence and bade her return to me, and cease to make herself a scandal +with that person, or my house should no longer be her home, she +disobeyed me flagrantly, wilfully, and at a price she knew! She went +out of her way to follow him to Rome, she flaunted herself in his +company, ay, and flaunted herself in such guise as no Englishwoman had +been known to wear before! And after that—after that——” + +He stopped, proud as he was, mastered by his feelings; she had got +within his guard indeed. For a while he could not go on. And she, +picturing the old days which his passionate words brought back, days +when her children had been infants, saw, as it had been yesterday, the +young bride, beautiful as a rosebud and wild and skittish as an Irish +colt—and the husband staid, dignified, middle-aged, as little in +sympathy with his captive’s random acts and flighty words as if he had +spoken another tongue. + +Thus yoked, and resisting the lightest rein, the young wife had shown +herself capable of an infinity of folly. Egged on by the plaudits of a +circle of admirers, she had now made her husband ridiculous by childish +familiarities: and again, when he found fault with these, by airs of +public offence, which covered him with derision. But beauty’s sins are +soon forgiven; and fretting and fuming, and leading a wretched life, he +had yet borne with her, until something which she chose to call a +passion took possession of her. “The Giaour” and “The Corsair” were all +the rage that year; and with the publicity with which she did +everything she flung herself at the head of her soul’s affinity; a +famous person, half poet, half dandy, who was staying at Bowood. + +The world which knew her decided that the affair was more worthy of +laughter than of censure, and laughed immoderately. But to the +husband—the humour of husbands is undeveloped—it was terrible. She +wrote verses to the gentleman, and he to her; and she published, with +ingenuous pride, the one and the other. Possibly this or the laughter +determined the admirer. He fled, playing the innocent Æneas; and her +lamentations, crystallising in the shape of a silly romance which made +shop-girls weep and great ladies laugh, caused a separation between the +husband and wife. Before this had lasted many months the illness of +their only child brought them together again; and when, a little later, +the doctors advised a southern climate, Sir Robert reluctantly +entrusted the girl to her. She went abroad with the child, and the +parents never met again. + +Lady Lansdowne, recalling the story, could have laughed with her mind +and wept with her heart; scenes so absurd under the leafy shades of +Bowood or Lacock jostled the tragedy; and the ludicrous—with the +husband an unwilling actor in it—so completely relieved the pathetic! +But her bent towards laughter was short. Sir Robert, unable to bear her +eyes, had turned away; and she must say something. + +“Think,” she said gently, “how young she was!” + +“I have thought of it a thousand times!” he retorted. “Do you suppose,” +turning on her with harshness, “that there is a day on which I do not +think of it!” + +“So young!” + +“She had been three years a mother!” + +“For the dead child’s sake, then,” she pleaded with him, “if not for +hers.” + +“Lady Lansdowne!” There were both anger and pain in his voice as he +halted and stood before her. “Why do you come to me? Why do you trouble +me? Why? Is it because you feel yourself—responsible? Because you know, +because you feel, that but for you my home had not been left to me +desolate? Nor a foolish life been ruined?” + +“God forbid!” she said solemnly. And in her turn she rose in agitation; +moved for once out of the gracious ease and self-possession of her +life, so that in the contrast there was something unexpected and +touching. “God forbid!” she repeated. “But because I feel that I might +have done more. Because I feel that a word from me might have checked +her, and it was not spoken. True, I was young, and it might have made +things worse—I do not know. But when I saw her face at the window +yesterday—and she was changed, Sir Robert—I felt that I might have been +in her place, and she in mine!” Her voice trembled. “I might have been +lonely, childless, growing old; and alone! Or again, if I had done +something, if I had spoken as I would have another speak, were the case +my girl’s, she might have been as I am! Now,” she added tremulously, +“you know why I came. Why I plead for her! In our world we grow hard, +very hard; but there are things which touch us still, and her face +touched me yesterday—I remembered what she was.” She paused a moment, +and then, “After long years,” she continued softly, “it cannot be hard +to forgive; and there is still time. She did nothing that need close +your door, and what she did is forgotten. Grant that she was foolish, +grant that she was wild, indiscreet, what you will—she is alone now, +alone and growing old, Sir Robert, and if not for her sake, for the +sake of your dead child——” + +He stopped her by a peremptory gesture, but for the moment he seemed +unable to speak. At length, “You touch the wrong chord,” he said +hoarsely. “It is for the sake of my dead child I shall never, never +forgive her! She knew that I loved it. She knew that it was all to me. +It grew worse! Did she tell me? It was in danger; did she warn me? No! +But when I heard of her disobedience, of her folly, of things which +made her a byword, and I bade her return, or my house should no longer +be her home, then, then she flung the news of the child’s death at me, +and rejoiced that she had it to fling. Had I gone out then and found +her in the midst of her wicked gaiety, God knows what I should have +done! I did try to go. But the Hundred Days had begun, I had to return. +Had I gone, and learned that in her mad infatuation she had neglected +the child, left it to servants, let it fade, I think—I think, Madam, I +should have killed her!” + +Lady Lansdowne raised her hands. “Hush! Hush!” she said. + +“I loved the child. Therefore she was glad when it died, glad that she +had the power to wound me. Its death was no more to her than a weapon +with which to punish me! There was a tone in her letter—I have it +still—which betrayed that. And, therefore—therefore, for the child’s +sake, I will never forgive her!” + +“I am sorry,” she murmured in a voice which acknowledged defeat. “I am +very sorry.” + +He stood for a moment gazing at the blank space above the fireplace; +his head sunk, his shoulders brought forward. He looked years older +than the man who had walked under the elms. At length he made an effort +to speak in his usual tone. “Yes,” he said, “it is a sorry business.” + +“And I,” she said slowly, “can do nothing.” + +“Nothing,” he replied. “Time will cure this, and all things.” + +“You are sure that there is no mistake?” she pleaded. “That you are not +judging her harshly?” + +“There is no mistake.” + +Then she saw the hopelessness of argument and held out her hand. + +“Forgive me,” she said simply. “I have given you pain, and for nothing. +But the old days were so strong upon me—after I saw her—that I could +not but come. Think of me at least as a friend, and forgive me.” + +He bowed low over her hand, but he gave her no assurance. And seeing +that he was mastering his agitation, and fearing that if he had leisure +to think he might resent her interference, she wasted no time in +adieux. She glanced round the well-remembered hall—the hall once smart, +now shabby—in which she had seen the flighty girl play many a mad +prank. Then she turned sorrowfully to the door, more than suspecting +that she would never pass through it again. + +He had rung the bell, and Mapp, the butler, and the two men were in +attendance. But he handed her to the carriage himself, and placed her +in it with old-fashioned courtesy, and with the same scrupulous +observance stood bareheaded until it moved away. None the less, his +face by its set expression betrayed the nature of the interview; and +the carriage had scarcely swept clear of the grounds and entered the +park when Lady Louisa turned to her mother. + +“Was he very angry?” she asked, eager to be instructed in the mysteries +of that life which she was entering. + +Lady Lansdowne essayed to snub her. “My dear,” she said, “it is not a +fit subject for you.” + +“Still, mother dear, you might tell me. You told me something, and it +is not fair to turn yourself into Mrs. Fairchild in a moment. Besides, +while you were with him I came on a passage so beautiful, and so pat, +it almost made me cry.” + +“My dear, don’t say ‘pat,’ say ‘apposite.’” + +“Then apposite, mother,” Lady Louisa answered. “Do you read it. There +it is.” + +Lady Lansdowne sniffed, but suffered the book to be put into her hand. +Lady Louisa pointed with enthusiasm to a line. “Is it a case like that, +mother?” she asked eagerly. + +_But never either found another +To free the hollow heart from paining. +They stood aloof, the scars remaining, +Like cliffs which had been rent asunder. +A dreary sea now flows between, +But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, +Shall wholly do away, I ween, +The marks of that which once hath been_. + + +The mother handed the book back to the daughter without looking at her. +“No,” she said; “I don’t think it is a case like that.” + +But a moment later she wiped her eyes furtively, and then she told her +daughter more, it is to be feared, than Mrs. Fairchild would have +approved. + +* * * * * + +Sir Robert, when they were gone, went heavily to the library, a +panelled room looking to the back, in which it was his custom to sit. +For many years he had passed some hours of every day, when he was at +home, in that room; and until now it had never occurred to his mind +that it was dull or shabby. But it was old Mapp’s habit to lower the +blinds for his master’s after-luncheon nap, and they were still down; +and the half light which filtered in was like the sheet which rather +accentuates than hides the sharp features of the dead. The faded +engravings and the calf-bound books which masked the walls, the +escritoire, handsome and massive, but stained with ink and strewn with +dog’s eared accounts, the leathern-covered chair long worn out of shape +by his weight, the table beside it with yesterday’s “Standard,” two or +three volumes of the “Anti-Jacobin,” and the “Quarterly,” a month old +and dusty—all to his opened eyes wore a changed aspect. They spoke of +the slow decay of years, unchecked by a woman’s eye, a woman’s hand. +They told of the slow degradation of his lonely life. They indicated a +like change in himself. + +He stood a few moments on the hearth, looking about him with a shocked, +pained face. The months and the years had passed irrevocably, while he +sat in that chair, poring in a kind of lethargy over those books, +working industriously at those accounts. Asked, he had answered that he +was growing old, and grown old. But he had never for a moment +comprehended, as he comprehended now, that he was old. He had never +measured the difference between this and that; between those days +troubled by a hundred annoyances, vexations, cares, when in spite of +all he had lived, and these days of sullen stagnancy and mere +vegetation. + +He found the room, he found the reflection, intolerable. And he went +out, took with an unsteady hand his garden hat and returned to that +broad walk under the elms beside the pool which was his favourite +lounge. Perhaps he fancied that the wonted scene would deaden the pain +of memory and restore him to his wonted placidity. But his thoughts had +been too violently broken. His hands shook, hid lip trembled with the +tearless passion of later life. And when his agitation began to die +down and something like calmness supervened, this did but enable him to +feel more keenly the pangs, not of remorse, but of regret; of bitter, +unavailing regret for all the things of which the woman who had lain on +his bosom had robbed his life. + +Stapylton stood in a side valley projected among the low green hills +which fringe the vale of the Wiltshire Avon. From where he stood all +within sight, the gentle downs above the house, the arable land which +fringed them, the rich pastures below—all, mill and smithy and inn, +snug farm and thatched cottage, called him lord. Nay, from the south +end of the pool, where a wicket gave entrance to the park—whence also a +side view of the treble front of the house could be obtained—the spire +of Chippinge church was visible, rising from its ridge in the Avon +alley; and to the base of that spire all was his, all had been his +father’s and his grandfather’s. But not an acre, not a rood, would be +his child’s. + +This was no new thought. It was a thought that had saddened him on many +and many a summer evening when the shadow of the elms lay far across +the sward, and the silence of the stately house, the pale water, the +far-stretching farms whispered of the passing of the generations, of +the passage of time, of the inevitable end. Where he walked his father +had walked; and soon he would go whither his father had gone. And the +heir would walk where he walked, listen to the same twilight +carollings, hear the first hoot of the distant owl. + +_Cedes coemptis saltibus, el domo +Villaque, flavus quam Tiberis lavit_, + +_Cedes, et exstructis in altum_ + +_Divitiis potietur heres_. + + +But no heir of his blood. No son of his. No man of the Vermuyden name. +And for that he had to thank her. + +It was this which to-day gave the old thought new poignancy. For that +he had to thank her. Truly, in the words wrung from him by the +bitterness of his feelings, she had left his house unto him desolate. +If even the little girl had lived, the child would have succeeded; and +that had been something, that had been much. But the child was dead; +and in his heart he laid her death at his wife’s door. And a stranger, +or one in essentials a stranger, the descendant by a second marriage of +his grandmother, Katherine Beckford, was the heir. + +Presently the young man would succeed and the old chattels would be +swept away to cottage or lumber-room. The old horses would be shot, the +old dogs would be hanged, the old servants discharged, perhaps the very +trees under which he walked and which he loved would be cut down. The +house, the stables, the kennels, all but the cellars would be +refurnished; and in the bustle and glitter of the new _régime_, begun +in the sunshine, the twilight of his own latter days would be forgotten +in a month. + +_We die and are forgotten, ’tis Heaven’s decree, +And thus the lot of others will be the lot of me!_ + + +Sunday by Sunday he had read those lines on the grave of a kinsman, a +man whom he had known. He had often repeated them, he could as soon +forget them as his prayers. To-day the old memories and the old times, +which Lady Lansdowne had made to rise from the dead, gave them a new +meaning and a new bitterness. + + + + +VIII +A SAD MISADVENTURE + + +Arthur Vaughan was not a little relieved by the tidings which Isaac +White had conveyed to him at Chippenham. The news freed him from a duty +which did not appear the less distasteful because it was no longer +inevitable. To cast against Sir Robert the vote which he owed to Sir +Robert must have exposed him to odium, whatever the matter at stake. +But at this election, at which the issue was, aye or no, was the +borough to be swept away or not, to vote “aye” was an act from which +the least sensitive must have shrunk, and which the most honest must +have performed with reluctance. Add the extreme exasperation of public +feeling, of which every day and every hour brought to light the most +glaring proofs, and he had been fortunate indeed if he had not incurred +some general blame as well as the utmost weight of Sir Robert’s +displeasure. + +He was spared all this, and he was thankful. Yet, when he rose on the +morning after his arrival at Bristol, his heart was not as light as a +feather. On the contrary, as he looked from the window of the White +Lion into the bustle of Broad Street, he yawned dolefully; admitting +that life, and particularly the prospect before him, of an immediate +return to London, was dull. Why go back? Why stay here? Why do +anything? The Woolsack? Bah! The Cabinet? Pooh! They were but gaudy +baits for the shallow and the hard-hearted. Moreover, they were so +distant, so unattainable, that pursuit of them seemed the merest +moonshine; more especially on this fine April morning, made for nothing +but a coach ride through an enchanted country, by the side of the +sweetest face, the brightest eyes, the most ravishing figure, the +prettiest bonnet that ever tamed the gruffest of coachmen. + +Heigh-ho! If it were all to do over again how happy would he be! How +happy had he been, and not known it, the previous morning! It was +pitiful to think of him in his ignorance, with that day, that blissful +day, before him. + +Well, it was over. And he must return to town. For he would play no +foolish tricks. The girl was not in his rank in life, and he could not +follow her without injury to her. He was no preacher, and he had lived +for years among men whose lives, if not worse than the lives of their +descendants, wore no disguise; who, if they did not sin more, sinned +more openly. But he had a heart, and to mar an innocent life for his +pleasure had shocked him; even if the girl’s modesty and self-respect, +disclosed by a hundred small things, had not made the notion of +wronging her abhorrent. None the less he took his breakfast in a kind +of dream, whispered “Mary!” three times in different tones, and, being +suddenly accosted by the waiter, was irritable. + +With all this he was wise enough to know his own weakness, and that the +sooner he was out of Bristol the better. He sent to the Bush office to +book a place by the midday coach to town; and then only, when he had +taken the irrevocable step, he put on his hat to kill the intervening +time in Bristol. + +Unfortunately, as he crossed the hall, intending to walk towards +Clifton, he heard himself named; and turning, he saw that the speaker +was the lady in black, and wearing a veil, whom he had remarked walking +up and down beside the coach, while the horses were changing at +Marshfield. + +“Mr. Vaughan?” she said. + +He raised his hat, much surprised. “Yes,” he answered. He fancied that +she was inspecting him very closely through her veil. “I am Mr. +Vaughan.” + +“Pardon me,” she continued—her voice was refined and low—“but they gave +me your name at the office. I have something which belongs to the lady +who travelled with you yesterday, and I am anxious to restore it.” + +He blushed; nor could he have repressed the blush if his life had hung +upon it. “Indeed?” he murmured. His confusion did not permit him to add +another word. + +“Doubtless it was left in the coach,” the lady explained, “and was +taken to my room with my luggage. Unfortunately I am leaving Bristol at +once, within a few minutes, and I cannot myself return it. I shall be +much obliged if you will see that she has it safely.” + +She spoke as if the thing were a matter of course. But Vaughan had now +recovered himself. “I would with pleasure,” he said; “but I am myself +leaving Bristol at midday, and I really do not know how—how I can do +it.” + +“Then perhaps you will arrange the matter,” the lady replied in a tone +of displeasure. “I have sent the parcel to your room and I have not +time to regain it. I must go at once. There is my maid! Good morning!” +And with a distant bow she glided from him, and disappeared through the +nearest doorway. + +He stood where she had left him, looking after her in bewilderment. For +one thing he was sure that she was a stranger, and yet she had +addressed him in the tone of one who had a right to be obeyed. Then how +odd it was! What a coincidence! He had made up his mind to end the +matter, to go and walk the Hot Wells like a good boy; and this happened +and tempted him! + +Yes, tempted him. + +He would—— But he could not tell what he would do until he had seen if +the parcel were really in his room. The parcel! The mere thought that +it was hers sent a foolish thrill through him. He would go and see, and +then—— + +But he was interrupted. There were people standing or sitting round the +hall, a low-ceiled, dark wainscoted room, with sheaves of way-bills +hung against the square pillars, and theatre notices flanking the bar +window. As he turned to seek his rooms a hand gripped his arm and +twitched him round, and he met the grinning face of a man in his old +regiment, Bob Flixton, commonly called the Honourable Bob. + +“So I’ve caught you, my lad,” said he. “This is mighty fine. Veiled +ladies, eh? Oh, fie! fie!” + +Vaughan, innocent as he was, was a little put out. But he answered +good-humouredly, “What brought you here, Flixton?” + +“Ay, just so! Very unlucky, ain’t it?” grinning. “Fear I’ll cut you +out, eh? You’re a neat artist, I must say.” + +“I don’t know the good lady from Eve!” + +“Tell that to—— But here, let me make you known to Brereton,” hauling +him towards a gentleman who was seated in one of the window recesses. +“Old West Indian man, in charge of the recruiting district, and a good +fellow, but a bit of a saint! Colonel,” he rattled on, as they joined +the gentleman, “here’s Vaughan, once of ours, become a counsellor, and +going to be Lord Chancellor. As to the veiled lady, mum, sir, mum!” +with an exaggerated wink. + +Vaughan laughed. It was impossible to resist Bob’s impudent +good-humour. He was a fair young man, short, stout, and inclining to +baldness, with a loud, hearty voice, and a manner which made those who +did not know him for a peer’s son, think of a domestic fowl with a high +opinion of itself. He was for ever damning this and praising that with +unflagging decision; a man with whom it was impossible to be +displeased, and in whom it was next to impossible not to believe. Yet +at the mess-table it was whispered that he did not play his best when +the pool was large; nor had he ever seen service, save in the lists of +love, where his reputation stood high. + +His companion, Vaughan saw, was of a different stamp. He was tall and +lean, with the air and carriage of a soldier, but with features of a +refined and melancholy cast, and with a brooding sadness in his eyes +which could not escape the most casual observer. He was somewhat +sallow, the result of the West Indian climate, and counted twenty years +more than Flixton, for whom his gentle and quiet manner formed an +admirable foil. He greeted Vaughan courteously, and the Honourable Bob +forced our hero into a seat beside them. + +“That’s snug!” he said. “And now mum’s the word, Vaughan. We’ll not ask +you what you’re doing here among the nigger-nabobs. It’s clear enough.” + +Vaughan explained that the veiled lady was a stranger who had come down +in the coach with him, and that, for himself, it was election business +which had brought him. + +“Old Vermuyden?” returned the Honourable Bob. “To be sure! Man you’ve +expectations from! Good old fellow, too. I know him. Go and see him one +of these days. Gad, Colonel, if old Sir Robert heard your views he’d +die on the spot! D——n the Bill, he’d say! And I say it too!” + +“But afterwards?” Brereton returned, drawing Vaughan into the argument +by a courteous gesture. “Consider the consequences, my dear fellow, if +the Bill does not pass.” + +“Oh, hang the consequences!” + +“You can’t,” drily. “You can hang men—we’ve been too fond of hanging +them—but not consequences! Look at the state of the country; everywhere +you will find excitement, and dangerous excitement. Cobbett’s writings +have roused the South; the papers are full of rioters and special +commission to try them! Not a farmer can sleep for thinking of his +stacks, nor a farmer’s wife for thinking of her husband. Then for the +North; look at Birmingham and Manchester and Glasgow, with their +Political Unions preaching no taxation without representation. Or, +nearer home, look at Bristol here, ready to drown the Corporation, and +Wetherell in particular, in the Float! Then, if that is the state of +things while they still expect the Bill to pass, what will be the +position if they learn it is not to pass? No, no! You may shrug your +shoulders, but the three days in Paris will be nothing to it.” + +“What I say is, shoot!” Flixton answered hotly. “Shoot! Shoot! Put ’em +down! Put an end to it! Show ’em their places! What do a lot of d——d +shopkeepers and peasants know about the Bill? Ride ’em down! Give ’em a +taste of the Float themselves! I’ll answer for it a troop of the 14th +would soon bring the Bristol rabble to their senses!” + +“I should be sorry to see it tried,” Brereton answered, shaking his +head. “They took that line in France last July, and you know the +result. You’ll agree with me, Mr. Vaughan, that where Marmont failed we +are not likely to succeed. The more as his failure is known. The three +days of July are known.” + +“Ay, by the Lord,” the Honourable Bob cried. “The revolution in France +bred the whole of this trouble!” + +“The mob there won, and the mob here know it. In my opinion,” Brereton +continued, “conciliation is our only card, if we do not want to see a +revolution.” + +“Hang your conciliation! Shoot, I say!” + +“What do you think, Mr. Vaughan?” + +“I think with you, Colonel Brereton,” Vaughan answered, “that the only +way to avoid such a crisis as has befallen France is to pass the Bill, +and to set the Constitution on a wider basis by enlisting as large a +number as possible in its defence.” + +“Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” from Flixton. + +“On the other hand,” Vaughan continued, “I would put down the +beginnings of disorder with a strong hand. I would allow no +intimidation, no violence. The Bill should be passed by argument.” + +“Argument? Why, d——n me, intimidation is your argument!” the Honourable +Bob struck in, with more acuteness than he commonly evinced. “Pass the +Bill or we’ll loose the dog! At ’em, Mob, good dog! At ’em! That’s your +argument!” triumphantly. “But I’ll be back in a minute.” And he left +them. + +Vaughan laughed. Brereton, however, seemed to be unable to take the +matter lightly. “Do you really mean, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, “that if +there were trouble, here, for instance, you would not hesitate to give +the order to fire?” + +“Certainly, sir, if it could not be put down with the cold steel.” + +The Colonel shook his head despondently. “I don’t think I could,” he +said. “I don’t think I could. You have not seen war, and I have. And it +is a fearful thing. Bad enough abroad, infinitely worse here. The first +shot—think, Mr. Vaughan, of what it might be the beginning! What +hundreds and thousands of lives might hang upon it! How many scores of +innocent men shot down, of daughters made fatherless!” He shuddered. +“And to give such an order on your own responsibility, when the first +volley might be the signal for a civil war, and twenty-four hours might +see a dozen counties in a blaze! It is horrible to think of! Too +horrible! It’s too much for one man’s shoulders! Flixton would do it—he +sees no farther than his nose! But you and I, Mr. Vaughan—and on one’s +own judgment, which might be utterly, fatally wrong! My God, no!” + +“Yet there must be a point,” Vaughan replied, “at which such an order +becomes necessary; becomes mercy!” + +“Ay,” Brereton answered eagerly; “but who is to say when that point is +reached; and that peaceful methods can do no more? Or, granted that +they can do no more, that provocation once given, your force is +sufficient to prevent a massacre! A massacre in such a place as this!” + +Vaughan saw that the idea had taken possession of the other’s mind, +and, aware that he had distinguished himself more than once on foreign +service, he wondered. It was not his affair, however; and “Let us hope +that the occasion may not arise,” he said politely. + +“God grant it!” Brereton replied. And then again, to himself and more +fervently, “God grant it!” he muttered. The shadow lay darker on his +face. + +Vaughan might have wondered more, if Flixton had not returned at that +moment and overwhelmed him with importunities to dine with him the next +evening. “Gage and Congreve of the 14th are coming from Gloucester,” he +said, “and Codrington and two or three yeomanry chaps. You must come. +If you don’t, I’ll quarrel with you and call you out! It’ll do you good +after the musty, fusty, goody-goody life you’ve been leading. +Brereton’s coming, and we’ll drink King Billy till we’re blind!” + +Vaughan hesitated. He had taken his place on the coach, but—but after +all there was that parcel. He must do something about it. It seemed to +be his fate to be tempted, yet—what nonsense that was! Why should he +not stay in Bristol if he pleased? + +“You’re very good,” he said at last. “I’ll stay.” + +Yet on his way to his room he paused, half-minded to go. But he was +ashamed to change his mind again, and he strode on, opened his door, +and saw the parcel, a neat little affair, laid on the table. + +It bore in a clear handwriting the address which he had seen on the +basket at Mary Smith’s feet. But, possibly because an hour of the +Honourable Bob’s company had brushed the bloom from his fancy, it moved +him little. He looked at it with something like indifference, felt no +inclination to kiss it, and smiled at his past folly as he took it up +and set off to return it to its owner. He had exaggerated the affair +and his feelings; he had made much out of little, and a romance out of +a chance encounter. He could smile now at that which had moved him +yesterday. Certainly: + +_Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart_, + +_’Tis woman’s whole existence; man may range_ + +_The Court, camp, Church, the vessel and the mart_, + +_Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange_ + +_Pride, fame, ambition to fill up his heart_. + + +And the Honourable Bob, with his breezy self-assertion, had brought +this home to him and, with a puff of everyday life, had blown the +fantasy away. + +He was still under this impression when he reached Queen’s Square, once +the pride of Bristol, and still, in 1831, a place handsome and well +inhabited. Uniformly and substantially built, on a site surrounded on +three sides by deep water, it lay, indeed, rather over-near the quays, +of which, and of the basins, it enjoyed a view through several +openings. But in the reign of William IV. merchants were less averse +from living beside their work than they are now. The master’s eye was +still in repute, and though many of the richest citizens had migrated +to Clifton, and the neighbouring Assembly Rooms in Prince’s Street had +been turned into a theatre, the spacious square, with its wide lawn, +its lofty and umbrageous elms, its colony of rooks, and, last of all, +its fine statue of the Glorious and Immortal Memory, was still the +abode of many respectable people. In one corner stood the Mansion +House; a little further along the same side the Custom House; and a +third public department, the Excise, also had offices here. + +The Cathedral and the Bishop’s Palace, on College Green, stood, as the +crow flies, scarce a bow-shot from the Square; on which they looked +down from the westward, as the heights of Redcliffe looked down on it +from the east. But marsh as well as water divided the Square from these +respectable neighbours; nor, it must be owned, was this the only +drawback. The centre of the city’s life, but isolated on three sides by +water, the Square was as easily reached from the worse as from the +better quarters, and owing to the proximity of the Welsh Back, a +coasting quay frequented by the roughest class, it was liable in times +of excitement to abrupt and boisterous inroads. + +Vaughan entered the Square by Queen Charlotte Street, and had traversed +one half of its width when his nonchalance failed him. Under the elms, +in the corner which he was approaching, were a dozen children. They +were at play, and overlooking them from a bench, with their backs to +him, sat two young persons, the one in that mid-stage between childhood +and womanhood when the eyes are at their sharpest and the waist at its +thickest, the other, Mary Smith. + +The colour rose to his brow, and to his surprise he found that he was +not indifferent. Nor was the discovery that the back of her head and an +inch of the nape of her neck had this effect upon him the worst. He had +to ask himself what, if he was not indifferent, he was doing there, +sneaking on the skirts of a ladies’ school. What were his intentions, +and what his aim? For to healthy minds there is something distasteful +in the notion of an intrigue connected, ever so remotely, with a girls’ +school. Nor are conquests gained on that scene laurels of which even a +Lothario is over-proud. If Flixton saw him, or some others of the +gallant Fourteenth! + +And yet, in the teeth of all this, and under the eyes of all Queen’s +Square, he must do his errand. And sheepish within, brazen without, he +advanced and stood beside her. She heard his step, and, unsuspicious as +the youngest of her flock, looked up to see who came—looked, and saw +him standing within a yard of her, with the sunshine falling through +the leaves on his wavy, fair hair. For the twentieth part of a second +he fancied a glint of glad surprise in her eyes. Then, if anything +could have punished him, it was the sight of her confusion; it was the +blush of distress which covered her face as she rose to her feet. + +Oh, cruel! He had pursued her, when to pursue was an insult! He had +followed her when he should have known that in her position a breath of +scandal was ruin! And oh, the round eyes of the round-faced child +beside her! + +“I must apologise,” he murmured humbly, “but I am not trespassing upon +you without a cause. I—I think that this is yours.” And rather lamely, +for the distress in her face troubled him, he held out the parcel. + +She put her hand behind her, and as stiffly as Miss Sibson—of the +Queen’s Square Academy for Young Ladies of the Genteel and Professional +Classes—could have desired. “I do not understand, sir,” she said. She +was pale and red by turns, as the round eyes saw. + +“You left this in the coach.” + +“I beg your pardon?” + +“You left this in the coach,” he repeated, turning very red himself. +Was it possible that she meant to repudiate her own property because he +brought it? “It is yours, is it not?” + +“No.” + +“It is not!” in incredulous astonishment. + +“No.” + +“But I am sure it is,” he persisted. Confound it, this was a little +overdoing modesty! He had no desire to eat the girl! “You left it +inside the coach, and it has your address upon it. See!” And he tried +to place it in her hands. + +But she drew back with a look of reprobation of which he would not have +believed her eyes capable. “It is not mine, sir,” she said. “Be good +enough to leave us!” And then, drawing herself up, mild creature as she +was, “You are intruding, sir,” she said. + +Now, if Vaughan had really been guilty of approaching her upon a +feigned pretext, he had certainly retired on that with his tail between +his legs. But being innocent, and both incredulous and angry, he stood +his ground, and his eyes gave back some of the reproach which hers +darted. + +“I am either mad or it is yours,” he said stubbornly, heedless of the +ring of staring children who, ceasing to play, had gathered round them. +“It bears your name and address, and it was left in the coach by which +you travelled yesterday. I think, Miss Smith, you will be sorry +afterwards if you do not take it.” + +She fancied that his words imported a bribe; and in despair of ridding +herself of him, or in terror of the tale which the children would tell, +she took her courage in both hands. “You say that it is mine?” she +said, trembling visibly. + +“Certainly I do,” he answered. And again he held it out to her. + +But she did not take it. Instead, “Then be good enough to follow me,” +she replied, with something of the prim dignity of the school-mistress. +“Miss Cooke, will you collect the children and bring them into the +house?” + +And, avoiding his eyes, she led the way across the road to the door of +one of the houses. He followed, but reluctantly, and after a moment of +hesitation. He detested the scene which he now foresaw, and bitterly +regretted that he had ever set foot inside Queen’s Square. To be +suspected of thrusting an intrigue upon a little schoolmistress, to be +dragged, with a pack of staring, chattering children in his train, +before some grim-faced duenna—he, a man of years and affairs, with whom +the Chancellor of England did not scorn to speak on equal terms! It was +hateful; it was an intolerable position. Yet to turn back, to say that +he would not go, was to acknowledge himself guilty. He wished—he wished +to heaven that he had never seen the girl. Or at least that he had had +the courage, when she first denied the thing, to throw the parcel on +the seat and go. + +It was not an heroic frame of mind; but neither was the position +heroic. And something may be forgiven him in the circumstances. + +Fortunately the trial was short. She opened the door of the house, and +on the threshold he found himself face to face with a tall, bulky +woman, with a double chin, and an absurdly powdered nose, who wore a +cameo of the late Queen Charlotte on her ample bosom. Miss Sibson had +viewed the encounter from an upper window, and her face was a picture +of displeasure, slightly tempered by powder. + +“What is this?” she asked, in an intimidating voice. “Miss Smith, what +is this, if you please?” + +Perhaps Mary, aware that her place was at stake, was desperate. At any +rate she behaved with a dignity which astonished Vaughan. “This +gentleman, Madam,” she explained, speaking with firmness though her +face was on fire, “travelled with me on the coach yesterday. A few +minutes ago he appeared and addressed me, and insisted that the—the +parcel he carries is mine, and that I left it in the coach. It is not +mine, and I have not seen it before.” + +Miss Sibson folded her arms upon her ample person. The position was not +altogether new to her. + +“Sir,” she said, eying the offender majestically, “have you any +explanation to offer—of this extraordinary conduct?” + +He had, indeed. As clearly as his temper permitted he told his tale, +his tone half ironical, half furious. + +When he paused, “Who do you say gave it to you?” Miss Sibson asked in a +deep voice. + +“I do not know her name. A lady who travelled in the coach.” + +Miss Sibson’s frown grew even deeper. “Thank you,” she replied, “that +will do. I have heard enough, and I understand. I understand, sir. Be +good enough to leave the house.” + +“But, Madam——” + +“Be good enough to leave the house,” she repeated. “That is the door,” +pointing to it. “That is the door, sir! Any apology you may wish to +make, you can make by letter to me. To me, you understand! I think one +were not ill-fitting!” + +He lost his temper altogether at that, and he flung the parcel with +violence, and with a violent word, on a chair. “Then at any rate I +shall not take that, for it’s not mine!” he cried. “You may keep it, +Madam!” + +And he flung out, his retreat hampered and made humiliating by the +entrance of the pupils, who, marshalled by the round-eyed one, and all +round-eyed themselves, blocked the doorway at that unlucky moment. He +broke through them without ceremony, though they represented the most +respectable families in Bristol, and with his head bent he strode +wrathfully across the Square. + +To be turned out of a girls’ boarding-school! To be shown the door like +some wretched philandering schoolboy, or a subaltern in his first +folly! He, the man of the world, of experience, of ambition! The man +with a career! He was furious. + +“The little cat!” he cried as he went. “I wish I had never seen her +face! What a fool, what a fool I was to come!” + +Unheroic words and an unheroic mood. But though there were heroes +before Agamemnon, it is not certain that there were any after George +the Fourth. At any rate, any who, like that great man, were heroic +always and in all circumstances. + +Probably Vaughan would have forgiven the little cat had he known that +she was at that moment weeping very bitterly, with her face plunged +into the pillow of her not over-luxurious bed. For she was young, and a +woman. And because, in her position, the name of love was taboo; +because to her the admiring look, which to a more fortunate sister was +homage, was an insult; because the _petits soins_, the flower, the +note, the trifle that to another were more precious than jewels, were +not for her, it did not follow that she was not flesh and blood, that +she had not feeling, affection, passion. True, the pang was soon +deadened, for habit is strong. True, the bitter tears were soon dried, +for employers like not gloomy looks. True, she soon cried shame on her +own discontent, for she was good as gold. And yet to be debarred, in +the tender springtime, from the sweet scents, the budding blooms, the +gay carols, to have but one April coach-ride in a desert of days, is +hard—is very hard. Mary Smith, weeping on her hopeless pillow—not +without thought of the cruel arch stooping to crush her, the cruel fate +from which he had snatched her, not without thought of her own +ingratitude, her black ingratitude—felt that it was hard, very hard. + + + + +IX +THE BILL FOR GIVING EVERYBODY EVERYTHING! + + +It is difficult to describe and impossible to exaggerate the heat of +public feeling which preceded the elections of ’31. Four-fifths of the +people of this country believed that the Bill—from which they expected +so much that a satirist has aptly given it the title at the head of +this chapter—had been defeated in the late House by a trick. That trick +the King, God bless him, had punished by dissolving the House. It +remained for the people to show their sense of the trick by returning a +very different House; such a House as would not only pass the Bill, but +pass it by a majority so decisive that the Lords, and particularly the +Bench of Bishops, whose hostility was known, would not dare to oppose +the public will. + +But as no more than a small proportion of these four-fifths had votes, +they were forced to act, if they would make their will obeyed, +indirectly; in one place by the legitimate pressure of public opinion, +in another by bribery, in a third by intimidation, in a fourth, and a +fifth, and a sixth by open violence; everywhere by the unspoken threat +of revolution. And hence arose the one good, sound, and firm argument +against the Bill which the Tory party enjoyed. + +One or two of their other arguments are not without interest, if only +as the defence set up for a system so anomalous as to seem to us +incredible—a system under which Gatton, with no inhabitants, returned +two members, and Sheffield, with something like a hundred thousand +inhabitants, returned none; under which Dunwich, long drowned under the +North Sea, returned two members, and Birmingham returned none; under +which the City of London returned four and Lord Lonsdale returned nine; +under which Cornwall, with one-fourth of the population of Lancashire, +returned thrice as many representatives; under which the South vastly +outweighed the North, and land mightily outweighed all other property. + +Moreover, in no two boroughs was the franchise the same. One man lived +in a hovel and had a vote; his neighbour lived in a mansion and had no +vote. Frequently the whole of the well-to-do townsfolk were voteless. +Then, while any man with five thousand pounds might buy a seat, nor see +the face of a single elector, on the other hand, the poll might be kept +open for fifteen days, and a single county election might cost two +hundred thousand pounds. Bribery, forbidden in theory, was permitted in +practice. The very Government bribed under the rose, and it was +humorously said that all that a man’s constituents required was to be +satisfied of the _impurity_ of his intentions! + +An anomalous system; yet its defenders had something to say for it. + +First, that narrow as the franchise seemed, every class found somewhere +in England its mouthpiece. At Preston, where all could vote who slept +in the borough the previous night, the poorest class; in the +potwalloping boroughs where a fireplace gave a vote, the next class; in +a city like Westminster, the ratepayers; in the counties, the +freeholders; in the universities, the clergy. And so on, the argument +being that the very anomalies of the system provided a mixed +representation without giving the masses a preponderant voice. + +Secondly, they said that it insured a House of ability, by enabling +young men of parts, but small means, to obtain seats. Those who put +this forward flourished a long list of statesmen who had come in for +nomination boroughs. It began with Pitt and ended with Macaulay—a +feather plucked from the enemy’s wing; and Burke stood for much in it. +It became one of the commonplaces of the struggle. + +The third contention was of greater weight. It was that, with all its +abuses, the old system had worked well. This argument, too, had its +commonplace. The proverb, _stare super antiquas vias_, was thundered +from a thousand platforms, coupled with copious references to the +French wars, and to the pilot who had weathered the storm. This was the +argument of the old, and the rich, and the timid—of those who clung to +top-boots in the daytime and to pantaloons in the evening. But as the +struggle progressed it came to be merged in the one sound argument to +which reference has been made. + +“If you do not pass the Bill,” said the Whigs, “there will be a +revolution.” + +“Possibly,” the Tories rejoined. “And whom have we to thank for that? +Who, using the French Revolution of last July as a fulcrum, have +unsettled the whole country? And now, having disturbed everything, tell +us that we must grant to force what is not due to reason? You! But if +the Bill is to pass, not because it is a good Bill, but because the mob +desire it, where will this end? Pass Bills out of fear, and where will +you end? Presently there will arise a ranting adventurer, more violent +than Brougham, a hoary schemer more unscrupulous than Grey, an angry +boy, outscolding Durham, a pedant more bloodless than Lord John, an +honest fanatic blinder than Althorp! And when _they_ threaten _you_ +with the terrors of the mob, what will you say?” + +To which the Whigs could only reply that the people must be trusted; +and—and that the Bill must pass, or not only coronets but crowns would +be flying. + +Dry arguments nowadays; but in those days alive, and to the party on +its defence—the party which found itself thrust against the wall, that +its pockets might be emptied—of vital interest. From scores of +platforms candidates, leaning forward, bland and smiling, with one hand +under the coat-tails and the other gently pumping, pumping, pumping, +enunciated them—old hands these; or, red in the face, thundered them, +striking fist into palm and overawing opposition; or, hopeless amid the +rain of dead cats and stale eggs, muttered them in a reporter’s ear, +since the hootings of the crowd made other utterance impossible. But +ever as the contest went on, the smiling candidate grew rarer; for day +by day the Tories, seeing their cause hopeless, seeing even Whigs, such +as Sir Thomas Acland in Devonshire and Mr. Wilson Patten in Lancashire, +cast out if they were lukewarm, grew more desperate, cried more loudly +on high heaven, asserted more frantically that justice was dead on the +earth. All this, while those who believed that the Bill was going to +give everything to everybody pushed their advantage without mercy. Many +a borough which had not known a contest for a generation, many a +county, was fought and captured. No Tory felt safe; no bargain, though +signed and sealed, held good; no patron, though he had held his income +from his borough as secure as any part of his property, could say that +his voters would dare to go to the poll. + +This last was the apprehension in the mind of Isaac White, Sir Robert +Vermuyden’s agent, as on the day after Lady Lansdowne’s visit he drove +his gig and fast-trotting cob up the avenue. The treble front of the +house looked down on him from its gentle eminence; its windows blinked +in the afternoon sunshine, and the mellow tints of the stone harmonised +with the russet bloom which in April garbs the poplar and the +later-bursting trees. Tradition said that the second baronet had built +a wing for each of his two sons. After the death of the elder, however, +the east wing had been devoted to kitchens and offices, and the west to +a splendid hospitality. In these days the latter wing was so seldom +used that it had almost fallen into decay. Laurels grew up before the +side windows and darkened them, and bats lived in the dry chimneys. The +rooms above stairs were packed with the lumber of the last century, +with the old wig-boxes, the old travelling-trunks, the old +harpsichords, even an old sedan chair; while the lower rooms, swept and +bare, and hung with flat, hard portraits, enjoyed an evil reputation in +the servants’ quarters, where many a one could tell of skirts that +rustled unseen, and dead feet that trod the polished floors. + +But to Isaac White all this was nought. He had seen the house in every +aspect; and to-day his mind was filled with other things—with votes and +voters, with some anxiety on his own account and more on his patron’s. +What would Sir Robert say if aught went wrong at Chippinge? True, the +loss of the borough seemed barely possible; it had been held securely +for many years. But the times were so stormy, public feeling ran so +high, the mob was so rough, that nothing seemed impossible, in view of +the stress to which the soundest candidates were exposed. If Mr. Bankes +stood to fail in Dorset, if Mr. Duncombe had small chance in Yorkshire, +if Sir Edward Knatchbull was a lost man in Kent, if Mr. Hart Davies was +no better in Bristol, if no man but an out-and-out Reformer could count +on success, who was safe? + +White’s grandfather, his father, he himself had lived and thriven by +the system which he saw tottering to its fall. He belonged to it, he +was part of it; did he not mark his allegiance to it by wearing +top-boots in the daytime and shorts in full dress? And he was +prepared—were it only out of gratitude to the ladder by which he had +risen—to stand by it and by his patron to the last. But, strange +anomaly, White was at heart a Cobbett man. His sneaking sympathies +were, in his own despite, with the class from which he sprang. He saw +commons filched from the poor, while the labourers fell on the rates. +He saw large taxes wrung from the country to be spent in the town. He +saw the severity of the laws, and especially the game laws. He saw +absentee rectors and starving curates. He saw the dumb impotence of +nine-tenths of the people; and he felt that the system under which +these things had grown up was wrong. But wrong or right, he was part of +it, he was pledged to it; and all the theories in the world, and all +the “Political Registers” which he digested of an evening, would not +induce him to betray it. + +Notwithstanding, he feared that in the matter of the borough he had not +been quite so wide-awake as became him; or Pybus, the Bowood man, would +not have stolen a march upon him. His misgivings grew as he came in +sight of the door, and saw Sir Robert on the flight of steps which led +to it. Apparently the baronet had seen him, for as White drove up a +servant appeared to lead the mare to the stables. + +Sir Robert looked her over as she was led away. “The grey looks well, +White,” he said. She was of his breeding. + +“Yes, Sir Robert. Give me a good horse and they may have the +new-fangled railroads that like them. But I am afraid, sir——” + +“One moment!” The servant was out of hearing, and the baronet’s tone, +as he caught White up, betrayed agitation. “Who is that looking over +the Lower Wicket, White?” he continued. “She has been there a quarter +of an hour, and—and I can’t make her out.” + +His tone surprised White, who looked and saw at a distance of a hundred +paces the figure of a woman leaning on the wicket-gate nearest the +stables. She was motionless, and he had not looked many seconds before +he caught the thought in Sir Robert’s mind. “He’s heard,” he reflected, +“that her ladyship is in the neighbourhood, and it has alarmed him.” + +“I cannot see at this distance, sir,” he answered prudently, “who it +is.” + +“Then go and ask her her business,” Sir Robert said, as indifferently +as he could. “She has been there a long time.” + +White went, a little excited himself; but half-way to the woman, who +continued to gaze at the house as if unconscious of his approach, he +discovered that, whoever she was, she was not Lady Sybil. She was +stout, middle-aged, plain; and he took a curt tone with her when he +came within earshot. “What are you doing here?” he said. “That’s the +way to the servants’ hall.” + +The woman looked at him. “You don’t know me, Mr. White?” she said. + +He looked hard in return. “No,” he answered bluntly, “I don’t.” + +“Ah, well, I know you,” she replied. “More by token——” + +He cut her short. “Have you any message?” he asked. + +“If I have, I’ll give it myself,” she retorted drily. “Truth is, I’m in +two minds about it. What you have, you have, d’you see, Mr. White; but +what you’ve given ain’t yours any more. Anyway——” + +“Anyway,” impatiently, “you can’t stay here!” + +“Very good,” she replied, “very good. As you are so kind, I’ll take a +day to think of it.” And with a cool nod she turned her back on the +puzzled White, and went off down the park towards the town. + +He went back to Sir Robert. “She’s a stranger, sir,” he said; “and, I +think, a bit gone in the head. I could make nothing of her.” + +Sir Robert drew a deep breath. “You’re sure she was a stranger?” he +said. + +“She’s no one I know, sir. After one of the men, perhaps.” + +Sir Robert straightened himself. He had spent a bad ten minutes gazing +at the distant figure. “Just so,” he said. “Very likely. And now what +is it, White?” + +“I’ve bad news, sir, I’m afraid,” the agent said, in an altered tone. + +“What is it?” + +“It’s that d——d Pybus, sir! I’m afraid that, after all——” + +“They’re going to fight?” + +“I’m afraid, Sir Robert, they are.” + +The old gentleman’s eyes gleamed. “Afraid, sir, afraid?” he cried. “On +the contrary, so much the better. It will cost me some money, but I can +spare it; and it will cost them more, and nothing for it. Afraid? I +don’t understand you.” + +The agent, standing on the step below him, coughed dubiously. “Well, +sir,” he said, “what you say is reasonable. But——” + +“But! But what?” + +“There is so much excitement in the country at this time——” + +“So much greediness in the country,” Sir Robert retorted, striking his +stick upon the stone steps. “So much unscrupulousness, sir; so many +liars promising, and so many fools listening; so much to get, and so +many who would like it! There’s all that, if you please; but for +excitement, I don’t know”—with a severe look—“what you mean, or what it +has to do with us.” + +“I am afraid, sir, there is bad news from Devon, where it is said our +candidate is retiring.” + +“A good man, but weak; neither one side nor the other.” + +“And from Dorset, sir, where they say Mr. Bankes will be beaten.” + +“I’ll not believe it,” Sir Robert answered positively. “I’ll never +believe it. Mr. Bankes beaten in Dorset! Absurd! Why do you listen to +such tales? Why do you listen? By G—d, White, what is the matter with +you? Or how does it touch us if Mr. Bankes is beaten? Nine votes to +four! Nine will still be nine, and four four, if he be beaten. When you +can make four to be more than nine you may come whining to me!” + +White coughed. “Dyas, the butcher——” + +“What of him?” + +“Well, Sir Robert, I am afraid he has been getting some queer notions.” + +“Notions?” the baronet echoed in astonishment. + +“He has been listening to someone, and—and thinks he has views on the +Bill.” + +Sir Robert exploded. “Views!” he cried. “Views! The butcher with views! +Why, damme, White, you must be mad! Mad! Since when have butchers taken +to politics, or had views?” + +“I don’t know anything about that, sir,” White mumbled. + +Sir Robert struck his stick fiercely on a step. “But I do! I do! And I +know this,” he continued, “that for twenty years he’s had thirty pounds +a year to vote as I tell him. By gad, I never heard such a thing in my +life! Never! You don’t mean to tell me that the man thinks the vote’s +his own to do what he likes with?” + +“I am afraid,” the agent admitted reluctantly, “that that is what he’s +saying, sir.” + +Sir Robert’s thin face turned a dull red. “I never heard of such +impudence in all my life,” he said, “never! A butcher with views! And +going to vote for them! Why, damme,” he continued, with angry sarcasm, +“we’ll have the tailors, the bakers, and the candlestickmakers voting +their own way next. Good G—d! What does the man think he’s had thirty +pounds a year for for all these years, if not to do as he is bid?” + +“He’s behaving very ill, sir,” White said, severely, “very ill.” + +“Ill!” Sir Robert cried; “I should think he was, the scoundrel!” And he +foamed over afresh, though we need not follow him. When he had cooled +somewhat, “Well,” he said, “I can turn him out, and that I’ll do, neck +and crop! By G—d, I will! I’ll ruin him. But there, it’s the big rats +set the fashion and the little ones follow it. This is Spinning Jenny’s +work. I wish I had cut off my hand before I voted for him. Well, well, +well!” And he stood a moment in bitter contemplation of Sir Robert +Peel’s depravity. It was nothing that Sir Robert was sound on reform. +By adopting the Catholic side on the claims he—he, whose very nickname +was Orange Peel—had rent the party. And all these evils were the +result! + +The agent coughed. + +Sir Robert, who was no fool, looked sharply at him. “What!” he said +grimly. “Not another renegade?” + +“No, sir,” White answered timidly. “But Thrush, the pig-killer—he’s one +of the old lot, the Cripples, that your father put into the +corporation——” + +“Ay, and I wish I had kept them cripples.” Sir Robert growled. “All +cripples! My father was right, and I was a fool to think better men +would do as well, and do us credit. In his time there were but two of +the thirteen could read and write; but they did as they were bid. They +did as they were bid. And now—well, man, what of Thrush?” + +“He was gaoled yesterday by Mr. Forward, of Steynsham, for assault.” + +“For how long?” + +“For a fortnight, sir.” + +Sir Robert nearly had a fit. He reared himself to his full height, and +glared at White. “The infernal rascal!” he cried. “He did it on +purpose!” + +“I’ve no doubt, sir, that it determined them to fight,” the agent +answered. “With Dyas they are five. And five to seven is not such—such +odds that they may not have some hope of winning.” + +“Five to seven!” Sir Robert repeated; and at an end of words, at an end +of oaths, could only stare aghast. “Five to seven!” he muttered. +“You’re not going to tell me—there’s something more.” + +“No, sir, no; that’s the worst,” White answered, relieved that his tale +was told. “That’s the worst, and may be bettered. I’ve thought it well +to postpone the nomination until Wednesday the 4th, to give Sergeant +Wathen a better chance of dealing with Dyas.” + +“Well, well!” Sir Robert muttered. “It has come to that. It has come to +dealing with such men as butchers, to treating them as if they had +minds to alter and views to change. Well, well!” + +And that was all Sir Robert could say. And so it was settled; the +Vermuyden dinner for the 2nd, the nomination and polling for the 4th. +“You’ll let Mr. Vaughan know,” Sir Robert concluded. “It’s well we can +count on somebody.” + + + + +X +THE QUEEN’S SQUARE ACADEMY FOR YOUNG LADIES + + +Miss Sibson sat in state in her parlour in Queen’s Square. Rather more +dignified of mien than usual, and more highly powdered of nose, the +schoolmistress was dividing her attention between the culprit in the +corner, the elms outside—between which fledgeling rooks were making +adventurous voyages—and the longcloth which she was preparing for the +young ladies’ plain-sewing; for in those days plain-sewing was still +taught in the most select academies. Nor, while she was thus engaged in +providing for the domestic training of her charges, was she without +assurance that their minds were under care. The double doors which +separated the schoolroom from the parlour were ajar, and through the +aperture one shrill voice after another could be heard, raised in +monotonous perusal of Mrs. Chapone’s “Letters to a Young Lady upon the +Improvement of the Mind.” + +Miss Sibson wore her best dress, of black silk, secured half-way down +the bodice by the large cameo brooch. But neither this nor the reading +in the next room could divert her attention from her duties. + +“The tongue,” she enunciated with great clearness, as she raised the +longcloth in both hands and carefully inspected it over her glasses, +“is an unruly member. Ill-nature,” she continued, slowly meting off a +portion, and measuring a second portion against it, “is the fruit of a +bad heart. Our opinions of others”—this with a stern look at Miss +Hilhouse, fourteen years old, and in disgrace—“are the reflections of +ourselves.” + +The young lady, who was paying with the backboard for a too ready wit, +put out the unruly member, and, narrowly escaping detection, looked +inconceivably sullen. + +“The face is the mirror to the mind,” Miss Sibson continued +thoughtfully, as she threaded a needle against the light. “I hope, Miss +Hilhouse, that you are now sorry for your fault.” + +Miss Hilhouse maintained a stolid silence. Her shoulders ached, but she +was proud. + +“Very good,” said Miss Sibson placidly; “very good! With time comes +reflection.” + +Time, a mere minute, brought more than reflection. A gentleman walked +quickly across the fore-court to the door, the knocker fell sharply, +and Miss Hilhouse’s sullenness dropped from her. She looked first +uncomfortable, then alarmed. “Please, may I go now?” she muttered. + +Wise Miss Sibson paid no heed. “A gentleman?” she said to the maid who +had entered. “Will I see him? Procure his name.” + +“Oh, Miss Sibson,” came from the corner in an agonised whisper, “please +may I go?” Fourteen standing on a stool with a backboard could not bear +to be seen by the other sex. + +Miss Sibson looked grave. “Are you sincerely sorry for your fault?” she +asked. + +“Yes.” + +“And will you apologise to Miss Smith for your—your gross rudeness?” + +“Ye-es.” + +“Then go and do so,” Miss Sibson replied; “and close the doors after +you.” + +The girl fled. And simultaneously Miss Sibson rose, with a mixture of +dignity and blandness, to receive Arthur Vaughan. The schoolmistress of +that day who had not manner at command had nothing; for deportment +ranked among the essentials. And she was quite at her ease. The same +could not be said of the gentleman. But that his pride still smarted, +but that the outrage of yesterday was fresh, but that he drew a savage +satisfaction from the prospect of the apologies he was here to receive, +he had not come. Even so, he had told himself more than once that he +was a fool to come; a fool to set foot in the house. He was almost sure +that he had done more wisely had he burned the letter in which the +schoolmistress informed him that she had an explanation to offer—and so +had made an end. + +But if in place of meeting him with humble apologies, this confounded +woman were going to bear herself as if no amends were due, he had +indeed made a mistake. + +Yet her manner said almost as much as that. “Pray be seated, sir,” she +said; and she indicated a chair. + +He sat down stiffly, and glowered at her. “I received your note,” he +said. + +She smoothed her ample lap, and looked at him more graciously. “Yes,” +she said, “I was relieved to find that the unfortunate occurrence of +yesterday was open to another explanation.” + +“I have yet,” he said curtly, “to hear the explanation.” Confound the +woman’s impudence! + +“Exactly,” she said slowly. “Exactly. Well, it turns out that the +parcel you left behind you when you”—for an instant a smile broke the +rubicund placidity of her face—“when you retired so hurriedly contained +a pelisse.” + +“Indeed?” he said drily. + +“Yes; and a letter.” + +“Oh?” + +“Yes; a letter from a lady who has for some years taken an interest in +Miss Smith. The pelisse proved to be a gift from her.” + +“Then I fail to see——” + +“Exactly,” Miss Sibson interposed blandly, indeed too blandly. “You +fail to see why you came to be selected as the bearer? So do I. Perhaps +you can explain that.” + +“No,” he answered shortly. “Nor is that my affair. What I fail to see, +Madam, is why Miss Smith did not at once suspect that the present came +from the lady in question.” + +“Because,” Miss Sibson replied, “the lady was not known to be in this +part of England; and because you, sir, maintained that Miss Smith had +left the parcel in the coach.” + +“I maintained what I was told.” + +“But it was not the fact. However, let that pass.” + +“No,” Vaughan retorted, with some warmth. “For it seems to me, Madam, +very extraordinary that in a matter which was capable of so simple an +explanation you should have elected to insult a stranger—a stranger +who——” + +“Who was performing no more than an office of civility, you would say?” + +“Precisely.” + +“Well—yes.” Miss Sibson spoke slowly, and was silent for a moment after +she had spoken. Then, somewhat abruptly, “You are an usher, I think,” +she said, “at Mr. Bengough’s?” + +Vaughan almost jumped in his chair. “I, Madam?” he cried. “Certainly +not!” + +“Not at Mr. Bengough’s?” + +“Certainly not!” he repeated, with indignation. Was the woman mad? An +usher? Good heavens! + +“I know your name,” she said slowly. “But——” + +“I came from London the day before yesterday. I am staying at the White +Lion, and I am late of the 14th Dragoons.” + +She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, indeed,” she said. “Is that so? Well,” +rubbing a little of the powder from her nose with a needlecase, and +looking at him very shrewdly, “I think,” she continued, “that that is +the answer to your question.” + +Vaughan stared. + +“I do not understand you,” he said. + +“Then I must speak more plainly. Were you an usher at Mr. Bengough’s +your civility—civility, I think you called it?—to my assistant had +passed very well, Mr. Vaughan. But the civility of a gentleman, late of +the 14th Dragoons, fresh from London, and staying at the White Lion, to +a young person in Miss Smith’s position is apt, as in this case—eh?—to +lead to misconstruction.” + +“You do me an injustice!” he said, reddening to the roots of his hair. + +“Possibly, possibly,” Miss Sibson said. But on that, without warning, +she gave way to a fit of silent laughter, which caused her portly form +to shake like a jelly. It was a habit with her, attributed by some to +her private view of Mrs. Chapone’s famous letters on the improvement of +the mind; by others, to that knowledge of the tricks and turns of her +sex with which thirty years of schoolkeeping had endowed her. + +No doubt the face of rueful resentment with which Arthur Vaughan +regarded her did not shorten the fit. But at last, “Young gentleman,” +she said, “you do not deceive me! You did not come here to-day merely +to hear an old woman make an apology.” + +He tried to maintain an attitude of dignified surprise. But her jolly +laugh, her shrewd red face were too much for him. His eyes fell. “Upon +my honour,” he said, “I meant nothing.” + +She shook with fresh laughter. “It is just of that I complain, sir,” +she said. + +“You can trust me.” + +“I can trust Miss Smith,” she retorted, shaking her head. “Her I know, +though our acquaintance is of the shortest. Still, I know her from top +to toe. You, young gentleman, I don’t know. Mind,” she continued, with +good-nature, “I don’t say that you meant any harm when you came to-day. +But I’ll wager you thought that you’d see her.” + +Vaughan laughed out frankly. Her humour had conquered him. “Well,” he +said audaciously, “and am I not to see her?” + +Miss Sibson looked at him, and rubbed a little more powder from her +nose. “Umph!” she said doubtfully. “If I knew you I’d know what to say +to that. A pretty girl, eh?” she added with her head on one side. + +He smiled. + +“And a good one! And if you were the usher at Mr. Bengough’s I’d ask no +more, but I’d send for her. But——” + +She stopped. Vaughan said nothing, but a little out of countenance +looked at the floor. + +“Just so, just so,” Miss Sibson said, as quietly as if he had answered +her. “Well, I am afraid I must not send for her.” + +He looked at the carpet. “I have seen so little of her,” he said. + +“And I daresay you are a man of property?” + +“I am independent.” + +“Well, well, there it is.” Miss Sibson smoothed out the lap of her silk +dress. + +“I do not think,” he said, in some embarrassment, “that five minutes’ +talk would hurt her.” + +“Umph!” + +He laughed—an awkward laugh. “Come, Miss Sibson,” he said. “Let us have +the five minutes, and let us both have the chance.” + +She looked out of the window, and rubbed her glasses reflectively. +“Well,” she said at length, as if she had not quite made up her mind, +“I will be quite frank with you, Mr. Vaughan. I did not intend to be +so, but you have met me half-way, and I believe you to be a gentleman. +The truth is, I should not have gone as far with you as I have +unless”—she looked at him suddenly—“I had had a character of you.” + +“Of me?” he cried in astonishment. + +“Yes.” + +“From Miss Smith?” + +Miss Sibson smiled at his simplicity. “Oh, no,” she said; “you are +going to see the character.” And with that the schoolmistress drew from +her workbox a small slip of paper, which she unfolded and gave to him. +“It is from the lady,” she said, “who made use of you yesterday.” + +He took it in much astonishment. On the inner side of the paper, which +was faintly scented, he read a dozen words in a fine handwriting: + +“Mary Smith, from her fairy godmother. The bearer may be trusted.” + +Vaughan stared at the paper in undiminished surprise. “I don’t +understand,” he said. “Who is the lady, and what does she know of me?” + +“I cannot tell you, nor can Miss Smith,” Miss Sibson replied. “Who, +indeed, has seen her only twice or thrice, at long intervals, and has +not heard her name. But Miss Smith’s education—she has never known her +parents—was defrayed, I presume, by this godmother. And once a year +Miss Smith has been in the habit of receiving a gift, of some value to +a young person in her position, accompanied by a few words in that +handwriting.” + +Vaughan stared. “And,” he said, “you draw the inference that—that——” + +“I draw no inference,” Miss Sibson replied drily, “save that I have +authority from—shall I say her godmother—to trust you farther than I +should have trusted you. That is the only inference I draw. But I have +one thing to add,” she continued. “Miss Smith did not enter my +employment in an ordinary way. My late assistant left me abruptly. +While I was at a loss an attorney of character in this city called on +me and said that a client desired to place a young person in safe +hands; that she was a trained teacher, and must live by teaching, but +that care was necessary, since she was very young, and had more than +her share of good looks. He hinted, Mr. Vaughan, at the inference which +you, I believe, have already drawn. And—and that is all.” + +Vaughan looked thoughtfully at the carpet. + +Miss Sibson waited awhile. At last: “The point is,” she said shrewdly, +“do you still wish to have the five minutes?” + +Arthur Vaughan hesitated. He knew that he ought, that it was his duty, +to say “No.” But something in the woman’s humorous eye challenged him, +and recklessly—for the gratification of a moment—he said: “Yes, if you +please, I will see her.” + +“Very good, very good,” Miss Sibson answered slowly. She had not been +blind to the momentary hesitation. “Then I will send her to you to make +her apologies. Only be kind enough to remember that she does not know +that you have seen that slip of paper.” + +He assented, and with a good-natured nod Miss Sibson rose and went +heavily from the room. Not for nothing was she held in Bristol a woman +of sagacity, whose game of whist it was a pleasure to watch; nor +without reason had that attorney of character, of whom we have heard, +chosen her _in custodiam puellæ_. + +Vaughan waited, and to be frank, his heart beat more quickly than +usual. He knew that he was doing a foolish thing, though he had refused +to commit himself; and an unworthy thing, though Miss Sibson, perhaps +for her own reasons, had winked at it. He knew that he had no right to +see the girl if he did not mean her well; and how could he mean her +well when he had no intention of marrying her? For, for a man with his +career in prospect to marry a girl in her position—to say nothing of +the stigma which no doubt lay upon her birth—was a folly of which none +but boys and old men were capable. + +He listened, ill at ease, already repenting. The voices in the next +room, reduced to a faint murmur by the closed doors, ceased. She was +being told. She was being sent to him. He coloured. Yes, he was ashamed +of himself. He rose and went to the window, and wished that he had said +“No”; that he had taken himself off. What was he doing here at his time +of life—the most sane and best balanced time of life—in this girls’ +school? It was unworthy of him. + +The door opened, and he forgot his unworthiness, he forgot all. The +abnormal attraction, allurement, charm, call it what you will, which +had overcome him when she turned her eyes on him on the coach overcame +him again—and tenfold. He thought that it must lie in her eyes, gentle +as a dove’s. And yet he did not know. He had not seen her indoors +before, and her hair gathered in a knot at the back of her head was a +Greek surprise to him; while her blushes, the quivering of her mouth, +her figure slender but full of grace, and high-girdled after the mode +of the day—all, all were so perfect, so enticing, that he knew not +where the magic lay. + +But magic there was. And such magic that though he had prepared +himself, and though the last thing in his thoughts was to insult her, +he forgot himself. As she paused, her hand still resting on the door, +her face downcast and distressed, “Good G—d,” he cried, “how beautiful +you are!” + +And she saw that he meant no insult, that the words burst from him +spontaneously. But not the less for that was their effect on her. She +turned white, her very heart seeming to stop, she appeared to be about +to swoon. While he, forgetting all but her shrinking beauty, devoured +her with his eyes. + +Until he remembered himself. Then he turned from her to the window. +“Forgive me!” he cried. “I did not know what I said. You came on me so +suddenly; you looked so beautiful——” + +He stopped; he could not go on. + +And she was trembling from head to foot; but she made an effort to +escape back to the commonplace. “I came,” she stammered—it was clear +that she hardly knew what she was saying—“Miss Sibson told me to come +to say that I—I was sorry, sir, that I—I misjudged you yesterday.” + +“Yesterday? Yesterday?” he cried, almost angrily. “Bah, it is an age +since yesterday!” + +She could make no answer to that, though she knew well what he meant. +If she answered him it was only by suffering him to gaze at her in an +eloquent silence—a silence in which his eyes cried again and again, +“How beautiful you are!” While her eyes, downcast, under trembling +lashes, her heart beaten down, defenceless, cried only for “Quarter, +quarter!” + +They were yards apart. The table, and on it Miss Sibson’s squat workbox +and a pile of longcloth, was between them. Miss Sibson herself could +have desired nothing more proper. And yet— + +_Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield, +Thy lord at length is forced to yield. +Vain, vain is every outward care, +The foe’s within and triumphs there!_ + + +It was all over. In her ears would ring for ever his words of +worship—the cry of the man to the woman, “How beautiful you are!” She +would thrill with pleasure when she thought of them, and burn with +shame, and never, never, never be the same again! And for him, with +that cry forced from him, love had become present, palpable, real, and +the idea of marriage real also; an idea to be withstood, to be +combated, to be treated as foolish, Byronic, impossible. But an idea +which would not leave him any more than the image of her gentle beauty, +indelibly stamped on his brain, would leave him. He might spend some +days or some weeks in doubt and wretchedness. But from that moment the +odds were against him—he was young, and passion had never had her way +with him—as seriously against him as against the army that with spies +and traitors in its midst moves against an united foe. + +Not a word that was _convenant_ had passed between them, though so much +had passed, when a hasty footstep crossed the forecourt, and stopped at +the door. The knocker fell sharply twice, and recalled them to +realities. + +“I—I must go,” she faltered, wresting herself from the spell of his +eyes. “I have said what I—I hope you understand, and I—it is time I +went.” How her heart was beating! + +“Oh, no, no!” + +“Yes, I must go!” + +Too late! A loud voice in the passage, a heavy step, announced a +visitor. The door flew open, and there entered, pushing the startled +maid aside, the Honourable Bob Flixton, at the height of his glory, +loud, impudent, and unabashed. + +“Run to earth, my lad!” he cried boisterously. “Run to earth! Run——” + +He broke off, gaping, as his eyes fell upon poor Mary, who, in making +way for him, had partly hidden herself behind the door. He whistled +softly, in great amazement, and “Hope I don’t intrude,” he continued. +And he grinned; while Vaughan, looking blackest thunder at him, could +find no words that were adequate. To think that this loud-voiced, +confident fool, the Don Giovanni of the regiment, had stumbled on his +pearl! + +“Well, well, well!” the Honourable Bob resumed, casting down his eyes +as if he were shocked. And again: “I hope I don’t intrude,” he +continued—it was the parrot cry of that year. “I didn’t know. I’ll take +myself off again”—he whistled low—“as fast as I can.” + +But Vaughan felt that to let him go thus, to spread the tale with a +thousand additions and innuendoes, was worst of all. “Wait, if you +please,” he said, with a note of sternness in his tone. “I am coming +with you, Flixton. Good-morning, Miss Smith.” + +“See here, won’t you introduce me?” cried the irrepressible Bob. + +“No!” Vaughan answered curtly, and without staying to reflect. “You +will kindly tell Miss Sibson, Miss Smith, that I am obliged, greatly +obliged to her. Now come, Flixton! I have done my business, and we are +not wanted here.” + +“I come reluctantly,” said Bob, allowing himself to be dragged out, but +not until he had cast a last languishing look at the beauty. And on the +doorstep, “Sly dog, sly dog!” he said. “To think that in Bristol, where +pretty girls are as scarce as mushrooms in March, there should be such +an angel! Damme, an angel! And you the discoverer. It beats all!” + +“Shut up,” Vaughan answered angrily. “You know nothing about it!” And +then, still more sourly, “See here, Flixton, I take it ill of you +following me here. It was too cool, I say.” + +But the Honourable Bob was not quick to quarrel. “I saw you go in, dear +chap,” he cried heartily. “I wanted to tell you that the hour of dinner +was changed. See? Did my own errand, and coming back thought I’d—truth +was, I fancied you’d some little game on hand.” + +“Nothing of the kind!” + +The Honourable Bob stopped. “Honour bright? Honour bright?” he repeated +eagerly. “Mean to say, Vaughan, you’re not on the track of that little +filly?” + +Vaughan scowled. “Not in the way you mean,” he said sternly. “You make +a mistake. She’s a good girl.” + +Flixton winked. “Heard that before, my lad,” he said, “more than once. +From my grandmother. I’ll take my chance of that.” + +Vaughan in his heart would have been glad to fall upon him and pommel +him. But there were objections to that course. On the other hand, his +feelings had cooled in the last few minutes, and he was far from +prepared to announce offhand that he was going to marry the beauty. So +“No, you will not, Flixton,” he said. “Let it go! Do you hear? The fact +is,” he continued, in some embarrassment, “I’m in a sort of fiduciary +relation to the young lady, and—and I am not going to see her played +with. That’s the fact.” + +“Fiduciary relation?” the Honourable Bob retorted, in perplexity. “What +the deuce is that? Never heard of it! D’you mean, man, that you +are—eh?—related to her? Of course, if so——” + +“No, I am not related to her.” + +“Then——” + +“But I’m not going to see her made a fool of, that’s all!” + +An idea struck the Honourable Bob. He stared. “See here,” he said in a +tone of horror, “you ain’t—you ain’t thinking of marrying her?” + +Vaughan’s cheeks burned. “May be, and may be not,” he said curtly. “But +either way, it is my business!” + +“But surely you’re not! Man alive!” + +“It is my business, I say!” + +“Of course, of course, if it is as bad as that,” Flixton answered with +a grin. “But—hope I don’t intrude, Vaughan, but ain’t you making a bit +of a fool of yourself? What’ll old Vermuyden say, eh?” + +“That’s my business too!” Vaughan answered haughtily. + +“Just so, just so; and quite enough for me. All I say is—if you are not +in earnest yourself, don’t play the dog in the manger!” + + + + +XI +DON GIOVANNI FLIXTON + + +In the political world the last week of April and the first week of May +of that year were fraught with surprises. It is probable that they saw +more astonished people than are to be found in England in an ordinary +twelvemonth. The party which had monopolised power for half a century, +and to that end and the advancement of themselves, their influence, +their friends, and their dependants, had spent the public money, +strained the law, and supported the mob, were incredibly, nay, were +bitterly surprised when they saw all these engines turned against them; +when they found dependants falling off and friends growing cold; above +all, when they found that rabble, which they had so often directed, +aiming its yells and brickbats against their windows. + +But it is unlikely that any Tory of them all was more surprised by the +change in the political aspect than Arthur Vaughan—when he came to +think of it—by the position in which he had put himself. Certainly he +had taken no step that was not revocable. He had said nothing positive; +his honour was not engaged. But he had said a good deal. On the spur of +the moment, moved by the strange attraction which the girl had for him, +he had spoken after a fashion which only farther speech could justify. +And then, not content with that, as if fortune were determined to make +sport of his discretion, he had been led by another impulse—call it +generosity, call it jealousy, call it what you will—to say more to Bob +Flixton than he had said to her. + +He had done this who had hitherto held himself a little above the +common run of men. Who had chalked out his career and never doubted +that he had the strength to follow it. Who had not been content to +wait, idle and dissipated, for a dead man’s shoes, but in the pride of +a mind which he believed to be the master of his passions had set his +face towards the high prizes of the senate and the forum. He, who if he +could not be Fox, would be Erskine. Who would be anything, in a word, +except the empty-headed man of pleasure, or the plain dullard satisfied +to sit in a corner with a little. + +He, who had planned such a future, now found himself on the brink—ay, +on the very point—of committing as foolish an act as the most +thoughtless could commit. He was proposing to marry a girl below him in +station, still farther below him in birth, whom he had only known three +days, whom he had only seen three times! And all because she had +beautiful eyes, and looked at him—Heavens, how she had looked at him! + +He went hot as he pictured her with her melting eyes, hanging towards +him a little as the ivy inclines to the oak. And then he turned cold. +And cold, he considered what he was going to do! + +Of course he was not going to marry her. + +No doubt he had said to her more than he had the right to say. But his +honour was not engaged. The girl was not the worse for him; even if +that which he had read in her eyes were true, she would get over it as +quickly as he would. But marry her, give way to a feeling doubtless +evanescent, let himself be swayed by a fancy at which he would laugh a +year later—no! No! He was not so weak. He had not only his career to +think of, but the family honours which would be his one day. What would +old Vermuyden say if he impaled a baton sinister with the family arms, +added a Smith to the family alliances, married the nameless, penniless +teacher in a girls’ school? + +No, of course, he was not going to marry her. He had said what he had +said to the Honourable Bob merely to shield her from a Don Juan. He had +not meant it. He would go for a long fatiguing walk and put the notion +and the girl out of his head, and come back cured of his folly, and +make a merry night of it with the old set. And to-morrow—no, the morrow +was Sunday—on Monday he would return to London and to all the chances +which the changing political situation must open to an ambitious man. +He regretted that he had not taken the Chancellor’s hint and sought for +a seat in the House. + +But the solitary ramble in the valley of the Avon, which was a +hundredfold more beautiful in those days than in these, because less +spoiled by the hand of man, a ramble by the Logwood Mills, with their +clear-running weedy stream, by King’s Weston and Leigh Woods—such a +ramble, tuneful with the songs of birds and laden with the scents of +spring, may not be the surest cure for that passion, which + +_is not to be reasoned down or lost_ + +_In high ambition or a thirst for greatness!_ + + +At any rate he returned uncured, and for the first part of the +Honourable Bob’s dinner was wildly merry. After that, and suddenly, he +fell into a moody silence which his host was not the last to note. + +Fortunately with the removal of the cloth and the first brisk journey +of the decanters came news. A waiter brought it. Hart Davies, the Tory +candidate for Bristol, and for twenty years its popular member, had +withdrawn, seeing his chance hopeless. The retirement was unexpected, +and it caused so much surprise that the party could think of nothing +else. Nine-tenths of those present were Tories, and Flixton proposed +that they should sally forth and vent their feelings by smashing the +windows of the Bush, the Radical headquarters; a feat performed many a +time before with no worse consequences than a broken head or two. But +Colonel Brereton set his foot sharply on the proposal. + +“I’ll put you under arrest if you do,” he said. “I’m senior officer of +the district, and I’ll not have it, Flixton! Do you think that this is +the time, you madmen,” he continued, looking round the table and +speaking with indignation, “to provoke the rabble, and get the throats +of half Bristol cut?” + +“Oh, come, Colonel, it is not as bad as that!” Flixton remonstrated. + +“You don’t know how bad it is,” Brereton answered, his brooding eyes +kindling. And he developed anew his fixed idea that the forces of +disorder, once provoked, were irresistible; that the country was at +their mercy, and that only by humouring them, a course suggested also +by humanity, could the storm be weathered. + +The company consisted, for the most part, of reckless young subalterns +flushed with wine. They listened out of respect to his rank, but they +winked and grinned behind his back; until, half conscious of ridicule, +he grew angry. On ordinary occasions Flixton would have been the worst +offender. But he had the grace to remember that the Colonel was his +guest, and he sought to turn the subject. + +“Come, come!” he cried, hammering the table and pushing the bottle. +“Let the Colonel alone. For Heaven’s sake shelve the cursed Bill! I’m +sick of it! It’s the death of all fun and jollity. I’ll give you a +sentiment: ‘The Fair when they are Kind, and the Kind when they are +Fair.’ Fill up! Fill up, all, and drink it!” + +They echoed the toast in various tones, sober or fuddled. And some +began to grow excited. A glass was shattered and flung noisily into the +fire. A new one was called for, also noisily. + +“Now, Bill,” Flixton continued to his right-hand neighbour, “it’s your +turn! Give us something spicy!” And he hammered the table. “Captain +Codrington’s sentiment.” + +“Let’s have a minute!” pleaded the gentleman assailed. + +“Not a minute,” boisterously. “See, the table’s waiting for you! +Captain Codrington’s sentiment!” + +Men of small genius kept a written list, and committed some lines to +memory before dinner. The Captain was one of these. But the call on him +was sudden, and he sought, with an agonised mind, for one which would +seem in the least degree novel. At last, with a sigh of relief, “_Maids +and Missuses!_” he cried. + +“Ay, ay, Maids and Missuses!” the Honourable Bob echoed, raising his +glass. “And especially,” he whispered, calling his neighbour’s +attention to Vaughan by a shove, “schoolmissuses! Schoolmissuses, my +lad! Here, Vaughan,” he continued aloud, “you must drink this, and no +heeltaps!” + +Vaughan caught his name and awoke from a reverie. “Very good,” he said, +raising his glass. “What is it?” + +“Maids and Missuses!” the Honourable Bob replied, with a wink at his +neighbour. And then, incited by the fumes of the wine he had taken, he +rose to his feet and raised his glass. “Gentlemen,” he said, +“gentlemen!” + +“Silence,” they cried. “Silence! Silence for Bob’s speech.” + +“Gentlemen,” he resumed, a spark of malice in his eyes, “I’ve a piece +of news to give you! It’s news that—that’s been mighty slyly kept by a +gentleman here present. Devilish close he’s kept it, I’ll say that for +him! But he’s a neat hand that can bamboozle Bob Flixton, and I’ve run +him to earth, run him to earth this morning and got it out of him.” + +“Hear! Hear! Bob! Go on, Bob; what is it?” from the company. + +“You are going to hear, my Trojans! And no flam! Gentlemen, charge your +glasses! I’ve the honour to inform you that our old friend and +tiptopper, Arthur Vaughan, otherwise the Counsellor, has got himself +regularly put up, knocked down, and sold to as pretty a piece of the +feminine as you’ll see in a twelvemonth! Prettiest in Bristol, ’pon +honour,” with feeling, “be the other who she may! Regular case of—” and +in irresistibly comic accents, with his head and glass alike tilted, he +drolled, + +“_There first for thee my passion grew_, + +_Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen;_ + +_Thou wast the daughter of my tu_- + +_tor, law professor at the U_- + +_niversity of Göttingen!_ + + +’Niversity of Göttingen! Don’t laugh, gentlemen! It’s so! He’s entered +on the waybill, book through to matrimony, and”—the Honourable Bob was +undoubtedly a little tipsy—“and it only remains for us to give him a +good send-off. So charge your glasses, and——” + +Brereton laid his hand on his arm. He was sober and he did not like the +look on Vaughan’s disgusted face. “One moment, Flixton,” he said; “is +this true, Mr. Vaughan?” + +Vaughan’s brow was as black as thunder. He had never dreamt that, drunk +or sober, Flixton would be guilty of such a breach of confidence. He +hesitated. Then, “No!” he said. + +“It’s not true?” Codrington struck in. “You are not going to be +married, old chap?” + +“No!” + +“But, man,” Flixton hiccoughed, “you told me so—or something like +it—-only this morning.” + +“You either misunderstood me,” Vaughan answered, in a tone so distinct +as to be menacing, “for you have said far more than I said. Or, if you +prefer it, I’ve changed my mind. In either case it is my business! And +I’ll trouble you to leave it alone!” + +“Oh, if you put it—that way, old chap?” + +“I do put it that way!” + +“And any way,” Brereton said, interposing hurriedly, “this is no time +for marrying! I’ve told you boys before, and I tell you again——” + +And he plunged into a fresh argument on the old point. Two or three +joined issue, grinning. And Vaughan, as soon as attention was diverted +from him, slipped away. + +He was horribly disgusted, and sunk very low in his own eyes. He +loathed what he had done. He had not, indeed, been false to the girl, +for he had given her no promise. He had not denied her, for her name +had not been mentioned. And he had not gone back on his resolution, for +he had never formed one seriously. Yet in a degree he had done all +these things. He had played a shabby part by himself and by the girl. +He had been meanly ashamed of her. And though his conduct had followed +the lines which he had marked out for himself, he hoped that he might +never again feel so unhappy, and so poor a thing, as he felt as he +walked the streets and cursed his discretion. + +Discretion! Cowardice was the right name for it. Because the girl, the +most beautiful, pure, and gentle creature on whom his eyes had ever +rested, was called Mary Smith, and taught in a school, he disavowed her +and turned his back on her. + +He did not know that he was suffering what a man, whose mind has so far +governed his heart, must suffer when the latter rebels. In planning his +life he had ignored his heart; now he must pay the penalty. He went to +bed at last, but not to sleep. Instead he lived the scene over and over +again, now wondering what he ought to have done; now brooding on what +Flixton must think of him; now on what she, whose nature, he was sure, +was as perfect as her face, would think of him, if she knew. How she +would despise him! + +The next day was Sunday, and he spent it, in accordance with a previous +promise, with Brereton, at his pleasant home at Newchurch, a mile from +the city. Though the most recent of his Bristol acquaintances, Brereton +was the most congenial; and a dozen times Vaughan was on the point of +confiding his trouble to him. He was deterred by the melancholy cast of +Brereton’s character, which gave promise of no decisive advice. And +early in the evening he took leave of his host and strolled towards the +Downs, balancing _I would_ against _I will not_; now facing the bleak +of a prudent decision, now thrilling with foolish rapture, as he +pondered another event. Lord Eldon had married young and with as little +prudence; it had not impeded his rise, nor Erskine’s. Doubtless Sir +Robert Vermuyden would say that he had disgraced himself; but he cared +little for that. What he had to combat was the more personal pride of +the man who, holding himself a little wiser than his fellows, cannot +bear to do a thing that in the eyes of the foolish may set him below +them! + +Of course he came to no decision; though he wandered on Brandon Hill +until the Float at his feet ceased to mirror the lights, and Bristol +lay dark below him. And Monday found him still hesitating. Thrice he +started to take his place on the coach. And thrice he turned back, +hating himself for his weakness. If he could not overcome a foolish +fancy, how could he hope to scale the heights of the Western Circuit, +or hurl Coleridge and Follett from their pride of place? Or, still +harder task, how would he dare to confront in the House the cold eye of +Croker or of Goulburn? No, he could not hope to do either. He had been +wrong in his estimate of himself. He was a poor creature, unable to +hold his own amongst his fellows, impotent to guide his own life! + +He was still contesting the matter when, a little before noon, he +espied Flixton in the act of threading his way through the busy crowd +of Broad Street. The Honourable Bob was wearing hessians, and a +high-collared green riding-coat, with an orange vest and a soft +many-folded cravat. In fine, he was so smart that suspicion entered +Vaughan’s head; and on its heels—jealousy. + +In a twinkling he was on Flixton’s track. Broad Street, the heart of +Bristol, was thronged, for Hart Davies’s withdrawal was in the air and +an election crowd was abroad. Newsboys with their sheets, tipsy +ward-leaders, and gossiping merchants jostled one another. The beau’s +green coat, however, shone conspicuous, + +_Glorious was his course_, + +_And long the track of light he left behind him!_ + + +and before Vaughan had asked himself if he were justified in following, +pursued and pursuer were over Bristol Bridge, and making, by way of the +Welsh Back—a maze of coal-hoys and dangling cranes—for Queen’s Square. + +Vaughan doubted no longer, weighed the propriety of his course no +longer. For a cool-headed man of the world, who asked nothing better +than to master a silly fancy, he was foolishly perturbed. He made on +with a grim face; but a dray loading at a Newport coal-hulk drew across +his path, and Flixton was pacing under the pleasant elms and amid the +groups that loitered up and down the sunlit Square, before Vaughan came +within hail, and called him by name. + +Flixton turned then, saw who it was, and grinned—nothing abashed. +“Well,” he said, tipping his hat a little to one side, “well, old chap! +Are you let out of school too?” + +Vaughan had already discovered Mary Smith and her little troop under +the trees in the farthest corner. But he tried to smile—and did so, a +little awry. “This is not fair play, Flixton,” he said. + +“That is just what I think it is,” the Honourable Bob answered +cheerfully. “Eh, old chap? Neat trick of yours the other day, but not +neat enough! Thought to bamboozle me and win a clear field! Neat! But +no go, I found you out and now it is my turn. That’s what I call fair +play.” + +“Look here, Flixton,” Vaughan replied—he was fast losing his +composure—“I’m not going to have it. That’s plain.” + +The Honourable Bob stared. “Oh!” he answered. “Let’s understand one +another. Are you going to marry the girl after all?” + +“I’ve told you——” + +“Oh, you’ve told me, yes, and you’ve told me, no. The question is, +which is it?” + +Vaughan controlled himself. He could see Mary out of the corner of his +eye, and knew that she had not yet taken the alarm. But the least +violence might attract her attention. “Whichever it be,” he said +firmly, “is no business of yours.” + +“If you claim the girl——” + +“I do not claim her, Flixton. I have told you that. But——” + +“But you mean to play the dog in the manger?” + +“I mean to see,” Vaughan replied sternly, “that you don’t do her any +harm.” + +Flixton hesitated. Secretly he held Vaughan in respect; and he would +have postponed his visit to Queen’s Square had he foreseen that that +gentleman would detect him. But to retreat now was another matter. The +duel was still in vogue; barely two years before the Prime Minister had +gone out with a brother peer in Battersea Fields; barely twenty years +before one Cabinet Minister had shot another on Wimbledon Common. He +could not, therefore, afford to show the white feather, and though he +hesitated, it was not for long. “You mean to see to that, do you?” he +retorted. + +“I do.” + +“Then come and see,” he returned flippantly. “I’m going to have a chat +with the young lady now. That’s not murder, I suppose?” And he turned +on his heel and strolled across the turf towards the group of which +Mary was the centre. + +Vaughan followed with black looks; and when Mary Smith, informed of +their approach by one of the children, turned a startled face towards +them, he was at Flixton’s shoulder, and pressing before him. + +But the Honourable Bob had the largest share of presence of mind, and +he was the first to speak. “Miss Smith,” he said, raising his hat with +_aplomb_, “I—you remember me, I am sure?” + +Vaughan pushed before him; and before the girl could speak—for jealousy +is a fine spoiler of manners, “This gentleman,” he said, “wishes to +see——” + +“To see——” said Flixton, with a lower bow. + +“Miss Sibson!” Vaughan exclaimed. + +The children stared; gazing up into the men’s faces with the +undisguised curiosity of childhood. Fortunately the Mary Smith who had +to confront these two was no longer the Mary Smith whom Vaughan’s +appearance had stricken with panic three days before. For one thing, +she knew Miss Sibson better, and feared her less. For another, her +fairy godmother—the gleam of whose gifts never failed to leave a hope +of change, a prospect of something other than the plodding, endless +round—had shown a fresh sign. And last, not least, a more potent fairy, +a fairy whose wand had power to turn Miss Sibson’s house into a Palace +Beautiful, and Queen’s Square, with its cawing rooks and ordered elms, +into an enchanted forest, had visited her. + +True, Vaughan had left her abruptly—to cool her burning cheeks and +still her heart as she best might! But he had said what she would never +forget, and though he had left her doubting, he had left her loving. +And so the Mary who found herself addressed by two gallants was much +less abashed than she who on Friday had had to do with one. + +Still she was astonished by their address; and she showed this, +modestly and quietly. “If you wish to see Miss Sibson,” she +said—instinctively she looked at Vaughan’s companion—“I will send for +her.” And she was in the act of turning, with comparative ease, to +despatch one of the children on the errand, when the Honourable Bob +interposed. + +“But we don’t want Miss Sibson—now,” he said. “A man may change his +mind as well as a woman! Eh, old chap?” turning to his friend with +simulated good-humour. “I’m sure you will say so, Miss Smith.” + +She wondered what their odd manner to one another meant. And, to add to +her dignity, she laid her hand on the shoulder of one of her charges +and drew her closer. + +“Moreover, I’m sure,” Flixton continued—for Vaughan after his first +hasty intervention, stood sulkily silent—“I’m sure Mr. Vaughan will +agree with me——” + +“I?” + +“Oh, yes he will, Miss Smith, because he is the most changeable of men +himself! A weathercock, upon my honour!” And he pointed to the tower of +St. Mary, which from the high ground of Redcliffe Parade on the farther +side of the water, looks down on the Square. “Never of the same mind +two days together!” + +Vaughan snubbed him savagely. “Be good enough to leave me out!” he +said. + +“There!” the Honourable Bob answered, laughing, “he wants to stop my +mouth! But I’m not to be stopped. Of all men he’s the least right to +say that I mustn’t change my mind. Why, if you’ll believe me, Miss +Smith, no farther back than Saturday morning he was all for being +married! ’Pon honour! Went away from here talking of nothing else! In +the evening he was just as dead the other way! Nothing was farther from +his thoughts. Shuddered at the very idea! Come, old chap, don’t look +fierce!” And he grinned at Vaughan. “You can’t deny it!” + +Vaughan could have struck him; the trick was so neat and so malicious. +Fortunately a man who had approached the group touched Vaughan’s elbow +at this critical moment, and diverted his wrath. “Express for you, +sir,” he said. “Brought by chaise, been looking for you everywhere, +sir!” + +Vaughan smothered the execration which rose to his lips, snatched the +letter from the man, and waved him aside. Then, swelling with rage, he +turned upon Flixton. But before he could speak the matter was taken out +of his hands. + +“Children,” said Mary Smith in a clear, steady voice, “it is time we +went in. The hour is up, collect your hoops. I think,” she continued, +looking stiffly at the Honourable Bob, “you have addressed me under a +misapprehension, sir, intending to address yourself to Miss Sibson. +Good-morning! Good-morning!” with a slight and significant bow which +included both gentlemen. And taking a child by either hand, she turned +her back on them, and with her little flock clustering about her, and +her pretty head held high, she went slowly across the road to the +school. Her lips were trembling, but the men could not see that. And +her heart was bursting, but only she knew that. + +Without that knowledge Vaughan was furiously angry. It was not only +that the other had got the better of him by a sly trick; but he was +conscious that he had shown himself at his worst—stupid when +tongue-tied, and rude when he spoke. Still, he controlled himself until +Mary was out of earshot, and then he turned upon Flixton. + +“What right—what right,” he snarled, “had you to say what I would do! +And what I would not do? I consider your conduct——” + +“Steady, man!” Flixton, who was much the cooler of the two, said. He +was a little pale. “Think before you speak. You would interfere. What +did you expect? That I was going to play up to you?” + +“I expected at least——” + +“Ah, well, you can tell me another time what you expected. I have an +engagement now and must be going,” the Honourable Bob said. “See you +again!” And with a cool nod he turned on his heel, and assured that, +whatever came of the affair, he had had the best of that bout, he +strode off. + +Vaughan was only too well aware of the same fact; and but that he held +himself in habitual control, he would have followed and struck his +rival. As it was, he stood a moment looking blackly after him. Then, +sobered somewhat, though still bitterly chagrined, he took his way +towards his hotel, carrying in his oblivious hand the letter which had +been given him. Once he halted, half-minded to return to Miss Sibson’s +and to see Mary and explain. He took, indeed, some steps in the +backward direction. But he reflected that if he went he must speak, and +plainly. And, angry as he was, furiously in love as he was, was he +prepared to speak? + +He was not prepared. And while he stood doubting between that eternal +would, and would not, his eyes fell on the letter in his hand. + + + + +XII +A ROTTEN BOROUGH + + +Chippinge, Sir Robert Vermuyden’s borough, was in no worse case than +two-thirds of the small boroughs of that day. Still, of its great men +Cowley might have written: + +_Nothing they but dust can show, +Or bones that hasten to be so._ + + +And of its greatness he might have said the same. The one and the other +belonged to the past. + +The town occupies a low, green hill, dividing two branches of the Avon +which join their waters a furlong below. Built on the ridge and +clinging to the slopes of this eminence the stone-tiled houses look +pleasantly over the gentle undulations of the Wiltshire pastures—no +pastures more green; and at a distance are pleasantly seen from them. +But viewed more closely—at the date of which we write—the picturesque +in the scene became mean or incongruous. Of the Mitred Abbey that +crowned the hill and had once owned these fertile slopes there remained +but the maimed hulk, patched and botched, and long degraded to the uses +of that parish church its neighbour, of which nothing but the steeple +survived. The crown-shaped market cross, once a dream of beauty in +stone, still stood, but battered and defaced; while the Abbot’s +gateway, under which sovereigns had walked, was sunk to a vile lock-up, +the due corrective of the tavern which stood cheek by jowl with it. + +Still, to these relics, grouped as they were upon an open triangular +green, the hub of the town, there clung in spite of all some shadow of +greatness. The stranger whose eye fell on the doorway of the Abbey +Church, with its whorls of sculptured images, gazed and gazed again +with a sense of wondering awe. But let him turn his back on these +buildings, and his eye met, in cramped street and blind alley, a lower +depth. Everywhere were things once fine, sunk to base uses; old stone +mansions converted into tenements; the solid houses of mediæval +burghers into crazy taverns; fretted cloisters into pigsties and +hovels; a Gothic arch propped the sagging flank of a lath-and-plaster +stable. Or if anything of the beauty of a building survived, it was +masked by climbing penthouses; or, like the White Lion, the old inn +which had been the Abbot’s guesthouse, it was altered out of all +likeness to its former self. For the England of ’31, gross and +matter-of-fact, was not awake to the value of those relics of a noble +past which generations of intolerance had hurried to decay. + +Doubtless in this mouldering, dusty shell was snug, warm living. +Georgian comfort had outlived the wig and the laced coat, and though +the influence of the Church was at its lowest ebb, and morals were not +much higher, inns were plenty and flourished, and in the panelled +parlours of the White Lion or the Heart and Hand was much good eating, +followed by deep drinking. The London road no longer passed through the +town; the great fair had fallen into disuse. But the cloth trade, by +which Chippinge had once thriven, had been revived, and the town was +not quite fallen. Still, of all its former glories, it retained but one +intact. It returned two members to Parliament. That which Birmingham +and Sheffield had not, this little borough of eighteen hundred souls +enjoyed. Fallen in all other points, it retained, or rather its High +Steward, Sir Robert Vermuyden, retained the right of returning, by the +votes of its Alderman and twelve capital burgesses, two members to the +Commons’ House. + +And Sir Robert could not by any stretch of fancy bring himself to +believe that the town would willingly part with this privilege. Why +should it strip itself? he argued. It enjoyed the honour vicariously, +indeed. But did he not year by year pay the Alderman and eight of the +capital burgesses thirty pounds apiece for their interest, a sum which +quickly filtered through their pockets and enriched the town, besides +taking several of the voters off the rates? Did he not also at election +times set the taps running and distribute a moderate largesse among the +commonalty, and—and in fact do everything which it behoved a liberal +and enlightened patron to do? Nay, had he not, since his accession, +raised the status of the voters, long and vulgarly known as “The +Cripples,” so that they, who in his father’s time had been, almost +without exception, drunken illiterates, were now to the extent of at +least one half, men of respectable position? + +No, Sir Robert wholly declined to believe that Chippinge had any wish +for a change so adverse to its interests. The most he would admit was +that there might be some slight disaffection in the place, due to that +confounded Bowood, which was for ever sapping and mining and seeking to +rob its neighbours. + +But even he was presently to be convinced that there was a very odd +spirit abroad in this year ’31. The new police and the new steam +railways and this cholera of which people were beginning to talk, were +not the only new things. There were new ideas in the air; and the birds +seemed to carry them. They took possession not only of the troublesome +and discontented—poachers whom Sir Robert had gaoled, or the sons of +men whom his father had pressed—but of the most unlikely people. Backs +that had never been aught but pliant grew stiff. Men who had put up +with the old system for more years than they could remember grew +restive. Others, who had all their lives stood by while their inferiors +ruled the roost, discovered that they had rights. Nay—and this was the +strangest thing of all—some who had thriven by the old management and +could not hope to gain by a change revolted, after the fashion of Dyas +the butcher, and proved the mastery of mind over matter. Not many, +indeed, these; martyrs for ideas are rare. But their action went for +much, and when later the great mass of the voteless began to move, +there were rats in plenty of the kind that desert sinking ships. By +that time he was a bold man who in tavern or workshop spoke for the +rule of the few, to which Sir Robert fondly believed his borough to be +loyal. + +His agent had never shared that belief, fortunately for him; or he had +had a rude awakening on the first Monday in May. It was customary for +the Vermuyden interest to meet the candidates on the Chippenham road, +half an hour before the dinner hour, and to attend them in procession +through the town to the White Lion. Often this was all that the +commonalty saw of an election, and a little horseplay was both expected +and allowed. In old days, when the “Cripples” had belonged to the very +lowest class, their grotesque appearance in the van of the gentlemanly +interest had given rise to many a home-jest. The crowd would follow +them, jeering and laughing, and there would be some pushing, and a +drunken man or two would fall. But all had passed in good humour; the +taps had been running in one interest, the ale was Sir Robert’s, and +the crowd envied while they laughed. + +White, as he stood on the bridge reviewing the first comers, wished he +might have no worse to expect to-day. But he did not hope as much. The +town was crowded, and the streets down to the bridge were so cumbered +with moving groups that it was plain the procession would have to push +its way. For certain, too, many of the people did not belong to +Chippinge. With the townsfolk White knew he could deal. He did not +believe that there was a Chippinge man who, eye to eye with him, would +cast a stone. But here were yokels from Calne and Bowood, who knew not +Sir Robert; with Bristol lambs and men as dangerous, and not a few +Radicals from a distance, rabid with zeal and overflowing with +promises. Made up of such elements the crowd hooted from time to time, +and there was a threat in the sound that filled White with misgivings. + +Nor was this the worst. The cloth factory stood close to the bridge. +The procession must pass it. And the hands employed in it, hostile to a +man, were gathered before the doorway, in their aprons and paper caps, +waiting to give the show a reception. They had much to say already, +their jeers and taunts filling the air; but White had a shrewd +suspicion that they had worse missiles in their pockets. + +Still, he had secured the attendance of a score of sturdy fellows, sons +of Sir Robert’s farmers, and these, with a proportion of the tagrag and +bobtail of the town, gave a fairly solid aspect to his party. Nor was +the jeering all on one side, though that deep and unpleasant groaning +which now and again rolled down the street was wholly Whiggish. + +Alas, it was when the agent came to analyse his men that he had most +need of the smile that deceives. True, the rector was there and the +curate of Eastport, and the clerk and the sexton—the two last-named +were voters. And there were also four or five squires arrayed in +support of the gentlemanly interest, and as many young bucks come to +see the fun. Then there were three other voters: the Alderman, who was +a small grocer, and Annibal the basketmaker—these two were +stalwarts—and Dewell the barber, also staunch, but a timid man. There +was no Dyas, however, Sir Robert’s burliest supporter in old days, and +his absence was marked. Nor any Thrush the pig-killer—the jaws of a +Radical gaol held him. Nor, last and heaviest blow of all—for it had +fallen without warning—was there any Pillinger of the Blue Duck. +Pillinger, his wife said, was ill. What was worse he was in the hands +of a Radical doctor capable, the agent believed, of hocussing him until +the polling was over. The truth about Pillinger—whether he lay ill or +whether he lay shamming, whether he was at the mercy of the apothecary +or under the thumb of his wife—White could not learn. He hoped to learn +it before it was too late. But for the present Pillinger was not here. + +The Alderman, Annibal, Dewell, the clerk, the sexton, and Arthur +Vaughan. White totted them up again and again and made them six. The +Bowood voters he made five—four stalwarts and Dyas the butcher. + +Certainly he might still poll Pillinger. But, on the other hand, Mr. +Vaughan might arrive too late. White had written to his address in +town, and receiving no answer had sent an express to Bristol on the +chance that the young gentleman was still there. Probably he would be +in time. But when things are so very close—and when there were alarm +and defeat in the air—men grow nervous. White smiled as he chatted with +the pompous Rector and the country squires, but he was very anxious. He +thought of old Sir Robert at Stapylton, and he sweated at the notion of +defeat. Cobbett had reached his mind, but Sir Robert had his heart! + +“Boo!” moaned the crowd higher up the street. The sound sank and the +harsh voice of a speaker came fitfully over the heads of the people. + +“Who’s that?” asked old Squire Rowley, one of the country gentlemen. + +“Some spouter from Bristol, sir, I fancy,” the agent replied +contemptuously. And with his eye he whipped in a couple of hobbledehoys +who seemed inclined to stray towards the enemy. + +“I suppose,” the Squire continued, lowering his voice, “you can depend +on your men, White?” + +“Oh, Lord, yes, sir,” White answered; like a good election agent he +took no one into his confidence. “We’ve enough here to do the trick. +Besides, young Mr. Vaughan will be here to-morrow, and the landlord of +the Blue Duck, who is not well enough to walk to-day, will poll. He’d +break his heart, bless you,” White continued, with a brow of brass, “if +he could not vote for Sir Robert!” + +“Seven to five.” + +“Seven to four, sir.” + +“But Dyas, I hear, the d——d rogue, will vote against you?” + +White winked. + +“Bad,” he said cryptically, “but not as bad as that, sir.” + +“Oh! oh!” quoth the other, nodding, “I see.” And then, glancing at the +gang before the cloth works, whose taunts of “Flunkies!” and “Sell your +birthright, will you?” were constant and vicious, “You’ve no fear +there’ll be violence, White?” he asked. + +“Lord, no, sir,” White answered; “you know what election rows are, all +bark and no bite!” + +“Still I hear that at Bath, where I’m told Lord Brecknock stands a poor +chance, they are afraid of a riot.” + +“Ay, ay, sir,” White answered indifferently, “this isn’t Bath.” + +“Precisely,” the Rector struck in, in pompous tones. “I should like to +see anything of that kind here! They would soon,” he continued with an +air, “find that I am not on the commission of the peace for nothing! I +shall make, and I am sure you will make,” he went on, turning to his +brother justice, “very short work of them! I should like to see +anything of that kind tried here!” + +White nodded, but in his heart he thought that his reverence was likely +to have his wish gratified. However, no more was said, for the approach +of the Stapylton carriages, with their postillions, outriders and +favours, was signalled by persons who had been placed to watch for +them, and the party on the bridge, falling into violent commotion, +raised their flags and banners and hastened to form an escort on either +side of the roadway. As the gaily-decked carriages halted on the crest +of the bridge, loud greetings were exchanged. The five voters took up a +position of honour, seats in the carriages were found for three or four +of the more important gentry, and seven or eight others got to horse. +Meanwhile those of the smaller folk, who thought that they had a claim +to the recognition of the candidates, were gratified, and stood back +blushing, or being disappointed stood back glowering; all this amid +confusion and cheering on the bridge and shrill jeers on the part of +the cloth hands. Then the flags were waved aloft, the band of five, of +which the drummer could truly say “_Pars magna fui_,” struck up “See, +the Conquering Hero Comes!” and White stood back for a last look. + +Then, “Shout, lads, shout!” he cried, waving his hat. “Don’t let ’em +have it all their own way!” And with a roar of defiance, not quite so +loud or full as the gentlemanly interest had raised of old, the +procession got under way, and, led by a banner bearing “Our Ancient +Constitution!” in blue letters on a red ground, swayed spasmodically up +the street. The candidates for the suffrages of the electors of +Chippinge had passed the threshold of the borough. “Hurrah! Yah! +Hurrah! Yah! Yah! Yah! Down with the Borough-mongers. Our Ancient +Constitution! Hurrah! Boo! Boo!” + +White had his eye on the clothmen, and under its spell they did not go +beyond hooting and an egg or two, spared from the polling day, and +flung at long range when the Tories had passed. No one was struck, and +the carriages moved onward, more or less triumphantly. Sergeant Wathen, +who was in the first, and whose sharp black eyes moved hither and +thither in search of friends, rose repeatedly to bow. But Mr. Cooke, +who did not forget that he was paying two thousand five hundred pounds +for his seat, and thought that it should be a soft one, scarcely +deigned to move. For as the procession advanced into the town the +clamour of the crowd which lined the narrow High Street and continually +shouted “The Bill! The Bill!” drowned the utmost efforts of Sir +Robert’s friends, and left no doubt of the popular feeling. + +There was some good-humoured pushing and thrusting, the drum beating +and the church bells jangling bravely above the hubbub. And once or +twice the rabble came near to cutting the procession in two. But there +was no real attempt at mischief, and all went well until the foremost +carriage was abreast of the Cross, which stands at the head of the High +Street, where the latter debouches into the space before the Abbey. + +Then some foolish person gave the word to halt before Dyas the +butcher’s. And a voice—it was not White’s—cried, “Three groans for the +Radical Rat! Rat! Rat!” + +The groans were given before the crowd fully understood their meaning +or the motive for the stoppage. The drummer beat out something which he +meant for the Rogues’ March, and an unseen hand raising a large dead +rat, tied to a stick, waved it before the butcher’s first-floor +windows. + +The effect was surprising—to old-fashioned folk. In a twinkling, with a +shout of “Down with the Borough-mongers!” a gang of white-aproned +clothmen rushed the rear of the procession, drove it in upon the main +body, and amid screams and uproar forced the whole line out of the +narrow street into the space before the Abbey. Fortunately the White +Lion, which faced the Abbey, stood only a score of paces to the left of +the Cross, and the carriages were able to reach it; but in disorder, +pressed on by such a fighting, swaying, shouting crowd as Chippinge had +not seen for many a year. + +It was no time to stand on dignity. The candidates tumbled out as best +they could, their chief supporters followed them, and while half a +dozen single combats proceeded at their elbows, they hastened across +the pavement into the house. The Rector alone disdained to flee. Once +on the threshold of the inn, he turned and raised his hat above his +head: + +“Order!” he cried, “Order! Do you hear me!” + +But “Yah! Borough-monger!” the rabble answered, and before he could say +more a young farmer was hurled against him, and a whip, of which a +postillion had just been despoiled, whizzed past his head. He, too, +turned tail at that, with his face a shade paler than usual; and with +his retreat resistance ceased. The carriages were hustled somehow and +anyhow into the yard, and there the greater part of the procession also +took refuge. A few, sad to say, sneaked off and got rid of their +badges, and a few more escaped through a neighbouring alley. No one was +much hurt; a few black eyes were the worst of the mischief, nor could +it be said that any vindictive feeling was shown. But the town was +swept clear, and the victory of the Radicals was complete. Left in +possession of the open space before the Abbey, they paraded for some +time under the windows of the White Lion, waving a captured flag, and +cheering and groaning by turns. + +Meantime in the hall of the inn the grandees were smoothing their +ruffled plumes, in a state of mind in which it was hard to say whether +indignation or astonishment had larger place. Oaths flew thick as hail, +unrebuked by the Church, the most outspoken perhaps being by the +landlord, who met them with a pale face. + +“Good Lord, good Lord, gentlemen!” he said, “what violence! What +violence! What are we coming to next? What’s took the people, +gentlemen? Isn’t Sir Robert here?” + +For to this simple person it seemed impossible that people should +behave badly in that presence. + +“No, he’s not!” Mr. Cooke answered with choler. “I’d like to know why +he’s not! I wish to Heaven”—only he did not say “Heaven”—“that he were +here, and he’d see what sort of thing he has let us into!” + +“Ah, well, ah, well!” returned the more discreet and philosophic +Sergeant, “shouting breaks no bones. We are all here, I hope? And after +all, this shows up the Bill in a pretty strong light, eh, Rector? If it +is to be carried by methods such as these—these—” + +“D——d barefaced intimidation!” Squire Rowley growled. + +“Or if it is to give votes to such persons as these——” + +“D——d Jacobins! Republicans every one!” interposed the Squire. + +“It will soon be plain to all,” the Sergeant concluded, in his House of +Commons manner, “that it is a most revolutionary, dangerous, and—and +unconstitutional measure, gentlemen.” + +“By G—d!” Mr. Cooke cried—he was thinking that if this was the kind of +thing he was to suffer he might as well have fought Taunton or Preston, +or any other open borough, and kept his money in his pocket—“by G—d, I +wish Lord John were stifled in the mud he’s stirred up, and Gaffer Grey +with him!” + +“You can add Bruffam, if you like,” Wathen answered good-humouredly—he +was not paying two thousand five hundred guineas for his seat. “And rid +me of a rival and the country of a pest, Cooke! But come, gentlemen, +now we’re here and no bones broken, shall we sit down? We are all safe, +I trust, Mr. White? And especially—my future constituents?” with a +glance of his shrewd Jewish-looking eyes. + +“Yes, sir, no harm done,” White replied as cheerfully as he could; +which was not overcheerfully, for in all his experience of Chippinge he +had known nothing like this; and he was a trifle scared. “Yes, sir,” he +continued, looking round, “all here, I think! And—and by Jove,” in a +tone of relief, “one more than I expected! Mr. Vaughan! I am glad, sir, +very glad, sir,” he added heartily, “to see you. Very glad!” + +The young man who had alighted from his postchaise a few minutes before +did not, in appearance at least, reciprocate the feeling. He looked +sulky and bored. But he shook the outstretched hand; he could do no +less. Then, saying scarcely a word, he stood back again. He had +hastened to Chippinge on receiving White’s belated express, but rather +because, irritated by the collision with Flixton, he welcomed any +change, than because he was sure what he would do. In the chaise he had +thought more of Mary than of politics, more of the Honourable Bob than +of his cousin. And though, as far as Sir Robert was concerned, he was +resolved to be frank and to play the man, his mind had travelled no +farther. + +Now, thrown suddenly among these people, he was, in a churlish way, +taken somewhat aback. But, in a thoroughly bad temper, he told himself +it did not matter. If they did not like the line he was going to take, +that was their business. He was not responsible to them. In fine, he +was in a savage mood, with half his mind here and the other half +dwelling on the events of the morning. For the moment politics seemed +to him a poor game, and what he did or did not do of little +consequence! + +White and the others were not blind to his manner, and might have +resented it in another. But Sir Robert’s heir was a great man and had a +right to moods if any man had; doubtless he was become a fine gentleman +and thought it a nuisance to vote in his own borough. They were all +politeness to him, therefore, and while his eyes passed haughtily +beyond them, seeking Sir Robert, they presented to him those whom he +did not know. + +“Very kind of you to come, Mr. Vaughan,” said the Sergeant, who, like +many browbeaters, could be a sycophant at need. “Very kind indeed! I +don’t know whether you know Mr. Cooke? He, equally with me, is obliged +to you for your attendance.” + +“Greatly obliged, sir,” Mr. Cooke muttered. “Certainly, certainly.” + +Vaughan bowed coldly. + +“Is not Sir Robert here?” he asked. + +He was still looking beyond those to whom he spoke. + +“No, Mr. Vaughan.” + +And then, “This way to dinner,” White cried loudly. “Come, gentlemen! +Dinner, gentlemen, dinner!” + +And Vaughan, heedless what he did or where he dined, but inclined in a +sardonic way to amuse himself, went in with them. What did it matter? +He was not going to vote for them. But that was his business, and Sir +Robert’s. He was not responsible to them. + +Certainly he was in a very bad temper. + + + + +XIII +THE VERMUYDEN DINNER + + +Vaughan began to think more soberly of his position when he found +himself set down at the table. He had White, who took one end, on his +right; and the Sergeant was opposite him. At the other end the Alderman +presided, supported by Mr. Cooke and the Rector. + +The young man looked down the board, at the vast tureens that smoked on +it, and at the faces, smug or jolly, hungry or expectant, that +surrounded them; and amid the flood of talk which burst forth the +moment his reverence had said a short grace, he began to feel the +situation uncomfortable. True, he had a sort of right to be there, as +the heir, and a Vermuyden. True, too, he owed nothing to anyone there; +nothing to the Sergeant, whom he secretly disliked, nothing to Mr. +Cooke, whom he despised—in his heart he was as exclusive as Sir Robert +himself—nothing to White, who would one day be his paid dependant. He +owed them no explanation. Why then should he expose himself to their +anger and surprise? He would be silent and speak only when the time +came, and he could state his views to Sir Robert with a fair chance of +a fair hearing. + +Still he saw that the position in which he had placed himself was a +false one: and might become ridiculous. And it crossed his mind to +feign illness and to go out and incontinently walk over to Stapylton +and see Sir Robert. Or he might tell White quietly that he did not find +himself able to support his cousin’s nominations: and before the news +got abroad he might withdraw and let them think what they would. But he +was too proud to do the one, and in too sulky a mood to do the other. +And he sat still. + +“Where is Sir Robert?” he asked. + +“He left home on a sudden call, this morning, sir,” White explained; +wondering what made the young squire—who was wont to be affable—so +distant. “On unexpected business.” + +“It must have been important as well as unexpected,” Wathen said, with +a smile, “to take Sir Robert away today, Mr. White.” + +“It was both, sir, as I understood,” White answered, “for Sir Robert +did not make me acquainted with it. He seemed somewhat put out—more put +out than I have often seen him. But he said that whatever happened he +would be back before the nomination.” And then, turning to Vaughan, +“You must have passed him, sir?” he added. + +“Well, now I think of it,” Vaughan answered, his spoon suspended, “I +did. I met a travelling carriage and four with jackets like his. But, I +thought it was empty.” + +“No, sir, that was Sir Robert. He will not be best pleased,” White +continued, turning to the Sergeant, “when he hears what a reception we +had!” + +“Ah, well, ah, well!” the Sergeant replied—pleasantness was his cue +to-day. “Things are worse in Bath I’ll be sworn, Mr. White.” + +“No doubt, sir, no doubt! I think,” White added, forgetting his study +of Cobbett, “the nation has gone mad.” + +After that Vaughan’s other neighbour, Squire Rowley, who met him +annually at Stapylton, claimed his ear. The old fellow, hearty and +good-natured, but a bigoted Tory, who would have given Orator Hunt four +dozen and thought Lord Grey’s proper reward a block on Tower Hill, was +the last person whom Vaughan would have chosen for a confidant; since +only to hear of a Vermuyden turned Whig would have gone near to giving +him a fit. Perforce, nevertheless, Vaughan had to listen to him and +answer him; he could not without rudeness cut him short. But all the +time as they talked, Vaughan’s uneasiness increased. With every minute +his eyes wandered more longingly to the door. Improved in temper by the +fare and by the politeness of his neighbours, he began to see that he +had been foolish to thrust himself among people with whom he did not +agree. Still he was there; and he must see the dinner to an end. After +all a little more or a little less would not add to Sir Robert’s anger. +He could explain that he thought it more delicate to avoid an open +scandal. + +Meanwhile the collision with the crowd had loosened the guests’ tongues +and never had a Vermuyden dinner gone more freely. Even the “Cripples,” +whose wont it was to begin the evening with odious obsequiousness and +close it with a freedom as unpleasant, found speech early, and were +loudest in denunciation of a Bill which threatened to deprive them of +their annuities. By the time huge joints had taken the place of the +tureens, and bowls of potatoes and mounds of asparagus dotted the +table, the noise was incessant. There was claret for those who cared +for it, and strong ale for all. And while some discussed the effect +which a Bill that disfranchised Chippinge would have on their pockets +and interests, others driving their arguments home with blows on the +table recalled, almost with tears, the sacred name of Pitt—the pilot +who weathered the storm; or held up to execration a cabinet of Whigs +dead to every Whig principle, and alive only to the chance of power +which a revolution might afford. + +“But what was to be expected? What was to be expected?” old Rowley +insisted. “We’ve only ourselves to thank! When Peel and the Duke took +up the Catholic Claims they stepped into the Whigs’ shoes—and +devilishly may they pinch them! The Whigs had to find another pair, you +see, sir, and stepped into the Radicals’! And the only people left at a +loss are the honest part of us; who are likely to end not only barefoot +but barebacked! Ay, by G—d, we are!” + +And so on, and so on; even White, who was vastly relieved by Vaughan’s +arrival, which made his majority safe, talked freely, and gave Dyas and +Pillinger of the Blue Duck the rough side of his tongue. While Vaughan, +used to a freer atmosphere, listened to their one-sided arguments, +their trite prophecies, their incredible prejudices—such they seemed to +him—and now turned up his nose, now pitied them, as an effete, a +doomed, a dying race. + +While he thought of this the dinner wore on, the joints vanished, and +huge steaming puddings made their appearance on the board; those who +cared not for plum puddings could have marrow-puddings. Then cheese and +spring onions, and some special old ale, light coloured, heady, and +served in tall, spare glasses, went round. At length the rector, a +trifle flushed, rose to say grace, and Vaughan saw that the cloth was +about to be removed. Bottles of strong port and tawny Madeira were at +hand. Some called already for their favourite punch, or for hot grog. + +“Now,” he thought, “I can escape with a good grace. And I will!” + +But as he made a movement to rise, the Sergeant rose opposite him, +lifted his glass, and fixed him with his eye. And Vaughan felt that he +could not leave at that moment without rudeness. “Gentlemen, on your +feet, if you please,” he cried blandly. “The King! The King, God bless +him! The King, gentlemen, and may he never suffer for the faults of his +servants! May the Grey mare never run away with him. May William the +Good ne’er be ruined by a—bad Bill! Gentlemen, the King, God bless him, +and deliver him from the Whigs!” + +They drank the toast amid a roar of laughter and applause. And once +more as they sat down Vaughan thought that he would escape. Again he +was hindered. This time the interruption came from behind. + +“Hallo, Vaughan!” someone muttered in his ear. “You’re the last person +I expected to see here!” + +He turned and disgust filled him. The speaker, who had just entered, +was the son of a clergyman in the neighbourhood and had gone to the +bar. He was a shifty, flattering fellow, at once a toady and a +backbiter; who had wormed himself into society too good for him, and in +London was Vaughan’s _bête noir_. But had that been all! Alas, he was +also a member of the Academic. He had been present at Vaughan’s triumph +ten days before, and had heard him proclaim himself a Reformer of the +Reformers. + +For a moment Vaughan could find not a word. He could only mutter “Oh!” +in a tone of dismay. He feared that his face betrayed the chagrin he +felt. + +“I thought you were quite the other way?” Mowatt said. And he grinned. +He was a weedy, pale young man, with thin lips and a false smile. + +Vaughan hesitated. “So I am!” he said curtly. + +“But—but I thought——” + +“Order! Order!” cried the Alderman, a trifle uplifted by wine and his +position. “Silence, if you please, gentlemen, for the Senior Candidate! +And charge your glasses!” + +Vaughan turned to the table, a frown on his brow. Wathen was on his +feet, holding his wine glass before his breast with one hand, while the +other rested on the table. His attitude was that of a man confident of +his powers and pleased to exert them. Nevertheless, as he prepared to +speak, he lowered his eyes to the table as if he thought that a little +mock-modesty became him. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, “it is my privilege to propose a toast, that at +this time and in this place—this time, gentlemen, when to an extent +unknown within living memory, all is at stake, and this place which has +so much to lose—it is my privilege, I say, to propose a toast that must +go straight to the heart of every man in this room, nay, of every +true-born Englishman, and every lover of his country! It is _Our +Ancient Constitution, our Chartered Rights, our Vested Interests!_ +[Loud and continued applause.] Yes, gentlemen, our ancient +Constitution, the security of every man, woman, and child in this +realm! And coupled with it our Chartered Rights, our Vested Interests, +which, unassailed for generations, are to-day called in question by the +weakness of many, by the madness of some, by the wicked ambition of a +few. [Loud cheering]. Gentlemen, to one Cromwell this town owes the +destruction of your famous Abbey, once the pride of this county! To +another Cromwell it owes the destruction of the walls that in troublous +times secured the hearths of your forefathers! It lies with us—but we +must be instant and diligent—it lies with us, I say, to see that those +civil bulwarks which protect us and ours in the enjoyment of all we +have and all we hope for——” + +“In this world!” the Rector murmured in a deep bass voice. + +“In this world,” the Sergeant continued, accepting the amendment with a +complimentary bow, “are not laid low by a third Cromwell! I care not +whether he mask himself under the name of Grey, or of Russell, or of +Brougham, or of Lansdowne!” + +He paused amid such a roar of applause as shook the room. + +“For think not”—the Sergeant resumed when it died down—“think not, +gentlemen, whatever the easily led vulgar may think, that sacrilegious +hands can be laid on the Ark of the Constitution without injury to many +other interests; without the shock being felt through all the various +members of the State down to the lowest: without endangering all those +multiform rights and privileges for which the Constitution is our +guarantee! Let the advocates of this pernicious, this revolutionary +Bill say what they will, they cannot deny that its effect will be to +deprive you in Chippinge who, for nearly five centuries, have enjoyed +the privilege of returning members to Parliament—of that privilege, +with all”—here he glanced at the rich array of bottles that covered the +board—“the amenities which it brings with it! And for whose benefit? +For that of men no better qualified—nay, by practice and heredity less +qualified—than yourselves. But, gentlemen, mark me, that is not all! +That is but the beginning, and it may be the least part. That loss they +cannot hide from you. That loss they do not attempt to hide from you. +But they do hide from you,” he continued in his deepest and most tragic +tone, “a fact to which the whole course of history is witness—that a +policy of robbery once begun is rarely stayed, if it be stayed, until +the victim is bare! Bare, gentlemen! Gentlemen, the freemen of this +borough have of ancient right, conferred by an ancient sovereign——” + +“God bless him!” from Annibal, now somewhat drunk. “God bless him! +Here’s his health!” + +The Sergeant paused an instant and looked round the table. Then more +slowly, “Ay, God bless him!” he said. “God bless King Canute! But +what—what if those grants of land—-I care not whether you call them +chartered rights or vested interests—which you freemen enjoy of +him—what if they do not enure? You have them,” with a penetrating +glance from face to face, “but for how long, gentlemen, if this Bill +pass? You are too clear-sighted to be blind to the peril! Too shrewd to +think that you can part with one right, as old, as well vested, as +perfectly secured—and keep the others undiminished? Gentlemen, if you +are so blind, take warning! For wherever this anarchical, this +dangerous, this revolutionary Bill——” + +“Hear! Hear! Hear!” from Vaughan’s neighbour, the Squire. + +“Wherever, I say, this Bill finds supporters—and I can well believe +that in Birmingham and Sheffield, where they have all to gain and +nothing to lose, it will find supporters, it should find none in +Chippinge! Where we have all to lose and nothing to gain, and where no +man but a fool or a rogue can in reason support it! Gentlemen, you are +neither fools nor rogues——” + +“No! No! No! No!” + +“No, gentlemen, and therefore, though a few silly fellows may shout for +the Bill in the streets, I am sure that I shall have the whole of this +influential company with me when I give you the toast of ‘Our Ancient +Constitution, Our Chartered Rights, Our Vested Interests!’ May the Bill +that assails them be defeated by the good sense of a sober and united +people! May those who urge it and those who support it—rogues where +they are not fools, and fools where they are not rogues—meet with the +fate they deserve! And may we be there to see! Gentlemen,” he +continued, raising his hand for silence, “in the absence upon pressing +business of our beloved High Steward, the model of an English gentleman +and the pattern of an English landlord, I beg to couple this +toast”—here the Sergeant’s sharp black eyes fixed themselves suddenly +on his opposite neighbour—“with the name of his kinsman, Mr. Arthur +Vaughan!” + +“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” The room shook with the volume of applause, +the tables trembled. And through it all Arthur Vaughan’s heart beat +hard, and he swallowed nervously. He was caught. Whether the Sergeant +knew it or not, he was trapped. From the beginning of the speech he had +had his misgivings. He had listened anxiously; and though he had lost +nothing, though one half of his mind had followed the speaker’s thread, +the other half had scanned the prospect feverishly, weighed the chances +of escape, and grown chill with the fear of what was coming. If he had +only withdrawn in time! If he had only—— + +“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” They were pounding the table with fist and +glass, and looking towards him—two long rows of flushed, excited, tipsy +faces. Some were drinking to him. Others were scanning him curiously. +All were waiting. + +He leant forward. “I don’t wish to speak,” he said, addressing the +Sergeant in a troubled voice. “Call on some one else, if you please.” + +But “Impossible, sir!” White, surprised by his evident nervousness, +answered. He had thought Vaughan anything but a shy person. +“Impossible, sir!” + +“Get up! Get up!” cried the Squire, his neighbour, laying a jocund hand +on him and trying to lift him to his feet. + +But Vaughan resisted; his throat was so dry that he could hardly frame +his words. “I don’t wish to speak,” he muttered. “I don’t agree——” + +“Say what you like, my dear sir!” the Sergeant rejoined blandly, but +with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. He had had his doubts of Master +Vaughan ever since he had caught him on his way to the Chancellor: now +he thought that he had him pinned. He did not suppose that the young +man would dare to revolt openly. + +“Yes, sir, you must get up,” said White, who had no suspicion that his +hesitation arose from any cause but shyness. “Anything will do.” + +Vaughan rose—slowly, and with a beating heart. He rose perforce. For a +moment he stood, deafened by his reception. For the smaller men saw in +him one of the old family, the future landlord of two-thirds of them, +the sometime owner of the very roof under which they were gathered. And +he, while they greeted his rising and he stood waiting with an unhappy +face for silence, wondered, even at this last moment, what he would +say. And Heaven knows what he would have said—so hard was it to +disappoint those cheering men, all looking at him with worship in their +eyes—so painful was it to break old ties—if he had not caught behind +him Mowatt’s whisper, “Eat his words! He’ll have to unsay——” + +No more than that, a fragment, but enough; enough to show him that he +had better, far better seem false to these men, to his blood, to the +past, than be false to himself. He straightened his shoulders, and +lifted his head. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, and now his voice though low was steady, “I rise +unwillingly—unwillingly, because I feel too late that I ought not to be +here. That I have no right to be here. [No! No!] No right to be here, +for this reason,” he continued, raising his hand for silence, “for this +reason, that in much of what Sergeant Wathen has said, I cannot go with +him.” + +There, it was out! But no more than a stare of perplexity passed from +the more intelligent faces about him to the duller faces lower down the +table. They did not understand; it was only clear that he could not +mean what he seemed to mean. But he was going on in a silence so +complete that a pin falling to the floor might have been heard! + +“I rise unwillingly, I say again, gentlemen,” he continued, “and I beg +you to remember this, and that I did not come here of set purpose to +flaunt my opinions before you. For I, too”—here he betrayed his secret +agitation—“thus far I do go with Sergeant Wathen,—I, too, am for Our +Ancient Constitution, I give place to no man in love of it. And I, too, +am against revolution, I will stand second to none in abhorrence of +it.” + +“Hear! Hear!” cried the Rector in a tone of unmistakable relief. “Hear, +hear!” + +“Ay, go on,” chimed in the Squire. “Go on, lad, go on! That’s all +right!” And half aside in his neighbour’s ear, “Gad! he frightened me!” +he muttered. + +“But—but to be plain,” Vaughan resumed, pronouncing every word clearly, +“I do not regard the Bill which the Sergeant has mentioned, the Bill +which is in all your minds, as assailing the one, or as being +tantamount to the other! On the contrary, I believe that it restores +the ancient balance of the Constitution, and will avert, as nothing +else will avert, a Revolution!” + +As he paused on that word, the Squire, who was of a free habit, tried +to rise and speak, but choked. The Rector gasped. Only Mr. Cooke found +his voice. He sprang to his feet, purple in the face. “By G—d!” he +roared, “are we going to listen to this?” + +Vaughan sat down, pale but composed. But he found all eyes on him, and +he rose again. + +“It was against my will I said what I have said,” he resumed. “I did +not wish to speak. I do not wish you to listen. I rose only because I +was forced to rise. But being up, I owed it to myself to say enough to +clear myself of—of the appearance of duplicity. That is all.” + +The Sergeant did not speak, but gazed darkly at him, his mind busy with +the effect which this would have on the election. White, too, did not +speak—he sat stricken dumb. The Squire swore, and five or six of the +more intelligent hissed. But again it was Cooke who found words. + +“That all? But that is not all!” he shouted. “That is not all! What are +you, sir?” For still, in common with most of those at the table, he +could not believe that he heard aright. He fancied that this was some +trope, some nice distinction, which he had not followed. “You may be +Sir Robert Vermuyden’s cousin ten times over,” he continued, +vehemently, “but we’ll have it clear what we have to expect. Speak like +a man, sir! Say what you mean!” + +Vaughan had taken his seat, but he rose again, a gleam of anger in his +eyes. “Have I not spoken plainly?” he said. “I thought I had. If you +have still any doubt, sir, I am for the Constitution, but I think that +it has suffered by the wear and tear of time and needs repair. I think +that the shifting of population during the last two centuries, the +decay of one place and the rise of another, call for some change in the +representation! I hold that the spread of education and the creation of +a large and wealthy class unconnected with the land, render that change +more urgent if we would avoid a revolution! I believe that the more we +enlarge the base upon which our institutions rest, the more safely, the +more steadily, and the longer will they last!” + +They knew now, they understood, and the storm broke. The smaller men, +or such of them as were sober, stared. But the greater number burst +into a roar of dissent, of reprobation, of anger, led by the Squire. + +“A Whig, by Heaven!” he cried violently. And he thrust his chair as far +as possible from his neighbour. “A Whig, by Heaven! And here!” While +others cried, “Renegade!” “Radical!” and “What are you doing here?” and +hissed him. But above all, in some degree stilling all, rose Cooke’s +crucial question, “Are you for the Bill? Answer me that!” And he +extended his hand for silence. “Are you for the Bill?” + +“I am,” Vaughan answered. The storm steadied him. + +“You are?” + +“Yes.” + +“Fool or rogue, then! which are you?” shrieked a voice from the lower +end of the table. “Fool or rogue? Which are you?” + +Vaughan turned sharply in the direction of the voice. “That reminds +me,” he said with a vigour which seemed after a few seconds to gain him +a hearing—for the noise died down—“that reminds me, Sergeant Wathen is +against the Bill. But he has addressed himself solely and only to your +prejudices, gentlemen! I am for the Bill—I am for the Bill,” he +repeated, seeing that their attention was wandering, “I——” + +He stopped, silenced and taken aback. For some were on their feet, +others were rising; the faces of nine out of ten were turned from him. +What was it? He turned to see; and he saw. + +A few paces within the door stood Sir Robert himself; his fur collared +travelling cloak hanging loose about him and showing his tall spare +figure at its best. He stooped, but his high-bred face, cynically +smiling, was turned full on the speaker; it was certain that he had +heard much, if not all. And Vaughan had been brave indeed, he had been +a hero, if taken by surprise and at this disadvantage he had not shown +some discomfiture. + +It is easy to smile now! Easy to say that this was but an English +gentleman, bound like others by the law! And Vaughan’s own kinsman! But +few would have smiled then. He, through whose hands passed a quarter of +the patronage of a county, who dammed or turned the stream of +promotion, who had made many there and could unmake them, whose mere +hint could have consigned, a few years back, the troublesome to the +press-gang, who belonged almost as definitely, almost as exclusively, +to a caste, as do white men in the India of to-day; who seldom showed +himself to the vulgar save in his coach and four, or riding with belted +grooms behind him—about such an one in ’31 there was, if no divinity, +at least the ægis of real power, that habit which unquestioned +authority confers, that port of Jove to which men bow! Scan the +pictured faces of the men who steered this country through the long +war—the faces of Liverpool and Castlereagh— + +_Daring pilots in extremity_, + +_Scorning the danger when the waves ran high_; + + +or of those men, heirs to their traditions, who, for nearly twenty +years, confronted the no less formidable forces of discontent and +disaffection—of Peel and Wellington, Croker and Canning, and he is +blind who does not find there the reflection of that firm rule, the +shadow of that power which still survived, though maimed and weakened +in the early thirties. + +Certainly it was not easy to smile at such men then; at their pride or +their prejudices, their selfishness or their eccentricity. For behind +lay solid power. Small blame to Vaughan therefore, if in the face of +the servile attitude, the obsequious rising of the company about him, +he felt his countenance change, if he could not quite hide his dismay. +And though he told himself that his feelings were out of place, that +the man did but stand in the shoes which would one day be his, and was +but now what he would be, _vox faucibus hæsit_—he was dumb. It was Sir +Robert who broke the silence. + +“I fear, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, the gleam in his eyes alone betraying +his passion—for he would as soon have walked the country lanes in his +dressing robe as given way to rage in that company—“I fear you are +saying in haste words which you will repent at leisure! Did I hear +aright that—that you are in favour of the Bill?” + +“I am,” Vaughan replied a little huskily. “I——” + +“Just so, just so!” Sir Robert replied with a certain lightness. And +raising his walking cane he pointed gravely and courteously to the door +a pace or two from him. “That is the door, Mr. Vaughan,” he said. “You +must be here, I am sure, under an error.” + +Vaughan coloured painfully. “Sir Robert,” he said, “I owe you, I +know——” + +“You will owe me very little by to-morrow evening,” Sir Robert +rejoined, interrupting him suavely. “Much less than you now think! But +that is not to the point. Will you—kindly withdraw?” + +“I would like at least to say this! That I came here——” + +“Will you kindly withdraw?” Sir Robert persisted. “That is all.” And he +pointed again, and still more blandly, to the door. “Any explanation +you may please to offer—and I do not deny that one may be in place—you +can give to my agent to-morrow. He, on his part, will have something to +say. For the present—Annibal,” turning with kindly condescension, “be +good enough to open the door for this gentleman. Good-evening, Mr. +Vaughan. You will not, I am sure, compel me to remove with my friends +to another room?” + +And as he continued to point to the door, and would listen to +nothing—and the room was certainly his—Vaughan walked out. And Annibal +closed the door behind him. + + + + +XIV +MISS SIBSON’S MISTAKE + + +It was perhaps fortunate for Miss Hilhouse that she did not hazard any +remarks on that second escapade in the Square. Whether this amendment +in her manners was due to Miss Sibson’s apothegms, or to the general +desire of the school to see the new teacher’s new pelisse—which could +only be gratified by favour—or to a threatening rigidity in Mary +Smith’s bearing must remain a question. But children are keen +observers. Their senses are as sharp as their tongues are cruel. And it +is certain that Miss Smith had not read four lines of the fifth chapter +of The Fairchild Family before a certain sternness in her tone was +noted by those who had not already marked the danger signal in her +eyes. For the gentlest eyes can dart lightnings on occasion. The sheep +will turn in defence of its lamb. Nor ever walked woman who could not +fight for her secret and her pride. + +So Miss Hilhouse bit her tongue and kept silence, the girls behaved +beautifully, and Mary read The Fairchild Family to them in a tone of +monotony that perfectly reflected the future as she saw it. She had +been very foolish, and very weak, but she was not without excuse. He +had saved her life, she could plead that. True, brought up as she had +been at Clapham, shielded from all dealings with the other sex, taught +to regard them as wolves, or at best as a race with which she could +have no safe parley, she should have known better. She should have +known that handsome, courteous, masterful-eyed, as they were—and with a +way with them that made poor girls’ hearts throb at one moment and +stand still at another—she should have known that they meant nothing. +That they were still men, and that she must not trust them, must not +think of them, must not expect to find them more steadfast to a point +than the weather-cock on St. Mary’s at Redcliffe. + +The weather-cock? Ah! + +She had no sooner framed the thought in the middle of the reading than +she was aware of a sensation; and a child, one of the youngest, raised +her hand. “Please—” + +Mary paused. + +“Yes?” she asked. “What is it?” + +“Please, Miss Smith, did the weather-cock speak?” + +Mary reddened violently. + +“Speak? The weather-cock? What do you mean, child?” + +“Please, Miss Smith, you said that the weather-cock told Lucy the +truth, the truth, and all the truth.” + +“Impossible!” Mary stammered. “I—I should have said, the coachman.” And +Mary resumed the story, but with a hot face; a face that blushed more +painfully and more intolerably because she was conscious that every eye +was upon it, and that a score of small minds were groping for the cause +of her confusion. + +She remembered, oh, how well she remembered, that the schoolmistress at +Clapham had told her that she had every good quality except strength of +will. And how thoroughly, how rapidly had she proved the truth of the +exception! Freed from control for only twenty-four hours, left for that +time to her own devices, she had listened to the first voice that +addressed her, believed the first flattering look that fell on her, +taken the most ordinary attentions—attentions at which any girl with +knowledge of the world or strength of will would have smiled—for gold, +real red gold! So that a light look without a spoken word had drawn her +heart from her. How it behoved her to despise herself, loathe herself, +discipline herself! How she ought to guard herself in the future! Above +all, how thankful should she be for the dull but safe routine that +fenced, and henceforth would fence, her life from such dangers! + +True. Yet how dreary to her young eyes seemed that routine stretched +before her! How her courage fainted at the prospect of morning added to +morning, formal walk to formal walk, lesson to lesson, one generation +of pupils to another! For generation would follow generation, one +chubby face would give place to another, and still she would be there, +plodding through the stale task, listening with an aching head to the +strumming on the harpsichord, saying the same things, finding the same +faults, growing slowly into a correcting, scolding, punishing machine. +By and by she would know The Fairchild Family by heart, and she would +sicken at the “Letters on the Improvement of the Mind.” The children +would still be young, but grey hairs would come to her, she would grow +stout and dull; and those slender hands, those dainty fingers still +white and fine, still meet for love, would be seared by a million +needle-pricks and roughened by the wear and tear of ten thousand hours +of plain sewing. + +She was ungrateful, oh, she was ungrateful to think such thoughts! For +in what was her lot worse than the lot of others? Or worse than it had +been a week before when, who more humble-minded or contented, more +cheerful or helpful than Mary Smith? When her only fault had been a +weakness of character which her old schoolmistress hoped would be cured +by time? When, though the shadow of an unknown Miss Sibson loomed +formidable before her, she had faced her fate bravely and hopefully, +supported not a little by the love and good wishes—won by a thousand +kind offices—which went with her into the unknown world. + +What had happened in the meantime? A little thing, oh, a very little +thing. But to think of it under the childrens’ eyes made her face burn +again. She had lost her heart—to a man. To a man! The very word seemed +improper in that company. How much more improper when the man cared +nothing for her, but tossing her a smile for guerdon, had taken her +peace of mind and gone his way, with a laugh. At the best, if he had +ever dreamt seriously of her, ever done more than deem her an innocent, +easily flattered and as lightly to be won, he had changed his mind as +quickly as a weather-cock shifts in April. And he had talked—that hurt +her, that hurt her most! He had talked of her freely, boasted of her +silliness, told his companions what he would do, or what he would not +do; made her common to them! + +She got away for a few minutes at tea-time. But twenty pairs of eyes +followed her from the room and seized on her as she returned. And “Miss +Smith, ain’t you well?” piped a tiny treble. + +She was controlling her voice to answer—that she was quite well, when +Miss Sibson intervened. “Miss Fripp,” she said sombrely, “write ‘Are +you not,’ twenty times on your slate after tea! Miss Hilhouse, if you +stare in that fashion you will be goggle-eyed. Young ladies, elbows, +elbows! Have I not told you a score of times that the art of deportment +consists in the right use of the elbow? Now, Miss Claxton, in what does +the art of deportment consist?” + +“In the right use of the elbow, Ma’am.” + +“And what is the right use of the elbow?” + +“To efface it, Ma’am.” + +“That is better,” Miss Sibson replied, somewhat mollified. “Understood +is half done. Miss Smith,” looking about her with benevolence, “had you +occasion to commend any young lady’s needle this afternoon?” + +Miss Smith looked unhappy: conscious that she had not been as attentive +to her duties as became her. “I had no occasion to find fault, Ma’am,” +she said timidly. + +“Very good. Then every fourth young lady beginning at my right hand may +take a piece of currant cake. I see that Miss Burges is wearing the +silver medal for good conduct. She may take a piece, and give a piece +to a friend. When you have eaten your cake you may go to the schoolroom +and play for half an hour at Blind Man’s Buff. But—elbows! Elbows, +young ladies,” gazing austerely at them over her glasses. “In all your +frolics let deportment be your first consideration.” + +The girls trooped out and Mary Smith rose to go with them. But Miss +Sibson bade her remain. “I wish to speak to you,” she said. + +Poor Mary trembled. For Miss Sibson was still in some measure an +unknown quantity, a perplexing mixture of severity and benevolence, +sound sense and Mrs. Chapone. + +“I wish to speak to you,” Miss Sibson continued when they were alone. +And then after a pause during which she poured herself out a third cup +of tea, “My dear,” she said soberly, “the sooner a false step is +retraced the better. I took a false step yesterday—I blame myself for +it—when I allowed you—in spite of my rule to the contrary—to see a +gentleman. I made that exception partly out of respect to the note +which the parcel contained; the affair was strange and out of the +ordinary. And partly because I liked the gentleman’s face. I thought +him a gentleman; he told me that he had an independence: I had no +reason to think him more than that. But I have heard to-day, my dear—I +thought it right to make some enquiry in view of the possibility of a +second visit—that he is a gentleman of large expectations, who will one +day be very rich and a man of standing in the country. That alters the +position,” Miss Sibson continued gravely. “Had I known it”—she rubbed +her nose thoughtfully with the handle of her teaspoon—“I should not +have permitted the interview.” And then after a few seconds of silence, +“You understand me, I think, my dear?” she asked. + +“Yes,” Mary said in a low voice. She spoke with perfect composure. + +“Just so, just so,” Miss Sibson answered, pleased to see that the girl +was too proud to give way before her—though she was sure that she would +cry by and by. “I am glad to think that there is no harm done. As I +have said, the sooner a false step is retraced, the better; and +therefore if he calls again I shall not permit him to see you.” + +“I do not wish to see him,” Mary said with dignity. + +“Very good. Then that is understood.” + +But strangely enough, the words had barely fallen from Miss Sibson’s +lips when there came a knock at the house door, and the same thought +leapt to the mind of each; and to Mary’s cheek a sudden vivid blush +that, fading as quickly as it came, left her paler than before. Miss +Sibson saw the girl’s distress, and she was about to suggest, in words +equivalent to a command, that she should retire, when the door opened +and the neat maidservant announced—with poorly masked excitement—that a +gentleman wished to see Miss Smith. + +Miss Sibson frowned. + +“Where is he?” she asked, with majesty; as if she already scented the +fray. + +“In the parlour, Ma’am.” + +“Very good. Very good. I will see him.” But not until the maid had +retired did the schoolmistress rise to her feet. “You had better stay +here,” she said, looking at her companion, “until my return. It is of +course your wish that I should dismiss him?” + +Mary shivered. Those dreams of something brighter, something higher, +something fuller than the daily round; of a life in the sunshine, of +eyes that looked into hers—this was their end! But she said “Yes,” +bravely. + +“Good girl,” said Miss Sibson, feeling, good, honest creature, more +than she showed. “I will do so.” And she swam forth. + +Poor Mary! The door was barely shut before her heart whispered that she +had only to cross the hall and she would see him; that, on the other +hand, if she did not cross the hall, she would never, never, never see +him again! She would stay here for all time, bound hand and foot to the +unchanging round of petty duties, a blind slave in the mill, no longer +a woman—though her woman’s heart hungered for love—but a dull, formal, +old maid, growing more stiff and angular with every year! No farther +away than the other side of the hall were love and freedom. And she +dared not, she dared not open the door! + +And then she bethought her, that he was no weathercock, for he had come +again! He had come! And it must be for something. For what? + +She heard the door open on the parlour side of the hall, and she knew +that he was going. And she stood listening, waiting with blanched +cheeks. + +The door opened and Miss Sibson came in, met her look—and started. + +“Oh!” the schoolmistress exclaimed; and for a moment she stood, looking +strangely at the girl, as if she did not know what to say to her. Then, +“We were mistaken,” she said, with a serious face. “It is not the +gentleman you were expecting, my dear. On the contrary, it’s a stranger +who wishes to see you on business.” + +Mary tried to gain command of herself. “I had rather not,” she said +faintly. “I don’t think I can.” + +“I fear—you must,” Miss Sibson rejoined, with unusual gravity. “Still, +there is no hurry. He can wait a few minutes. He can await your +leisure. Do you sit down and compose yourself. You have no reason to be +disturbed. The gentleman”—she continued, with an odd inflection in her +voice—“is old enough to be your father.” + + + + +XV +MR. PYBUS’S OFFER + + +“A note for you, sir.” Vaughan turned moodily to take it. It was the +morning after the Vermuyden dinner, and he had slept ill, he had risen +late, he was still sitting before his breakfast, toying with it rather +than eating it. His first feeling on leaving the dining-room had been +bitter chagrin at the ease with which Sir Robert had dealt with him. +This had given place a little later to amusement; for he had a sense of +humour. And he had laughed, though sorely, at the figure he had cut as +he beat his retreat. Still later, as he lay, excited and wakeful, he +had fallen a prey to doubt; that horrible three o’clock in the morning +doubt, which defies reason, which sees all the _cons_ in the strongest +light and reduces the _pros_ to shadows. However, one thing was +certain. He had crossed the Rubicon. He had divorced himself by public +act from the party to which his forbears—for the Vaughans as well as +the Vermuydens had been Tories—had belonged. He had joined the Whigs; +nay, he had joined the Reformers. But though he had done this +deliberately and from conviction, though his reason approved the step, +and his brain teemed with arguments in its favour, the chance that he +might be wrong haunted him. + +That governing class from which he was separating himself, from which +his policy would snatch power, which in future would dub him traitor, +what had it not done for England? With how firm a hand had it not +guided the country through storm and stress, with what success shielded +it not from foreign foes only, but from disruption and revolution? He +scanned the last hundred and fifty years and saw the country, always +under the steady rule of that class which had the greatest stake in its +prosperity, advancing in strength and riches and comfort, ay, and, +though slowly in these, in knowledge also and the humanities and +decencies. And the question forced itself upon him, would that great +middle class into whose hands the sway now fell, use it better? Would +they produce statesmen more able than Walpole or Chatham, generals +braver than Wolfe or Moore, a higher heart than Nelson’s? Nay, would +the matter end there? Would not power slip into the hands of a wider +and yet a wider circle? Would Orator Hunt’s dream of Manhood Suffrage, +Annual Parliaments and the Ballot become a reality? Would government by +the majority, government by tale of heads, as if three chawbacons must +perforce be wiser than one squire, government by the ill-taught, +untrained mass, with the least to lose and the most to gain—would that +in the long run plunge the country in fatal misfortunes? + +It was just possible that those who deemed the balance of power, +established in 1688, the one perfect mean between despotism and +anarchy—it was just possible that they were right. And that he was a +fool. + +Then to divert his mind he had allowed himself to think of Mary Smith. +And he had tossed and tumbled, ill-satisfied with himself. He was +brave, he told himself, in the wrong place. He had the courage to break +with old associations, to defy opinion, to disregard Sir Robert—where +no more than a point of pride was concerned; for it was absurd to fancy +that the fate of England hung on his voice. But in a matter which went +to the root of his happiness—for he was sure that he loved Mary Smith +and would love no other—he had not the spirit to defy a little gossip, +a few smiles, the contempt of the worldly. He flushed from head to foot +at the thought of a life which, however modest—and modesty was not +incompatible with ambition—was shared by her, and would be pervaded by +her. And yet he dared not purchase that life at so trifling a cost! No, +he was weak where he should be strong, and strong where he should be +weak. And so he had tossed and turned, and now after two or three hours +of feverish sleep, he sat glooming over his tea cup. + +Presently he broke open the note which the waiter had handed to him. He +read it, and “Who brought this?” he asked, with a perplexed face. + +“Don’t know, sir,” Sam replied glibly, beginning to collect the +breakfast dishes. + +“Will you enquire?” + +“Found it on the hall table, sir,” the man answered, in the same tone. +“Fancy,” with a grin, “it’s a runaway knock, sir. Known a man find a +cabbage at the door and a whole year’s wages under it—at election time, +sir! Yes, sir. Find funny things in funny places—election time, sir.” + +Vaughan made no reply, but a few minutes later he took his hat and +descending the stairs, strolled with an easy air into the street. He +paused as if to contemplate the Abbey Church, beautiful even in its +disfigurement. Then, but as if he were careless which way he went, he +turned to the right. + +The main street, with its whitened doorsteps and gleaming knockers, lay +languid in the sunshine; perhaps, enervated by the dissipation of the +previous evening. The candidates who would presently pay formal visits +to the voters were not yet afoot: and though taverns where the tap was +running already gave forth maudlin laughter, no other sign of the +coming event declared itself. A few tradesmen stood at their doors, a +few dogs lay stretched in the sun; and only Vaughan’s common sense told +him that he was watched. + +From the High Street he presently turned into a narrow alley on the +right which descended between garden walls to the lower level of the +town. A man who was lounging in the mouth of the alley muttered “second +door on the left,” as Vaughan passed, and the latter moved on counting +the doors. At the one indicated he paused, and, after making certain +that he was not observed, he knocked. The door opened a little way. + +“For whom are you?” asked someone who kept himself out of sight. + +“Buff and Blue,” Vaughan answered. + +“Right; sir,” the voice rejoined briskly. The door opened wide and +Vaughan passed in. He found himself in a small walled garden smothered +in lilac and laburnum, and shaded by two great chestnut trees already +so fully in leaf as to hide the house to which the garden belonged. + +The person who had admitted him, a very small, very neat gentleman in a +high-collared blue coat and nankeen trousers, with a redundant soft +cravat wound about his thin neck, bowed low. “Happy to see you, Mr. +Vaughan,” he chirped. “I am Mr. Pybus, his lordship’s man of business. +Happy to be the intermediary in so pleasant a matter.” + +“I hope it may turn out so,” Vaughan replied drily. “You wrote me a +very mysterious note.” + +“Can’t be too careful, sir,” the little man, who was said to model +himself upon Lord John Russell, answered with an important frown. +“Can’t be too careful in these matters. You’re watched and I am +watched, sir.” + +“I dare say,” Vaughan replied. + +“And the responsibility is great, very great. May I——” he continued, +pulling out his box, “but I dare say you don’t take snuff?” + +“No.” + +“No? The younger generation! Just so! Many of the young gentry smoke, I +am told. Other days, other manners! Well—we know of course what +happened last night. And I’m bound to say, I honour you, Mr. Vaughan! I +honour you, sir.” + +“You can let that pass,” Vaughan replied coldly. + +“Very good! Very good! Of course,” he continued with importance, “the +news was brought to me at once, and his lordship knew it before he +slept.” + +“Oh!” + +“Yes, indeed. Yes. And he wrote to me this morning—in his dressing +gown, I don’t doubt. He commanded me to tell you——” + +But here Vaughan stopped him—somewhat rudely. “One minute, Mr. Pybus,” +he said, “I don’t wish to know what Lord Lansdowne said or did—because +it will not affect my conduct. I am here because you requested me to +grant you an interview. But if your purpose be merely to convey to me +Lord Lansdowne’s approval—or disapproval,” in a tone a little more +contemptuous than was necessary, “be good enough to understand that +they are equally indifferent to me. I have done what I have done +without regard to my cousin’s—to Sir Robert Vermuyden’s feelings. You +may take it for certain,” he added loftily, “that I shall not be led +beyond my own judgment by any regard for his lordship’s.” + +“But hear me out!” the little man cried, dancing to and fro in his +eagerness; so that, in the shifting lights under the great chestnut +tree, he looked like a pert, bright-coloured bird. “Hear me out, and +you’ll not say that!” + +“I shall say, Mr. Pybus——” + +“I beg you to hear me out!” + +Vaughan shrugged his shoulders. + +“Go on!” he said. “I have said my say, and I suppose you understand +me.” + +“I shall hold it unsaid,” Mr. Pybus rejoined warmly, “until I have +spoken!” And he waved an agitated finger in the air. “Observe, Mr. +Vaughan—his lordship bade me take you entirely into confidence, and I +do so. We’ve only one candidate—Mr. Wrench. Colonel Petty is sure of +his election in Ireland and we’ve no mind to stand a second contest to +fill his seat: in fact we are not going to nominate him. Lord Kerry, my +lord’s eldest son thought of it, but it is not a certainty, and my lord +wishes him to wait a year or two and sit for Calne. I say it’s not a +certainty. But it’s next door to a certainty since you have declared +yourself. And my lord’s view, Mr. Vaughan, is that he who hits the buck +should have the haunch. You take me?” + +“Indeed, I don’t.” + +“Then I’ll be downright, sir. To the point, sir. Will you be our +candidate?” + +“What?” Vaughan cried. He turned very red. “What do you mean?” + +“What I said, sir. Will you be our candidate? For the Bill, the whole +Bill, and nothing but the Bill? If so, we shall not say a word until +to-morrow and then we shall nominate you with Mr. Wrench, and take ’em +by surprise. Eh? Do you see? They’ve got their speeches ready full of +my lord’s interference and my lord’s dictation, and they will point to +Colonel Petty, my lord’s cousin, for proof! And then,” Mr. Pybus +winked, much after the fashion of a mischievous paroquet, “we’ll knock +the stool from under ’em by nominating you! And, mind you, Mr. Vaughan, +we are going to win. We were hopeful before, for we’ve one of their men +in gaol, and another, Pillinger of the Blue Duck, is tied by the leg. +His wife owes a bit of money and thinks more of fifty guineas in her +own pocket than of thirty pounds a year in her husband’s. And she and +the doctor have got him in bed and will see that he’s not well enough +to vote! Ha! Ha! So there it is, Mr. Vaughan! There it is! My lord’s +offer, not mine. I believe he’d word from London what you’d be likely +to do. Only he felt a delicacy about moving—until you declared +yourself.” + +“I see,” Vaughan replied. And indeed he did see more than he liked. + +“Just so, sir. My lord’s a gentleman if ever there was one!” And Mr. +Pybus, pulling down his waistcoat, looked as if he suspected that he +had imbibed much of his lordship’s gentility. + +Vaughan stood, thinking; his eyes gazing into the shimmering depths of +green where the branches of the chestnut tree under which he stood +swept the sun-kissed turf. And as he thought he tried to still the +turmoil in his brain. Here within reach of his hand, to take or leave, +was that which had been his ambition for years! No longer to play at +the game, no longer to make believe while he addressed the Forum or the +Academic that he was addressing the Commons of England; but verily and +really to be one of that august body, and to have all within reach. Had +not the offer of cabinet honours fallen to Lord Palmerston at +twenty-five? And what Lord Palmerston had done at twenty-five, he might +do at thirty-five! And more easily, if he gained a footing before the +crowd of new members whom the Bill would bring in, took the floor. The +thought set his pulse a-gallop. His chance! His chance at last! But if +he let it slip now, it might not be his for long years. It is poor work +waiting for dead men’s shoes. + +And yet he hesitated, with a flushed face. For the thing offered +without price or preface, by a man who had power to push him, by the +man who even now was pushing Mr. Macaulay at Calne, tempted him sorely. +Nor less—nor less because he remembered with bitterness that Sir Robert +had made him no such offer, and now never would! So that if he refused +this offer, he could look for no second from either side! + +And yet he could not forget that Sir Robert was his kinsman, was the +head of his family, the donor of his vote. And in the night watches he +had decided that, his mind delivered, his independence declared, he +would not vote. Neither for Sir Robert—for conscience’s sake; nor +against Sir Robert, for his name’s sake! + +Then how could he not only take an active part against him, but raise +his fortunes on his fall? + +He drew a deep breath. And he put the temptation from him. “I am much +obliged to his lordship,” he said quietly. “But I cannot accept his +offer.” + +“Not accept it?” Mr. Pybus cried. “Mr. Vaughan! You don’t mean it, sir! +You don’t mean it! It’s a safe seat! It’s in your own hands, I tell +you! And after last night! Besides, it is not as if you had not +declared yourself.” + +“I cannot accept it,” Vaughan repeated coldly. “I am obliged to Lord +Lansdowne for his kind thought of me. I beg you to convey my thanks to +him. But I cannot—in the position I occupy—accept the offer.” + +Mr. Pybus stared. Was it possible that the scene at the Vermuyden +dinner had been a ruse? A piece of play-acting to gain his secrets? If +so—he was undone! “But,” he quavered with an unhappy eye, “you are in +favour of the Bill, Mr. Vaughan?” + +“I am. + +“And—and of Reform generally, I understand?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Then—I don’t understand? Why do you refuse?” + +Vaughan raised his head and looked at him with a movement which would +have reminded Isaac White of Sir Robert. “That is my business,” he +said. + +“But you see,” Mr. Pybus remonstrated timidly—he was rather a +crestfallen bird by this time—“I confess I was never more surprised in +my life! Never! You see I’ve told you all our secrets.” + +“I shall keep them.” + +“Yes, but—oh dear! oh dear!” Pybus was thinking of what he had said +about Mrs. Pillinger of the Blue Duck. “I—I don’t know what to say,” he +added. “I am afraid I have been too hasty, very hasty! Very +precipitate! Of course, Mr. Vaughan,” he continued, “the offer would +not have been made if we had not thought you certain to accept it!” + +“Then,” Vaughan replied with dignity, “you can consider that it has not +been made. I shall not name it for certain.” + +“Well! Well!” + +“I can say no more,” Vaughan continued coldly. “Indeed, there is +nothing more to be said, Mr. Pybus?” + +“No,” piteously, “I suppose not. If you really won’t change your mind, +sir?” + +“I shall not do that,” the young man answered. And a minute later with +Mr. Pybus’s faint appeals still sounding in his ears he was on the +other side of the garden door, and striding down the alley, towards the +King’s Wall, whence making a detour he returned to the High Street. + + + + +XVI +LESS THAN A HERO + + +It was the evening of the day on which the meeting between Arthur +Vaughan and Mr. Pybus had taken place, and from the thirty-six windows +in the front of Stapylton lights shone on the dusky glades of the park; +here, twinkling fairy-like over the long slope of sward that shimmered +pale-green as with the ghostly reflection of dead daylight, there, +shining boldly upon the clump of beeches that topped an eminence with +blackness. Vaughan sat beside Isaac White in the carriage which Sir +Robert had sent for him; and looking curiously forth on the demesne +which would be his if he lived, he could scarcely believe his eyes. Was +the old squire so sure of victory that he already illuminated his +windows? Or was the house, long sparely inhabited, and opened only at +rare intervals and to dull and formal parties, full now from attic to +hall? Election or no election, it seemed unlikely. Yet every window, +yes, every window had its light! + +He was too proud to question the agent who, his errand done, and his +message delivered, showed no desire to talk. More than once, indeed, in +the course of their short companionship, Vaughan had caught White +looking at him strangely; with something like pity in his eyes. And +though the young man was far from letting this distress him—probably +White, with his inborn reverence for Sir Robert, despaired of all who +fell under his displeasure—it closed his lips and hardened his heart. +He was no paid servant; but a kinsman and the heir. And he would have +Sir Robert remember this. For his own part, he was not going to forget +who he was; that a Chancellor had stooped to flatter him and a Cabinet +Minister had offered him a seat. He had refused for a point of honour a +bait which few would have refused; and he was not going to be +browbeaten by an old gentleman whom the world had out-paced, and whose +beliefs, whose prejudices, whose views, were of yesterday. Who, in his +profound ignorance of present conditions, would plunge England into +civil war rather than resign a privilege as obsolete as ship-money, and +as illegal as the Dispensing Power. + +While he thought of this the carriage stopped at the door. He alighted +and ascended the steps. + +The hall more than made good the outside promise; it was brilliantly +lighted, and behind Mapp and the servant who received him Vaughan had a +passing glimpse of three or four men in full-dress livery. From the +dining-room on his left issued peals of laughter, and voices, so clear +that, though he had not the smallest reason to expect to hear them +there, he was sure that he caught Bob Flixton’s tones. The discovery +was not pleasing; but Mapp, turning the other way and giving him no +time to think, went before him to the suite of state-rooms—which he had +not seen in use more than thrice within his knowledge of the house. It +must be so then—he thought with a slight shock of surprise. The place +must be full! For the gilt mirrors in both the large and small +drawing-rooms reflected the soft light of many candles, wood fires +burned and crackled on the hearths, the “Morning Chronicle,” the +“Quarterly,” and other signs of life lay about on the round tables, and +an air of cheerful _bienséance_ pervaded all. What did it mean? + +“Sir Robert has finished dinner, sir,” Mapp said—even he seemed to wear +an unusual air of solemnity. “He will be with you, sir, immediately. +Hope you are well, sir?” + +“Quite well, Mapp, thank you.” + +Then he was left alone—to wonder if a second surprise awaited him. He +had had one that day. If a second were in store for him what was its +nature? Could Sir Robert on his side be going to offer him one of the +seats—if he would recant? He hoped not. But he had not time to give +more than a thought to that before he heard footsteps and voices +crossing the hall. The next moment there entered the outer room—at such +a distance from the hearth of the room in which he stood, that he had a +leisurely view of all before they reached him—three persons. The first +was a tall burly man in slovenly evening clothes, and with an ungainly +rolling walk; after him came Sir Robert himself, and after him again, +Isaac White. + +Vaughan advanced a step or two, and Sir Robert passed by the burly man, +who had a pendulous under lip, and a face at once flabby and +melancholy. The baronet held out his hand. “We have not quarrelled yet, +Mr. Vaughan,” he said, with a cordiality which took Vaughan quite by +surprise. “I trust and believe that we are not going to quarrel. I bid +you welcome therefore. This,” he continued with a gesture of courteous +deference, “is Sir Charles Wetherell, whom you know by reputation, and +whom, for a reason which you will understand by and by, I have asked to +be present at our interview.” + +The stout man eyed Vaughan from under bushy eyebrows. “I think we have +met before,” he said in a deep voice. “At Westminster, Mr. Vaughan, on +the 22nd of last month.” He had a habit of blinking as he talked. “I +was beholden to you on that occasion.” + +Vaughan had already recognised him and recalled the incident in Palace +Yard. He bowed with an expression of silent sympathy. But he wondered +all the more. The presence of the late attorney-general, a man of mark +in the political world, whose defeat at Norwich was in that morning’s +paper—what did it mean? Did they think to browbeat him? Or—had Sir +Charles Wetherell also an offer to make to him? In any event it seemed +that he had made himself a personage by his independence. Sought by the +one side, sought by the other! A résumé of the answer he would give +flashed before him. However, they were not come to that yet! + +“Will you sit down,” said Sir Robert. The great man’s voice and +manner—to Vaughan’s surprise—were less autocratic and more friendly +than he had ever known them. Indeed, in comparison of the lion of last +evening he was but a mouse. “In the first place,” he continued, “I am +obliged to you for your compliance with my wishes.” + +Vaughan murmured that he had come at no inconvenience to himself. + +“I hope not,” Sir Robert replied. “In the next place let me say, that +we have to speak to you on a matter of the first importance; a matter +also on which we have the advantage of knowledge which you have not. It +is my desire, therefore, to admit you to a parity with us in that +respect, Mr. Vaughan, before you express yourself on any subject on +which we are likely to differ.” + +Vaughan looked keenly, almost suspiciously at him; and an observer +would have noticed that there was a closer likeness between the two men +than the slender tie of blood warranted. “If it is a question, Sir +Robert,” he said slowly, “of the subject on which we differed last +evening, I would prefer to say at once——” + +“Don’t!” Wetherell, who was seated within a long reach of him, struck +in. “Don’t!” And he laid an elephantine and not over-clean hand on +Vaughan’s knee. “You can spill words as easy as water,” he continued, +“and they are as hard to pick up again. Hear what Vermuyden has to say, +and what I’ve to say—’tisn’t much—and then blow your trumpet—if you’ve +any breath left!” he added _sotto voce_, as he threw himself back. + +Vaughan hesitated a moment. Then, “Very good,” he said, “if you will +hear me afterwards. But——” + +“But and If are two wenches always raising trouble!” Wetherell cried +coarsely. “Do you listen, Mr. Vaughan. Do you listen. Now, Vermuyden, +go on.” + +But Sir Robert did not seem to have words at command. He took a pinch +of snuff from the gold box with which his fingers trifled: and he +opened his mouth to resume; but he hesitated. At length, “What I have +to tell you, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, in a voice more diffident than +usual, “had perhaps been more properly told by my attorney to yours. I +fully admit that,” dusting the snuff from his frill. “And it would have +been so told but for—but for exigencies not immediately connected with +it, which are nevertheless so pressing as to—to induce me to take the +one step immediately possible. Less regular, but immediately possible! +In spite of this, you will believe, I am sure, that I do not wish to +take any advantage of you other than,” he paused with an embarrassed +look at Wetherell, “that which my position gives me. For the rest I”—he +looked again at his snuffbox and hesitated—“I think—I——” + +“You’d better come to the point!” Wetherell growled impatiently, +jerking his ungainly person back in his chair, and lurching forward +again. “To the point, man! Shall I tell him?” + +Sir Robert straightened himself—with a sigh of relief. “If you please,” +he said, “I think you had better. It—it may come better from you, as +you are not interested.” + +Vaughan looked from one to the other, and wondered what on earth they +meant, and what they would be at. His cordial reception followed by +this strange exordium, the preparations, the presence of the three men +seated about him and all, it seemed, ill at ease—these things begot +instinctive misgivings; and an uneasiness, which it was not in the +power of reason to hold futile. What were they meditating? What threat, +what inducement? And what meant this strange illumination of the house, +this air of festivity? It could be nothing to him. And yet—but +Wetherell was speaking. + +“Mr. Vaughan,” he said gruffly—and he swayed himself as was his habit +to and fro in his seat, “my friend here, and your kinsman, has made a +discovery of—of the utmost possible importance to him; and, speaking +candidly, of scarcely less importance to you. I don’t know whether you +read the trash they call novels now-a-days—‘The Disowned’” with a snort +of contempt, “and ‘Tremayne’ and the rest? I hope not, I don’t! But +it’s something devilish like the stuff they put in them that I’ve to +tell you. You’ll believe it or not, as you please. You think yourself +heir to the Stapylton estates? Of course you do. Sir Robert has no more +than a life-interest, and if he has no children, the reversion in fee, +as we lawyers call it, is yours. Just so. But if he has children, son +or daughter, you are ousted, Mr. Vaughan.” + +“Are you going to tell me,” Vaughan said, his face grown suddenly +rigid, “that he has children?” His heart was beating furiously under +his waistcoat, but, taken aback as he was, he maintained outward +composure. + +“That’s it,” Wetherell answered bluntly. + +“Then——” + +“He has a daughter.” + +“It will have to be proved!” Vaughan said slowly and in the tone of a +man who chose his words. And he rose to his feet. He felt, perhaps he +was justified in feeling, that they had taken him at a disadvantage. +That they had treated him unfairly in trapping him hither, one to +three; in order that they might see, perhaps, how he took it! Not—his +thoughts travelled rapidly over the facts known to him—that the thing +could be true! The punishment for last night’s revolt fell too pat, too +_à propos_, he’d not believe it! And besides, it could not be true. For +Lady Vermuyden lived, and there could be no question of a concealed +marriage, or a low-born family. “It will have to be proved!” he +repeated firmly. “And is matter rather for my lawyers than for me.” + +Sir Robert, too, had risen to his feet. But it was Wetherell who spoke. + +“Perhaps so!” he said. “Perhaps so. Indeed I admit it, young sir! It +will have to be proved. But——” + +“It should have been told to them rather than to me!” Vaughan repeated, +with a sparkling eye. And he turned as if he were determined to treat +them as hostile and to have nothing farther to say to them. + +But Wetherell stopped him. “Stay, young man,” he said, “and be ashamed +of yourself! You forget yourself!” And before Vaughan, stung and angry, +could retort upon him, “You forget,” he continued, “that this touches +another as closely as it touches you—and more closely! You are a +gentleman, sir, and Sir Robert’s kinsman. Have you no word then, for +him!” pointing, with a gesture roughly eloquent, to his host. “You +lose, but have you no word for him who gains! You lose, but is it +nothing to him that he finds himself childless no longer, heirless no +longer? That his house is no longer lonely, his hearth no longer empty! +Man alive,” he added, dropping with honest indignation to a low note, +“you lose, but what does he not gain? And have you no word, no generous +thought for him? Bah!” throwing himself back in his seat. “Poor human +nature.” + +“Still it must be proved,” said Vaughan sullenly, though in his heart +he acknowledged the truth of the reproach. + +“Granted! But will you not hear what it is, that is to be proved?” +Wetherell retorted. “If so, sit down, sir, sit down, and hear what we +have to tell you like a man. Will you do that,” in a tone of extreme +exasperation, which did but reflect the slowly hardening expression of +Sir Robert’s face, “or are you quite a fool?” + +Vaughan hesitated, looking with angry eyes on Wetherell. Then he sat +down. “Am I to understand,” he said coldly, “that this is news to Sir +Robert?” + +“It was news to him yesterday.” + +Vaughan bowed and was silent; aware that a more generous demeanour +would better become him, but unable to compass it on the spur of the +moment. He was ignorant—unfortunately—of the spirit in which he had +been summoned: consequently he could not guess that every word he +uttered rang churlishly in the ears of more than one of his listeners. +He was no churl; but he was taken unfairly—as it seemed to him. And to +be called upon in the first moment of chagrin to congratulate Sir +Robert on an event which ruined his own prospects and changed his +life—was too much. Too much! But again Wetherell was speaking. + +“You shall know what we know from the beginning,” he said, in his heavy +melancholy way. “You are aware, I suppose, that Sir Robert married—in +the year ’10, was it not?—Yes, in the year ’10, and that Lady Vermuyden +bore him one child, a daughter, who died in Italy in the year ’15. It +appears now—we are in a position to prove, I think—that that child did +not die in that year, nor in any year; but is now alive, is in this +country and can be perfectly identified.” + +Vaughan coughed. “This is strange news,” he said, “after all these +years; and somewhat sudden, is it not?” + +Sir Robert’s face grew harder, but Wetherell only shrugged his +shoulders. “If you will listen,” he replied, “you will know all that we +know. It is no secret, at any rate in this room it is no secret, that +in the year ’14 Sir Robert fancied that he had grave reason to be +displeased with Lady Vermuyden. It was thought by her friends that a +better agreement might be produced by a temporary separation, and the +child’s health afforded a pretext. Accordingly, Sir Robert suffered +Lady Vermuyden to take it abroad, her suite consisting of a courier, a +maid, and a nurse. The nurse she sent back to England not long +afterwards on the plea that an Italian woman from whom the child might +learn the language would be better. For my part, I believe that she +acted bonâ-fide in this. But in other respects,” puffing out his +cheeks, “her conduct was such as to alarm her husband; and, in terms +perhaps too peremptory, Sir Robert bade her return at once—or cease to +consider his house as her home. Her answer was the announcement of the +child’s death.” + +“And that it did not die,” Vaughan murmured, “as Lady Vermuyden said?” + +“We have this evidence. But first let me say, that Sir Robert on the +receipt of the news set out for Italy overland. The Hundred Days, +however, stopped him; he could not cross France, and he returned +without certifying the child’s death. He had indeed no suspicion, no +reason for suspicion. Well, then, for evidence that it did not die. The +courier is dead, and there remains only the maid. She is alive, she is +here, she is in this house. And it is from her that we have learned the +truth—that the child did not die.” + +He paused a moment, brooding in his fat, melancholy way on the pattern +of the carpet between his feet. Sir Robert, with a face hard and proud, +sat upright, listening to the tale of his misfortunes—and doubtless +suffered torments as he listened. + +“Her story,” Wetherell resumed—possibly he had been arranging his +thoughts—“is this. Lady Vermuyden was living a life of the wildest +gaiety. She had no affection for the child; if the woman is to be +believed, she hated it. To part with it was nothing to her one way or +the other, and on receipt of Sir Robert’s order to return, her ladyship +conceived the idea of punishing him by abducting the child and telling +him it was dead. She set out from Florence with it; on the way she left +it at Orvieto in charge of the Italian nurse, and arriving in Rome she +put about the story of its death. Shortly afterwards she had it carried +to England and bred up in an establishment near London—always with the +aid and connivance of her maid.” + +“The maid’s name?” Vaughan asked. + +“Herapath—Martha Herapath. But to proceed. By and by Lady Vermuyden +returned to England, and settled at Brighton, and the maid left her and +married, but continued to draw a pension from her. Lady Vermuyden +persisted here—in the company of Lady Conyng—but I need name no +names—in the same course of giddiness, if no worse, which she had +pursued abroad; and gave little if any heed to the child. But this +woman Herapath never forgot that the pension she enjoyed was dependent +on her power to prove the truth: and when a short time back the girl, +now well-grown, was withdrawn from her knowledge, she grew restive. She +sought Lady Vermuyden, always a creature of impulse, and when her +ladyship, foolish in this as in all things, refused to meet her views +she—she came to us,” he continued, lifting his head abruptly and +looking at Vaughan, “and told us the story.” + +“It will have to be proved,” Vaughan said stubbornly. + +“No doubt, strictly proved,” Wetherell replied. “In the meantime if you +would like to peruse the facts in greater detail, they are here, as +taken down from the woman’s mouth.” He drew from his capacious +breast-pocket a manuscript consisting of several sheets which he +unfolded and flattened on his knee. He handed it to Vaughan. + +The young man took it, without looking at Sir Robert: and with his +thoughts in a whirl—and underlying them a sick feeling of impending +misfortune—he proceeded to read it, line after line, without taking in +a single word. For all the time his brain was at work measuring the +change. His modest competence would be left to him. He would have +enough to live as he was now living, and to pursue his career; or, in +the alternative, he might settle down as a small squire in his paternal +home in South Wales. But the great inheritance which had loomed large +in the background of his life and had been more to him than he had +admitted, the future dignity which he had undervalued while he thought +it his own, the position more enviable than many a peer’s, and higher +by its traditions than any to which he could attain by his own +exertions, though he reached the Woolsack—these were gone if +Wetherell’s tale was true. Gone in a moment, at a word! And though he +might have lost more, though many a man had lost his all by such a +stroke and smiled, he was no hero, and he could not on the instant +smile. He could not in a moment oust all bitterness. He knew that he +was taking the news unworthily; that he was playing a poor part. But he +could not force himself to play a better—on the instant. When he had +read with unseeing eyes to the bottom of the first page and had turned +it mechanically, he let the papers fall upon his knee. + +“You do not wish me,” he said slowly, “to express an opinion now, I +suppose?” + +“No,” Wetherell answered. “Certainly not. But I have not quite done. I +have not quite done,” he repeated ponderously. “I should tell you that +for opening the matter to you now—we have two reasons, Mr. Vaughan. Two +reasons. First, we think it due to you—as one of the family. And +secondly, Vermuyden desires that from the beginning, his intentions +shall be clear and—be understood.” + +“I thoroughly understand them,” Vaughan answered drily. No one was more +conscious than he that he was behaving ill. + +“That is just what you do not!” Wetherell retorted stolidly. “You spill +words, young man, and by and by you will wish to pick them up again. +You cannot anticipate, at any rate, you have no right to anticipate, +Sir Robert’s intentions, of which he has asked me to be the mouthpiece. +The estate, of course, and the settled funds must go to his daughter. +But there is, it appears, a large sum arising from the economical +management of the property, which is at his disposal. He feels,” +Wetherell continued sombrely, an elbow on each knee and his eyes on the +floor, “that some injustice has been done to you, and he desires to +compensate you for that injustice. He proposes, therefore, to secure to +you the succession to two-thirds of this sum; which amounts—which +amounts, in the whole I believe”—here he looked at White—“to little +short of eighty thousand pounds.” + +Vaughan, who had been more than once on the point of interrupting him, +did so at last. “I could not accept it!” he exclaimed impulsively. And +he rose, with a hot face, from his seat. “I could not accept it.” + +“As a legacy?” Wetherell, who was fond of money, said with a queer +look. “As a legacy, eh? Why not?” While Sir Robert, with compressed +lips, almost repented of his generosity. He had looked for some show of +good-feeling, some word of sympathy, some felicitation from the young +man, who, after all, was his blood relation. But if this was to be his +return, if his advances were to be met with suspicion, his benevolence +with churlishness, then all, all in this young man was of a piece—and +detestable! + +And certainly Vaughan was not showing himself in the best light. He was +conscious that he had taken the news ill; but he could not change his +attitude in a moment. Under no circumstances is it an easy thing to +take a gift with grace: to take one with grace under these +circumstances—and when he had already misbehaved—was beyond him, as it +would have been beyond most men. + +For a moment drawn this way by his temper, that way by his better +feelings, he did not know how to answer Wetherell’s last words. At last +and lamely, “May I ask,” he said, “why Sir Robert makes me this offer +while the matter lies open?” + +“Sir Robert will prove his case,” Wetherell answered gruffly, “if that +is what you mean.” + +“I mean——” + +“He does not ask you to surrender anything.” + +“I am bound to say, then, that the offer is very generous,” Vaughan +replied, melting, and speaking with some warmth. “Most generous. But——” + +“He asks you to surrender nothing,” Wetherell repeated stolidly, his +face between his knees. + +“But I still think it is premature,” Vaughan persisted doggedly. “And +handsome as it is, more than handsome as it is, I think that it would +have come with greater force, were my position first made clear!” + +“Maybe,” Wetherell said, his face still hidden. “I don’t deny that.” + +“As it is,” with a deep breath, “I am taken by surprise. I do not know +what to say. I find it hard to say anything in the first flush of the +matter.” And Vaughan looked from one to the other. “So, for the +present, with Sir Robert’s permission,” he continued, “and without any +slight to his generosity, I will take leave. If he is good enough, to +repeat on some future occasion, this very handsome—this uncalled for +and generous offer, which he has now outlined, I shall know, I hope, +what is due to him, without forgetting what is due also to myself. In +the meantime I have only to thank him and——” + +But the belated congratulation which was on his lips and which might +have altered many things, was not to be uttered. + +“One moment!” Sir Robert struck in. “One moment!” He spoke with a +hardness born of long suppressed irritation. “You have taken your +stand, Mr. Vaughan, strictly on the defensive, I see——” + +“But I think you understand——” + +“Strictly on the defensive,” the baronet repeated, requiring silence by +a gesture. “You must not be surprised therefore, if I—nay, let me +speak!—if I also say a word on a point which touches me.” + +“I wouldn’t!” Wetherell growled in his deep voice; and for an instant +he raised his huge face, and looked stolidly at the wall before him. + +But Sir Robert was not to be bidden. “I think otherwise,” he said. “Mr. +Vaughan, the election to-morrow touches me very nearly—in more ways +than one. The vote you have, you received at my hands and hold only as +my heir. I take it for granted, therefore, that under the present +circumstances, you will use it as I desire.” + +“Oh!” Vaughan said. And drawing himself up to his full height he passed +his eyes slowly from one to the other with a singular smile. “Oh!” he +repeated—and there was a world of meaning in his tone. “Am I to +understand then——” + +“I have made myself quite clear,” Sir Robert cried, his manner +betraying his agitation. + +“Am I to understand,” Vaughan persisted, “that the offer which you made +me a few minutes back, the generous and handsome offer,” he continued +with a faint note of irony in his voice, “was dependent on my conduct +to-morrow? Am I to understand that?” + +“If you please to put it so,” Sir Robert replied, his voice quivering +with the resentment he had long and patiently suppressed. “And if your +own sense of honour does not dictate to you how to act.” + +“But do you put it so?” + +“Do you mean——” + +“I mean,” Vaughan said, “does the offer depend on the use I make of my +vote to-morrow? That is the point, Sir Robert!” + +“No,” Wetherell muttered indistinctly. + +But again Sir Robert would not be bidden. “I will be frank,” he said +haughtily. “And my answer is, yes! yes! For I do not conceive, Mr. +Vaughan, that a gentleman would take so great a benefit, and refuse so +slight a service! A service, too, which, quite apart from this offer, +most men——” + +“Thank you,” Vaughan replied, interrupting him. “That is clear enough.” +And he looked from one to the other with a smile of amusement; the +smile of a man suddenly reinstated in his own opinion—and once more +master of his company. “Now I understand,” he continued. “I see now why +the offer which a few minutes ago seemed so premature, so strangely +premature, was made this evening. To-morrow it had been made too late! +My vote had been cast and I could no longer be—bribed!” + +“Bribed, sir?” cried Sir Robert, red with anger. + +“Yes, bribed, sir. But let me tell you,” Vaughan went on, allowing the +bitterness which he had been feeling to appear, “let me tell you, Sir +Robert, that if not only my future, but my present, if my all, were at +stake—I should resent such an offer as an insult!” + +Sir Robert took a step towards the bell and stopped. + +“An insult!” Vaughan repeated firmly. “As great an insult as I should +inflict upon you, if I were unwise enough to do the errand I was asked +to do a week ago—by a cabinet minister. And offered you, Sir Robert, +here in your own house, a peerage conditional on your support of the +Bill!” + +“A peerage?” Sir Robert’s eyes seemed to be starting from his head. “A +peerage! Conditional on my——” + +“Yes, sir, conditional on your renunciation of those opinions which you +honestly hold as I honestly hold mine!” Vaughan repeated coolly. “I +will make the offer if you wish it.” + +Wetherell rose ponderously. “See here!” he said. “Listen to me, will +you, you two! You, Vermuyden, as well as the young man. You will both +be sorry for what you are saying now! Listen to me! Listen to me, man!” + +But the baronet was already tugging at the bell-rope. He was no longer +red; he was white with anger. And not without reason. This +whipper-snapper, this pettifogging lad, just out of his teens, to talk +to him of peerages, to patronise him, to offer him—to—to—— + +For a moment he stammered and could not speak. At last, “Enough! +Enough, sir; leave my house!” he cried, shaking from head to foot with +passion, and losing for the first time in many years his self-control. +“Leave my house,” he repeated furiously, “and never set foot in it +again! Not a pound, and not a penny will you have of mine! Never! +Never! Never!” + +Vaughan smiled, “Very good, sir,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. +“Your fortune is your own. But——” + +“Begone, sir! Not another word, but go!” + +Vaughan raised his eyebrows, bowed in a ceremonious fashion to +Wetherell, and nodded to White, who stood petrified and gaping. Then he +walked slowly through that room and the next, and with one backward +smile—vanished. + +And this time, as he passed through the hall, narrowly missing Flixton +who was leaving the dining-room, there could be no doubt that the +breach was complete, that the small cordiality which had existed +between the two men was at an end. The Bill, which had played so many +mischievous tricks, severed so many old friends, broken the ties of so +many years, had dealt no one a more spiteful blow than it had dealt +Arthur Vaughan. + + + + +XVII +THE CHIPPINGE ELECTION + + +The great day on which the Borough of Chippinge was to give its vote, +Aye or No, Reform or No Reform, the Rule of the Few or the Rule of the +Many, was come; and in the large room on the first floor of the White +Lion were assembled a score of persons deeply interested in the issue. +Those who had places at the three windows were gazing on what was going +forward in the space below; and it was noticeable that while the two or +three who remained in the background talked and joked, these were +silent; possibly because the uproar without made hearing difficult. The +hour was early, the business of the day was to come, but already the +hub-bub was indescribable. Nor was that all; every minute some missile, +a much enduring cabbage-stalk, or a dead cat in Tory colours, rose to a +level with the windows, hovered, and sank—amid a storm of groans or +cheers. For the most part, indeed, these missiles fell harmless. But +that the places of honour at the windows were not altogether places of +safety was proved by a couple of shattered panes, as well as by the +sickly hue of some among the spectators. + +Nearly all who had attended the Vermuyden dinner were in the room. But, +for certain, things which had worn one aspect across the mahogany, wore +another now. At the table old and young had made light of the shoving +and mauling and drubbing through which they had forced their way to the +good things before them; they had even made a jest of the bit of a rub +they were likely to have on the polling day. Now, the sight of the +noisy crowd which filled the open space, from the head of the High +Street to the wall of the Abbey, and from the Vineyard east of it, +almost to the West Port—made their bones ache. They looked, even the +boldest, at one another. The heart of Dewell, the barber, was in his +boots; the rector stared aghast; and Mowatt, the barrister, Arthur +Vaughan’s ill-found friend, wished for once that he was on the vulgar +side. + +True, the doors of the White Lion were guarded by a sturdy phalanx of +Vermuyden lads; mustered with what difficulty and kept together by what +arguments, White best knew. But what were two or three score, however +faithful, and however strong, against the hundreds and thousands who +swayed and cheered and groaned before the Inn? Who swarmed upon the old +town-cross until they hid every inch of the crumbling stonework; who +clung to every niche and buttress of the Abbey; and from whose mass as +from a sea the solitary church spire rose like some lighthouse cut off +by breakers? Who, here, forgetful of their Wiltshire birth cheered the +Birmingham tub-thumper to the echo, and there, roared stern assent to +the wildest statements of the Political Union? + +True, a dozen banners and thrice as many flags gave something of a +festive air to the scene. But the timid who tried to draw solace from +these retreated appalled by the daring “Death or Freedom!” inscribed on +one banner: or the scarcely less bold “The Sovereign People,” which +bellied above the clothiers. The majority of the placards bore nothing +worse than the watchword of the party: “The Bill, the whole Bill, and +nothing but the Bill!” or “Retrenchment and Reform!” or—in reference to +the King—“God bless the two Bills!” But for all that, Dewell, the +barber—and some more who would not have confessed it—wished the day +well over and no bones broken! A great day for Chippinge, but a day on +which many an old score was like to be paid, many a justice to hear the +commonalty’s opinion of him, many a man who had thriven under the old +rule, to read the writing on the wall! + +Certainly nothing like the spectacle visible from the White Lion +windows had been seen in Chippinge within living memory. The Abbey, +indeed, which had seen the last of the mitred Abbots pass out—shorn of +his strength, and with weeping townsfolk about him in lieu of belted +knights—that pile, stately in its ruin, which had witnessed a +revolution greater even than this which impended, and more tragic, +might have viewed its pair, might have seen its precincts seethe as +they seethed now. But no living man. Nor did those who scanned the +crowd from the White Lion find aught to lessen its terrors. There were, +indeed, plenty of decent, respectable people in the crowd, who, though +they were set on gaining their rights, had no notion of violence. But +wood burns when it is kindled: and here at the corner of the Heart and +Hand, the Whig headquarters, was a spark like to light the fire—Boston, +the bruiser, and a dozen of his fellows; men who were, one and all, the +idols of the yokels who stood about them and stared. Pybus, who had +brought them hither, was not to be seen; he was weaving his spells in +the Heart and Hand. But Mr. Williams, White-Hat Williams, the richest +man in Chippinge, who, voteless, had only lived of late to see this +day—he was here at the head of his clothmen, and as fierce as the +poorest. And half-a-dozen lesser men there were of the same kind; +sallow Blackford, the Methodist, the fugleman of every dissenter within +ten miles; and two or three small lawyers whom the landlords did not +employ, and two or three apothecaries who were in the same case. With +these were one or two famished curates, with Sydney Smith for their +warranty, and his saying about Dame Partington’s Mop and the Atlantic +on their lips; and a sprinkling of spouters from the big towns—men who +had the glories of Orator Hunt and William Cobbett before their eyes. +And everywhere, working in the mass like yeast, moved a score of bitter +malcontents—whom the old system had bruised under foot—poachers whom +Sir Robert had jailed, or the lovers of maids as frail as fair, or +labourers whom the Poor Laws had crushed—a score of malcontents whose +grievances long muttered in pothouses now flared to light and cried for +vengeance. In a word, there were the elements of mischief in the crowd: +and under the surface an ugly spirit. Even the most peaceable were +grim, knowing it was now or never. So that the faces at the White Lion +windows grew longer as their owners gazed and listened. + +“I don’t know what’s come to the people!” the Rector bawled, turning +about to make himself heard by his neighbour. “Eh, what?” + +“I’d like to see Lord Grey hung!” answered Squire Rowley, his face +purple. “And Lord Lansdowne with him! What do you say, sir?” to +Sergeant Wathen. + +“Fortunate a show of hands don’t carry it!” the Sergeant cried, +shrugging his shoulders with an assumption of easiness. + +“Carry it? Of course we’ll carry it!” the Squire replied wrathfully. “I +suppose two and two still make four!” + +Isaac White, who was whispering with a man in a corner of the room, +wished that he was sure of that; or, rather, that three and two made +six. But the Squire was continuing. “Bah!” he cried in disgust. “Give +these people votes? Look at ’em! Look at ’em, sir! Votes indeed! Votes +indeed! Give ’em oakum, I say!” + +He forgot that nine-tenths of those below were as good as the voters at +his elbow, who were presently to return two members for Chippinge. Or +rather, it did not occur to him, good old Tory as he was, and +convinced, + +_’Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about_, + + +that Dewell’s vote was Dewell’s, or Annibal’s Annibal’s. + +Meanwhile, “I wish we were safe at the hustings!” young Mowatt shouted +in the ear of the man who stood in front of him. + +The man chanced to be Cooke, the other candidate. He turned. “At the +hustings?” he said irascibly. “Do you mean, sir, that we are expected +to fight our way through that rabble?” + +“I am afraid we must,” Mowatt answered. + +“Then it—has been d——d badly arranged!” retorted the outraged Cooke, +who never forgot that as he paid well for his seat it ought to be a +soft one. “Go through this mob, and have our heads broken?” + +The faces of those who could hear him grew longer. “And it wants only +five minutes of ten,” complained a third. “We ought to be going now.” + +“D——n me, but suppose they don’t let us go!” cried Cooke. “Badly +arranged! I should think it is, sir! D——d badly arranged! The hustings +should have been on this side.” + +But hitherto the hustings had been at Chippinge a matter of form, and +it had not occurred to anyone to alter their position—cheek by jowl +with the Whig headquarters, but divided by seventy yards of seething +mob from the White Lion. However, White, on an appeal being made to +him, put a better face on the matter. “It’s all right, gentlemen,” he +said, “it’s all right! If they have the hustings, we have the returning +officer, and they can do nothing without us. I’ve seen Mr. Pybus, and I +have his safe conduct for our party to go to the hustings.” + +But it is hard to satisfy everybody, and at this there was a fresh +outcry. “A safe conduct?” cried the Squire, redder about the gills than +before. “For shame, sir! Are we to be indebted to the other side for a +safe conduct! I never heard of such a thing!” + +“I quite agree with you,” cried the Rector. “Quite! I protest, Mr. +White, against anything of the kind.” + +But White was unmoved. “We’ve got to get our voters there,” he said. +“Sir Robert will be displeased, I know, but——” + +“Never was such a thing heard of!” + +“No, sir, but never was such an election,” White answered with spirit. + +“Where is Sir Robert?” + +“He’ll be here presently,” White replied. “He’ll be here presently. +Anyway, gentlemen,” he continued, “we had better be going down to the +hall. In a body, gentlemen, if you please, and voters in the middle. +And keep together, if you please. A little shouting,” he added +cheerfully, “breaks no bones. We can shout too!” + +The thing was unsatisfactory, and without precedent; nay, humiliating. +But there seemed to be nothing else for it. As White said, this +election was not as other elections; Bath was lost, and Bristol, too, +it was whispered; the country was gone mad. And so, frowning and +ill-content, the magnates trooped out, and led by White began to +descend the stairs. There was much confusion, one asking if the +Alderman was there, another demanding to see Sir Robert, here a man +grumbling about White’s arrangements, there a man silent over the +discovery, made perhaps for the first time, that here was like to be an +end of old Toryism and the loaves and the fishes it had dispensed. + +In the hall where the party was reinforced by a crowd of their smaller +supporters a man plucked White’s sleeve and drew him aside. “She’s out +now!” he whispered. “Pybus has left two with him and they won’t leave +him for me. But if you went and ordered them out there’s a chance +they’d go, and——” + +“The doctor’s not there?” + +“No, and Pillinger’s well enough to come, if you put it strong. He’s +afraid of his wife and they’ve got him body and soul, but——” + +White cast a despairing eye on the confusion about him. “How can I +come?” he muttered. “I must get these to the poll first.” + +“Then you’ll never do it!” the man retorted. “There’ll be no coming and +going, to-day, Mr. White, you take it from me. Now’s the time while +they’re waiting for you in front. You can slip out at the back and +bring him in and take him with you. It’s the only way, so help me! +They’re in that temper we’ll be lucky if we’re all alive to-morrow!” + +The man was right; and White knew it, yet he hesitated. If he had had +an _aide_ fit for the task, the thing might be done. But to go +himself—he on whom everything fell! He reflected. Possibly Arthur +Vaughan might not vote for the enemy after all. But if he did, Sir +Robert would poll only five to six, and be beaten! Unless he polled +Pillinger, when the returning officer’s vote, of which he was sure, +would give him the election. Pillinger’s vote, therefore, was vital; +everything turned upon it. And he determined to go. His absence would +only cause a little delay, and he must risk that. He slipped away. + +He was missed at once, and the discovery redoubled the confusion. One +asked where he was, and another where Sir Robert was; while Cooke in +tones louder and more irritable than was prudent found fresh fault, and +wished to heaven that he had never seen the place. Long accustomed to +one-sided contests of which both parties knew the issue, the Tory +managers were helpless; they were aware that the hour had struck, and +that they were expected, but without White they were uncertain how to +act. Some cried that White had gone on, and that they should follow; +some that Sir Robert was to meet them at the hustings, others that they +might as well be home as waiting there! While the babel without +deafened and distracted them. At last, without order given, they found +themselves moving out. + +Their reception did not clear their brains. Such a roar of execration +as greeted them had never been heard in Chippinge: the hair on Dewell, +the barber’s, head stood up, the Alderman’s checks grew pale, Cooke +dropped his cane, the stoutest flinched. Changed indeed were the times +from those a year or two past when their exit had been greeted by +sycophantic cheers, or, at worst, by a little good-humoured jesting! +Now the whole multitude in the open, not in one part, but in every +part, knew as by instinct of their setting forth, brandished on the +instant a thousand arms at them, deafened them with a thousand voices, +demanded monotonously “The Bill! The Bill!” Nor had the demonstration +stopped there, but for the intervention of a body of a hundred Whig +stalwarts who, posting themselves on the flanks of the derided +procession, conferred on its slow march an ignoble safety. + +No wonder that many a one who found himself thus guarded rubbed his +eyes. The times were changed indeed! No more despotism of Squire and +Parson, no more monopoly of places, no more nominated members, no more +elections that did but mock men who had no share in them, no more +“Cripples,” no more snug jobs! The Tories might agree with Mr. Fudge + +_That this passion for roaring had come in of late +Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State_, + + +and foretell the ruinous outcome of it. But the thing was, the +many-headed, the many-handed had them in its grip. They must go meekly, +or not at all; with visions of French fish-fags and guillotines before +their eyes, and wondering, most of them—as they tried to show a bold +front, tried to wave their banners and give some answering shout to the +sea that beat upon them—how they would get home again with whole skins! + +Perhaps there was only one of them who never had that thought; though +he, alone of them all, was unaware of the precautions taken for his +safety. That was Sir Robert Vermuyden, the master of all, the patron, +the Borough-monger! Attended by Bob Flixton, who had come with him from +Bristol to see the fun—and whose voice it will be remembered Vaughan +had overheard at Stapylton the evening before—and by two or three other +guests, he had entered the White Lion from the rear; arriving in time +to fall in—somewhat surprised at his supporters’ precipitation—at the +tail of the procession. The moment he was recognised by the crowd he +was greeted with a roar of “Down with the Borough-monger!” that fairly +appalled his companions. But he faced it calmly, imperturbably, +quietly; a little paler, a little prouder, and a little sterner perhaps +than usual, but with a gleam in his eyes that had not been seen in them +for years. For answer to all he smiled with a curling lip: and it is +probable that as much as any hour in his life he enjoyed this hour, +which put him to the test before those over whom he had ruled so long. +His caste might be passing, the days of his power might be numbered, +the waves of democracy might be rising about the system in which he +believed the safety of England to lie; but no man should see him +falter. No veteran of the old noblesse in days which Sir Robert could +remember had gone to his fate more proudly than the English patrician +was prepared to go to his, ay, and though worse than the guillotine +awaited him. + +His contemptuous attitude, his fearless bearing, impressed the crowd, +appreciative at bottom, of courage. And presently, where he turned his +cold, smiling eyes they gaped instead of hissing: and one here and +there under the magic of his look doffed hat or carried hand to +forehead, and henceforth was mute. And so great is the sympathy of all +parts of a mob that this silence spread quickly, mysteriously, at last, +wholly. So that when he, last of his party, stepped on the hustings, +there was for a moment a complete stillness; a stillness of +expectation, while he looked round; such a stillness as startled the +leaders of the opposition. It could not be—it could not be, that after +all, the old lion would prove too much for them! + +White-Hat Williams roared aloud in his rage. “Up hats and shout, lads,” +he yelled, “or by G—d the d——d Tories will do us after all! Are you +afraid of them, you lubbers! Shout, lads, shout!” + + + + +XVIII +THE CHIPPINGE ELECTION (Continued) + + +The beast that was in the crowd answered to the spur. “Ye’ve robbed us +long enough, ye old rascal!” a harsh Midland voice shrieked over the +heads of the throng. “We’ll have our rights now, you blood-sucker!” And +“Boo! Boo!” the lower elements of the mob broke forth. And then in +stern cadence, “The Bill! The Bill! The Bill!” + +“Out of Egypt, and out of the House of Bondage!” shrieked a Methodist +above the hub-bub. + +“Ay, ay!” + +“Slaves no longer!” + +“No! No! No!” + +“Hear that, ye hoary tyrant!” in a woman’s shrill tones. “Who jailed my +man for a hare?” + +A roar of laughter which somewhat cleared the air followed this. Sir +Robert smiled grimly. + +The hustings, a mere wooden platform, raised four feet above the +ground, rested against the Abbey gateway. It was closed at the rear and +at each end; but in front it was guarded only by a stout railing. And +so public was it, and so exposed its dangerous eminence, that the more +timid of the unpopular party were no sooner upon it than they yearned +for the safe obscurity of the common level. Of the three booths into +which the interior was divided, the midmost was reserved for the +returning officer and his staff. + +Bob Flixton, who kept close to Sir Robert’s elbow, looked down on the +sea of jeering faces. “I tell you what it is,” he said. “We’re going to +have a confounded row!” + +Mowatt, at some distance from him, was of the same opinion, but +regarded the outlook differently. “It’s my belief,” he muttered, “that +we shall all be murdered.” + +And “D——n the Bill!” the old Squire ejaculated. “The people are off +their heads! Jack as good as his master, and better too!” + +These four, with the candidates, were in the front row. The Rector, the +Alderman, and one or two of the neighbouring gentry shared the honour; +and faced as well as they could the hooting and yelling, and the +occasional missile. In the front of the other booth were White-Hat +Williams and Blackford, the minister, Mr. Wrench, the candidate, +wreathed in smiles, a pair of Whig Squires from the Bowood side, a +curate of the same colour, Pybus—and Arthur Vaughan! + +A thrill ran through Sir Robert’s supporters when they saw his young +kinsman on the other side; actually on the other side and arrayed +against them. Their hearts, already low, sank a peg lower. Of evil +omens this seemed the worst; sunk is the cause the young desert! And +many were the curious eyes that searched the renegade’s features and +strove to read his thoughts. + +But in vain. His head high, his face firmly composed, Vaughan looked +stonily before him. Nor was it possible to say whether he was really +unmoved, was stolidly indifferent, or merely masked agitation. Sir +Robert on his side never looked at him, nor betrayed any sense of his +presence. But he knew. He knew! And with the first bitter presage of +defeat—for he was not a man to be intimidated by noise—he repeated his +vow: “Not a pound, nor a penny! Never! Never!” This public +renunciation, this wanton defiance—he would never forgive it! +Henceforth, it must be war to the knife between them. No thousands, no +compensation, no compromise! As the young man was sowing, so he should +reap. He who, in its darkest hour not only insulted but abandoned his +family, what punishment was too severe for him? + +Vaughan could make a good guess at the proud autocrat’s feelings: and +he averted his eyes with care. The proceedings here opened, and he +listened laughingly; until midway in the reading of some document which +no one heeded—the crowd jeering and flouting merrily—he caught a new +note in the turmoil. The next moment he was conscious of a swirling +movement among those below him, there was a rush of the throng to his +right, and he looked quickly to see what it meant. + +A man—one of a group of three or four who appeared to be trying to push +their way through the crowd—was being hustled and flung to and fro amid +jeers and taunts. He was striving to gain the hustings, but was still +some way from it; and his chance of reaching it with his clothes on his +back seemed small. Vaughan saw so much; then the man lost his temper, +and struck a blow. It was returned—and then, not till then, Vaughan saw +that the man was Isaac White. He cried “Shame!”—and had passed one leg +over the barriers to go to the rescue, when he saw that another was +before him. Sir Robert’s tall, spare figure was down among the +crowd—which opened instinctively before his sharp command. His eyes, +his masterful air still had power; the press opened instinctively +before his sharp command. He had reached White, had extricated him, and +turned to make good his retreat, when it seemed to strike the more +brutal element in the crowd—mostly strangers to him—that here was the +prime enemy of the cause, on foot amongst them, at their mercy! A rush +was made at his back. He turned undaunted, White and two more at his +side; the rabble recoiled. But when he wheeled again, a second rush was +made, and they were upon him, and hustled him before he could turn. A +man with a long stick struck off his hat, another—a lout with a cockade +of amber and blue, the Whig colours—tried to trip him up. He stumbled, +at the same moment a third man knocked White down. + +“Yah! Down with him!” roared the crowd, “Down with the Borough-monger!” + +But Vaughan, who had anticipated rather than seen the stumble, was over +the rail, and cleaving the crowd, was at his side. He reached him a +little in front of Bob Flixton, who had descended to the rescue from +the other end of the booth. Vaughan hurled back the man who had tripped +Sir Robert and who was still trying to throw him down; and the sight of +the amber and blue which the new champion wore checked the assailants, +and gave White time to rise. + +Vaughan was furious. “Back, you cowards!” he cried fiercely. “Would you +murder an old man? Shame on you! Shame!” + +“Ay, you bullies!” cried Flixton, hitting one on the jaw very +neatly—and completely disposing of that one for the day. “Back with +you!” + +As Vaughan spoke, half-a-dozen of his Tory supporters surrounded the +baronet and bore him back out of danger. Though Sir Robert was +undaunted, he was shaken; and breathing quickly, he let his hand rest +for support on the nearest shoulder. It was Vaughan’s, and the next +instant he saw that it was; and he withdrew the hand as if he had let +it rest on a hot iron. + +“Mr. Flixton,” he said—and the words reached a dozen ears at least, +“your arm, if you please? I would rather be without this gentleman’s +assistance.” + +Vaughan’s face flamed. But neither the words nor the action took him +unawares. He stepped back with dignity, slightly touched his hat, and +so returned to his side of the hustings. + +But he was wounded and very angry. Alone of his party he had +intervened—and this was his reward. When Pybus pushed his way to his +side and stooped to his ear, talking quickly and earnestly, he did not +repel him. + +Episode as it was, the affray startled Sir Robert’s friends: and White +in particular took it very seriously. If violence of this sort was to +rule, if even Sir Robert’s person was not respected, he saw that he +would not be able to bring his voters to the poll. They would run some +risk of losing their lives, and one or two for certain would not dare +to vote. The thing must be stopped, and at once. With this in view he +made his way to the passage at the back of the hustings, which was +common to all three booths, and heated and angry—his lip was cut by the +blow he had received—he called for Pybus. But the press at the back of +the hustings was great, and one of White-Hat Williams’s foremen, who +blocked the gangway, laughed in his face. + +“I want to speak to Pybus,” said White, glaring at the man, who on +ordinary days would have touched his hat to him. + +“Then want’ll be your master,” the other retorted, with a wink. And +when White tried to push by him, the man gave him the shoulder. + +“Let me pass,” White foamed. No thought of Cobbett now, had the agent! +These miserable upstarts, their insolence, their certainty of triumph +fired his blood. “Let me pass!” he repeated. + +“See you d——d first!” the other answered bluntly. “Your game’s up, old +cock! Your master has held the pit long enough, but his time’s come.” + +“If you don’t——” + +“If you put your nose in here, we’ll pitch you over the rail!” the +other declared. + +White almost had a fit. Fortunately White-Hat Williams himself appeared +at this moment: and White appealed to him. + +“Mr. Williams,” he said, “is this your safe conduct?” + +“I gave none,” with a grin. + +“Pybus did.” + +“Ay, for your party! But if you choose to straggle in one by one, we +can’t be answerable for every single voter,” with a wink. “Nor for any +of you getting back again! No, no, White. + +“_Beneath the ways of Ministers, and it’s the truth I tell, You’ve +bought us very cheap, good White, and you’ve sold us very well!_ + +But that’s over! That’s at an end to-day! But—what’s this?” + +This, was Sir Robert stepping forward to propose his candidates: or +rather, it was the roar, mocking and defiant, which greeted his attempt +to do so. It was a roar that made speech impossible. No doubt, among +the crowd which filled the space through which he had driven so often +with his four horses, the great man, the patron, the master of all, +there were some who still respected, and more who feared him; and many +who would not have insulted him. For if he had used his power stiffly, +he had not used it ill. But there were also in the crowd men whose +hearts were hot against the exclusiveness which had long effaced them; +who believed that freedom or slavery hung on the issue of this day; who +saw the prize of a long and bitter effort at stake, and were set on +using every intimidation, ay, and every violence, if victory could not +be had without them. And, were the others many or few, these swept them +away, infected them with recklessness, gave that stern and mocking ring +to the roar which continued and thwarted Sir Robert’s every effort to +make himself heard. + +He stood long facing them, waiting, and never blenching. But after a +while his lip curled and his eyes looked disdain on the mob below him: +such disdain as the old Duke in after days hurled at the London rabble, +when for answer to their fulsome cheers he pointed to the iron shutters +of Apsley House. Sir Robert Vermuyden had done something, and thought +that he had done more, for the men who yelped and snarled and snapped +at him. According to his lights, acting on his maxim, all for the +people and nothing by the people, he had treated them generously, +granted all he thought good for them, planned for them, wrought for +them. He had been master, but no task-master. He had indeed illustrated +the better side of that government of the many by the few, of the unfit +by the fit, with which he honestly believed the safety and the +greatness of his country to be bound up. + +And this was their return! No wonder that, seeing things as he saw +them, he felt a bitter contempt for them. Freedom? Such freedom as was +good for them, such freedom as was permanently possible—they had. And +slavery? Was it slavery to be ruled, wisely and firmly, by a class into +which they might themselves rise, a class which education and habit had +qualified to rule. In his mind’s eye, as he looked down on this +fretting, seething mass, he saw that which they craved granted, and he +saw, too, the outcome; that most cruel of all tyrannies, the tyranny of +the many over the few, of the many who have neither a heart to feel nor +a body to harm! + +Once, twice, thrice one of his supporters thrust himself forward, and +leaning on the rail, appealed with frantic gestures for silence, for a +hearing, for respect. But each in turn retired baffled. Not a word in +that tempest of sound was audible. And no one on the other side +intervened. For they were pitiless. They in the old days had suffered +the same thing: and it was their turn now. Even Vaughan stood with +folded arms and a stern face: feeling the last contempt for the howling +rabble before him, but firmly determined to expose himself to no second +slight. At length Sir Robert saw that it was hopeless, shrugged his +shoulders with quiet scorn, and shouting the names of his candidates in +a clerk’s ear, put on his hat, and stood back. + +The old Squire seconded him in dumb show. + +Then the Sergeant stood forward to state his views. He grasped the rail +with both hands and waited, smiling blandly. But he might have waited +an hour, he might have waited until night. The leaders for the Bill +were determined to make their power felt. They were resolved that not a +word on the Tory side should be heard. The Sergeant waited, and after a +time, still smiling blandly, bowed and stood back. + +It was Mr. Cooke’s turn. He advanced. “Shout, and be hanged to you!” he +cried, apoplectic in the face. An egg flew within a yard of him, and +openly shaking his fist at the crowd he retired amid laughter. + +Then White-Hat Williams, who had looked forward to this as to the +golden moment of his life and had conned his oration until he knew its +thunderous periods by heart, stepped forward to nominate the Whig +candidates. He took off his hat; and as if that had been the signal for +silence, such a stillness fell on all that his voice rang above the +multitude like a trumpet. + +“Gentlemen,” he said, and smiling looked first to the one side and then +to the other. “Gentlemen——” + +Alas, he smiled too soon. The Tories grasped the situation, and, +furious at the reception which had fallen to the lot of their leaders, +determined that if they were not heard, no one should be heard. Before +he could utter another word they broke into rabid bellowings, and what +their shouts lacked in volume they made up in ill-will. In a twinkling +they drowned White-Hat Williams’s voice; and now who so indignant as +the Whigs? In thirty seconds half-a-dozen single combats were +proceeding in front of the Tory booth, blood flowed from as many noses, +and amid a terrific turmoil respectable men and justices of the peace +leant across the barriers and shook their fists and flung frenzied +challenges broadcast. + +All to no purpose. The Tories, though so much the weaker party, though +but one to eight, could not be silenced. After making three or four +attempts to gain a hearing White-Hat Williams saw that he must reserve +his oration: and with a scowl he shouted his names into the ear of the +clerk. + +“Who? Who did he say?” growled the Squire, panting with rage and hoarse +with shouting. His face was crimson, his cravat awry, he had lost his +hat. “Who? Who?” + +“Wrench and—one moment, sir!” + +“Eh? Who do you say?” + +“I couldn’t hear! One moment, sir! Oh, yes! Wrench and Vaughan!” + +“Vaughan?” old Rowley cried with a profane oath. “Impossible!” + +But it was not impossible! Though so great was the surprise, so +striking the effect upon Sir Robert’s supporters that for a few seconds +something like silence supervened. The serpent! The serpent! Here was a +blow indeed—in the back! + +Then as Blackford, the Methodist, rose to second the nomination, the +storm broke out anew and more furiously than before. “What?” foamed the +Squire, “be ruled by a rabble of grinning, yelling monkeys? By gad, +I’ll leave the country first! I—I hope someone will shoot that young +man! I wish I’d never shaken his hand! By G—d, I’m glad my father is in +his grave! He’d never ha’ believed this! Never! Never!” + +And from that time until the poll was declared open—in dumb show—not a +word was audible. + +Then at last the shouting of the rival bands sank to a confused babel +of jeers, abuse, and laughter. Exhausted men mopped their faces, +voiceless men loosened their neck-cloths, the farthest from the +hustings went off to drink, and there was a lull until the sound of a +drum and fife announced a new event, and forth from the Heart and Hand +advanced a procession of five led by the accursed Dyas. + +They were the Whig voters and they marched proudly to the front of the +polling-booth, the mob falling back on either side to give them place. + +Dyas flung his hat into the booth. “Wrench and Vaughan!” he cried in a +voice which could be heard in the White Lion. “And I care not who knows +it!” + +They put to him the bribery oath. “I can take it,” he answered. +“Swallow it yourselves, if you can!” + +“You should know the taste, Jack,” cried a sly friend: and for a moment +the laugh was against him. + +One by one—the process was slow in those days—they voted. “Five for +Wrench and Vaughan.” Wrench rose and bowed to each as he retired. +Arthur Vaughan took no notice. + +Sir Robert’s voters looked at one another uneasily. They had the day +before them, but—and then he saw the look, and, putting White and his +remonstrances on one side, he joined them, bade them follow him, and +descended before them. He would ask no man to do what he would not do +himself. + +But the moment his action was understood, the moment the men were seen +behind him, there was a yell so fierce and a movement so threatening, +that on the lowest step of the hustings he stood bareheaded, raised his +hand for silence and for a wonder was obeyed. In a clear, loud voice: + +“Do you expect to terrify me,” he cried, “either by threats or +violence? Let any man look in my face and see if it change colour? Let +him come and lay his hand on my heart and feel if it beats the quicker. +Keep my voters from the poll and you stultify your own, for there will +be no election. Make way then, and let them pass to their duty!” + +And the crowd made way; and Arthur Vaughan felt a reluctant pang of +admiration. The five were polled; the result so far, five for each of +the candidates. + +There remained to poll only Arthur Vaughan and Pillinger of the Blue +Duck, if he could be brought up by the Tories. If neither of these +voted the Returning Officer would certainly give the casting vote for +Sir Robert’s candidates—if he dared. + +Isaac White believed that he would not dare, and for some time past the +agent had been in covert talk with Pybus at the back of the hustings, +two or three of the friends of each masking the conference. Now he drew +aside his employer who had returned in safety to his place; and he +conferred with him. But for a time it was clear that Sir Robert would +not listen to what he had to say. He looked pale and angry, and +returned but curt answers. But White persisted, holding him by the +sleeve. + +“Mr. Vaughan—bah, what a noise they make—does not wish to vote,” he +explained. “But in the end he will, sir, it is my opinion, and that +will give it to them unless we can bring up Pillinger—which I doubt, +sir. Even if we do, it is a tie——” + +“Well? Well?” Sir Robert struck in, eyeing him sternly. “What more do +we want? The Returning Officer——” + +“He will not dare,” White whispered, “and if he does, sir, it is my +belief he will be murdered. More, if we win they will rush the booth +and destroy the books. They have as good as told me they will stick at +nothing. Believe me, sir,” he continued earnestly, “better than one and +one we can’t look for now. And better one than none!” + +But it was long before Sir Robert would be persuaded. No, defeat or +victory, he would fight to the last! He would be beholden to the other +side for nothing! White, however, was an honest man and less afraid of +his master than usual: and he held to it. And at length the reflection +that the bargain would at least shut out his kinsman prevailed with Sir +Robert, and he consented. + +He was too chivalrous to return on his own side the man whose success +would fill his pockets. He elected for Wathen and never doubted that +the Bowood interest would return their first love, Wrench. But when the +landlord of the Blue Duck was brought up by agreement to vote for a +candidate on either side, Pillinger voted by order for Wathen and +Vaughan. + +“There’s some d——d mistake!” shrieked the Squire, as the words reached +his ears. + +But there was no mistake, and to the silent disgust of the Tories and +amid the frantic cheering of the Whigs, the return was made in favour +of Sergeant John Wathen, and Arthur Vermuyden Vaughan, esquire. Loud +and long was the cheering: the air was black with caps. But when the +crowd sought for the two to chair them according to immemorial custom, +only the Sergeant could be found, and he with great prudence declined +the honour. + + + + +XIX +THE FRUITS OF VICTORY + + +Arthur Vaughan could write himself Member of Parliament. The plaudits +of the Academic and the mimic contests of the Debating Club were no +longer for him. Fortune had placed within his grasp the prize of which +he had often dreamt; and henceforth all lay open to him. But, as a +contemporary in a letter written on a like occasion says, he had gone +through innumerable horrors to reach the goal. And the moment the +result was known and certain he slipped away from his place, and from +the oppressive good-wishes of his new and uncongenial friends—the +Williamses and the Blackfords; and shutting himself up in his rooms at +the White Lion, where his entrance was regarded askance, he set himself +to look the future in the face. + +He could not blame himself for the past, for he had done nothing of +which he was ashamed. He had been put by circumstances in a false +position, but he had freed himself frankly and boldly; and every candid +man must acknowledge that he could not have done otherwise than he had. +Yet he was aware that his conduct was open to misconstruction. Some, +even on his own side, would say that he had gone to Chippinge prepared +to support his kinsman; and that then, tempted by the opportunity of +gaining the seat for himself, he had faced about. Few would believe the +truth—that twenty-four hours before the election he had declined to +stand. Still fewer would believe that in withdrawing his “No,” he had +been wholly moved by the offer which Sir Robert had made to him and the +unworthy manner in which he had treated him. + +Yet that was the truth; and so entirely the truth, that but for that +offer he would have resigned the seat even now. For he had no mind to +enter the House under a cloud. He knew that to do so was to endanger +the boat in which his fortunes were embarked. But in face of that offer +he could not withdraw. Sir Robert, Wetherell, White, all would believe +that he had resigned, not on the point of honour, but for a bribe, and +because the bribe, refused at first, grew larger the longer he eyed it. + +So, for good or evil, his mind was made up. And for a few minutes, +while the roar of the mob applauding him rose to his windows, he was +happy. He was a member of the Commons’ House. He stood on that +threshold on which Harley and St. John, Walpole the wise, and the +inspired Cornet, Pitt and Fox, spoiled children of fortune, Castlereagh +the illogical, and Canning + +_Born with an ancient name of little worth, +And disinherited before his birth_, + + +and many another had stood; knowing no more than he knew what fortune +had in womb for them, what of hushed silence would one day mark their +rising, what homage of loyal hearts and thundering feet would hang upon +their words. As their fortunes his might be; to sway to tears or +laughter, to a nation’s weal or woe, the men who ruled; to know his +words were fateful, and yet to speak with no uncertain voice; to give +the thing he did not deign to wear, and make the man whom he must +follow after, ay, + +_To fall as Walpole and to fail as Pitt!_ + + +this, all this might be his, if he were worthy! If the dust of that +arena knew no better man! + +His heart rose on the wave of thought and he felt himself fit for all, +equipped for all. He owned no task too hard, no enterprise too high. +Nor did he fall from the clouds until he remembered the change in his +fortunes, and bethought him that henceforth he must depend upon +himself. The story would be sifted, of course, and its truth or +falsehood be made clear. But whatever use Sir Robert might have deigned +to make of it, Vaughan did not believe that he would have stooped to +invent it. And if it were true, then all the importance which had +attached to himself as the heir to a great property, all the +privileges, all the sanctity of coming wealth, were gone. + +But with them the responsibilities of that position were gone also. The +change might well depress his head and cloud his heart. He had lost +much which he could hardly hope to win for himself. Yet—yet there were +compensations. + +He had passed through much in the last twenty-four hours; and, perhaps +for that reason, he was peculiarly open to emotion. In the thought that +henceforth he might seek a companion where he pleased, in the +remembrance that he had no longer any tastes to consult but his own, +any prejudices to respect save those which he chose to adopt, he found +a comfort at which he clutched eagerly and thankfully. The world which +shook him off—he would no longer be guided by its dictates! The race, +strenuous and to the swift, ay, to the draining of heart and brain, he +would not run it alone, uncheered, unsolaced—merely because while +things were different he had walked by a certain standard of conduct! +If he was now a poor man he was at least free! Free to take the one he +loved into the boat in which his fortunes floated, nor ask too closely +who were her forbears. Free to pursue his ambition hand in hand with +one who would sweeten failure and share success, and who in that life +of scant enjoyment and high emprise to which he must give himself, +would be a guardian angel, saving him from the spells of folly and +pleasure! + +He might please himself now, and he would. Flixton might laugh, the men +of the 14th might laugh. And in Bury Street he might have winced. But +in Mecklenburgh Square, where he and she would set up their modest +tent, he would not care. + +He could not go to Bristol until the morrow, for he had to see Pybus, +but he would write and tell her of his fortunes and ask her to share +them. The step was no sooner conceived than attempted. He sat down and +took pen and paper, and with a glow at his heart, in a state of +generous agitation, he prepared to write. + +But he had never written to her, he had never called her by her name. +And the difficulty of addressing her overwhelmed him. In the end, after +sitting appalled by the bold and shameless look of “Dear Mary,” +“Dearest Mary,” and of addresses warmer than these, he solved the +difficulty, after a tame and proper fashion by writing to Miss Sibson. +And this is what he wrote: + +“Dear Madame, + +“At the interview which I had with you on Saturday last, you were good +enough to intimate that if I were prepared to give an affirmative +answer to a question which you did not put into words, you would permit +me to see Miss Smith. I am now in a position to give the assurance as +to my intentions which you desired, and trust that I may see Miss Smith +on my arrival in Bristol to-morrow. + +“Believe me to remain, Madame, + +“Truly yours, + +“Arthur V. Vaughan.” + +And all his life, he told himself, he would remember the use to which +he had put his first frank! + +That night the toasting and singing, drunkenness and revelry of which +the borough was the scene, kept him long waking. But eleven o’clock on +the following morning saw him alighting from a chaise at Bristol, and +before noon he was in Queen’s Square. + +For the time at least he had put the world behind him. And it was in +pure exultation and the joyous anticipation of what was to come that he +approached the house. He came, a victor from the fight; nor, he +reflected, was it every suitor who had it in his power to lay such +offerings at the feet of his mistress. In the eye of the world, indeed, +he was no longer what he had been; for the matchmaking mother he had +lost his value. But he had still so much to give which Mary had not, he +could still so alter the tenor of her life, he could still so lift her +in the social scale, those hopes which she was to share still flew on +pinions so ambitious—ay, to the very scattering of garters and +red-ribbons—that his heart was full of the joy of giving. He must not +be blamed if he felt as King Cophetua when he stooped to the +beggar-maiden, or as the Lord of Burleigh when he woo’d the farmer’s +daughter. After all, he did but rejoice that she had so little and he +had so much; that he could give and she could grace. + +When he came to the house he paused a moment in wonder that when all +things were altered, his prospects, views, plans, its face rose +unchanged. Then he knocked boldly; the time for hesitation was past. He +asked for Miss Smith—thinking it likely that he would have to wait +until the school rose at noon. The maid, however, received him as if +she expected him, and ushered him at once into a room on the left of +the entrance. He stood, holding his hat, waiting, listening; but not +for long. The door had scarcely closed on the girl before it opened +again, and Mary Smith came in. She met his eyes, and started, blushed a +divine rosy-red and stood wide-eyed and uncertain, with her hand on the +door. + +“Did you not expect me?” he said, taken aback on his side. For this was +not the Mary Smith with whom he travelled on the coach; nor the Mary +Smith with whom he had talked in the Square. This was a Mary Smith, no +less beautiful, but gay and fresh as the morning, in dainty white with +a broad blue sash, with something new, something of a franker bearing +in her air. “Did you not expect me?” he repeated gently, advancing a +step towards her. + +“No,” she murmured, and she stood blushing before him, blushing more +deeply with every second. For his eyes were beginning to talk, and to +tell the old tale. + +“Did not Miss Sibson get my letter?” he asked gently. + +“I think not,” she murmured. + +“Then I have all—to do,” he said nervously. It was—it was certainly a +harder thing to do than he had expected. “Will you not sit down, +please,” he pleaded. “I want you to listen to me.” + +For a moment she looked as if she would flee instead. Then she let him +lead her to a seat. + +He sat down within reach of her. “And you did not know that it was I?” +he said, feeling the difficulty increase with every second. + +“No.” + +“I hope,” he said, hesitating, “that you are glad that it is?” + +“I am glad to see you again—to thank you,” she murmured. But while her +blushes and her downcast eyes seemed propitious to his suit, there was +something—was it, could it be a covert smile hiding at the corners of +her little mouth?—some change in her which oppressed him, and which he +did not understand. One thing he did understand, however: that she was +more beautiful, more desirable, more intoxicating than he had pictured +her. And his apprehensions grew upon him, as he paused tongue-tied, +worshipping her with his eyes. If, after all, she would not? What if +she said, “No”? For what, now he came to measure them beside her, were +those things he brought her, those things he came to offer, that career +which he was going to ask her to share? What were they beside her +adorable beauty and her modesty, the candour of her maiden eyes, the +perfection of her form? He saw their worthlessness; and the bold phrase +with which he had meant to open his suit, the confident, “Mary, I am +come for you,” which he had repeated so often to the rhythm of the +chaise-wheels, that he was sure he would never forget it, died on his +lips. + +At last, “You speak of thanks—it is to gain your thanks I am come,” he +said nervously. “But I don’t ask for words. I want you to think as—as +highly as you can of what I did for you—if you please! I want you to +believe that I saved your life on the coach. I want you to think that I +did it at great risk to myself. I want you,” he continued hurriedly, +“to exaggerate a hundredfold—everything I did for you. And then I want +you to think that you owe all to a miser, who will be content with +nothing short of—of immense interest, of an extortionate return.” + +“I don’t think that I understand,” she answered in a low tone, her +cheeks glowing. But beyond that, he could not tell aught of her +feelings; she kept her eyes lowered so that he could not read them, and +there were, even in the midst of her shyness, an ease and an aloofness +in her bearing, which were new to him and which frightened him. He +remembered how quickly she had on other occasions put him in his place; +how coldly she had asserted herself. Perhaps, she had no feeling for +him. Perhaps, apart from the incident in the coach, she even disliked +him! + +“You do not understand,” he said unsteadily, “what is the return I +want?” + +“No-o,” she faltered. + +He stood up abruptly, and took a pace or two from her. “And I hardly +dare tell you,” he said. “I hardly dare tell you. I came to you, I came +here as brave as a lion. And now, I don’t know why, I am frightened.” + +She—astonishing thing!—leapt the gulf for him. Possibly the greater +distance at which he stood gave her courage. “Are you afraid,” she +murmured, moving her fingers restlessly, and watching them, “that you +may change your mind again?” + +“Change my mind?” he ejaculated, not for the moment understanding her. +So much had happened since his collision with Flixton in the Square. + +“As that gentleman—said you were in the habit of doing.” + +“Ah!” + +“It was not true?” + +“True?” he exclaimed hotly. “True that I—that I——” + +“Changed your mind?” she said with her face averted. “And not—not only +that, sir?” + +“What else?” he asked bitterly. + +“Talked of me—among your friends?” + +“A lie! A miserable lie!” he cried on impulse, finding his tongue +again. “But I will tell you all. He saw you—that first morning, you +remember, and never having seen anyone so lovely, he intended to make +you the object of—of attentions that were unworthy of you. And to +protect you I told him that I was going—to make you my wife.” + +“Is that what you mean to-day?” she asked faintly. + +“Yes.” + +“But you did not mean it then?” she answered—though very gently. “It +was to shield me you said it?” + +He looked at her, astonished at her insight and her boldness. How +different, how very different was this from that to which he had looked +forward! At last, “I think I meant it,” he said gloomily. “God knows I +mean it now! But that evening,” he continued, seeing that she still +waited with averted face for the rest of his explanation, “he +challenged me at dinner before them all, and I,” he added jerkily, “I +was not quite sure what I meant—I had no mind that you should be made +the talk of the—of my friends——” + +“And so—you denied it?” she said gently. + +He hung his head. “Yes,” he said. + +“I think I—I understand,” she answered unsteadily. “What I do not +understand is why you are here to-day. Why you have changed your mind +again. Why you are now willing that I should be—the talk of your +friends, sir.” + +He stood, the picture of abasement. Must he acknowledge his doubts and +his hesitation, allow that he had been ashamed of her, admit that he +had deemed the marriage he now sought, a mésalliance? Must he open to +her eyes those hours of cowardly vacillation during which he had walked +the Clifton Woods weighing _I would_ against _I dare not?_ And do it in +face of that new dignity, that new aloofness which he recognised in her +and which made him doubt if he had an ally in her heart. + +More, if he told her, would she understand? How should she, bred so +differently, understand how heavily the old name with its burden of +responsibilities, how heavily the past with its obligations to duty and +sacrifice, had weighed upon him! And if he told her and she did not +understand, what mercy had he to expect from her? + +Still, for a moment he was on the point of telling her: and of telling +her also why he was now free to please himself, why, rid of the burden +with the inheritance, he could follow his heart. But the tale was long +and roundabout, she knew nothing of the Vermuydens, of their +importance, or his expectations, or what he had lost or what he had +gained. And it seemed simpler to throw himself on her mercy. “Because I +love you!” he said humbly. “I have nothing else to say.” + +“And you are sure that you will not change your mind again?” + +There was that in her voice, though he could not see her face, which +brought him across two squares of the carpet as if she had jerked him +with a string. In a second he was on his knees beside her, and had laid +a feverish hand on hers. “Mary,” he cried, “Mary!” seeking to look up +into her face, “you will! You will! You will let me take you? You will +let me take you from here! I cannot offer you what I once thought I +could, but I have enough, and, you will?” There was a desperate +supplication in his voice; for close to her, so close that his breath +was on her cheek, she seemed, with her half-averted face and her +slender figure, so dainty a thing, so delicate and rare, that he could +hardly believe that she could ever be his, that he could be so lucky as +to possess her, that he could ever take her in his arms. “You will? You +will?” he repeated, empty of all other words. + +She did not speak, she could not speak. But she bowed her head. + +“You will?” + +She turned her eyes on him then; eyes so tender and passionate that +they seemed to draw his heart, his being, his strength out of him. +“Yes,” she whispered shyly. “If I am allowed.” + +“Allowed? Allowed?” he cried. How in a moment was all changed for him! +“I would like to see——” And then breaking off—perhaps it was her fault +for leaning a little towards him—he did that which he had thought a +moment before that he would never dare to do. He put his arm round her +and drew her gently and reverently to him until—for she did not +resist—her head lay on his shoulder. “Mine!” he murmured, “Mine! Mine! +Mary, I can hardly believe it. I can hardly think I am so blest.” + +“And you will not change?” she whispered. + +“Never! Never!” + +They were silent. Was she thinking of the dark night, when she had +walked lonely and despondent to her new and unknown home? Or of many +another hour of solitary depression, spent in dull and dreary +schoolrooms, while others made holiday? Was he thinking of his doubts +and fears, his cowardly hesitation? Or only of his present monstrous +happiness? No matter. At any rate, they had forgotten the existence of +anything outside the room, they had forgotten the world and Miss +Sibson, they were in a Paradise of their own, such as is given to no +man and to no woman more than once, they were a million miles from +Bristol City, when the sound made by the opening door surprised them in +that posture. Vaughan turned fiercely to see who it was, to see who +dared to trespass on their Eden. He looked, only looked, and he sprang +to his feet, amazed. He thought for a moment that he was dreaming, or +that he was mad. + +For on the threshold, gazing at them with a face of indescribable +astonishment, rage and incredulity, was Sir Robert Vermuyden. Sir +Robert Vermuyden, the one last man in the world whom Arthur Vaughan +would have expected to see there! + + + + +XX +A PLOT UNMASKED + + +For a few moments the old man and the young man gazed at one another, +alike in this only that neither found words equal to his feelings. +While Mary, covered with confusion, blushing for the situation in which +she had been found, could not hold up her head. It was Sir Robert who +at last broke the silence in a voice which trembled with passion. + +“You viper!” he said. “You viper! You would sting me—here also.” + +Vaughan stared at him, aghast. The intrusion was outrageous, but +astonishment rather than anger was the young man’s first feeling. “Here +also?” he repeated, as if he thought that he must have heard amiss. +“_I_ sting you? What do you mean? Why have you followed me?” And then +more warmly, “How dare you, sir, spy on me?” And he threw back his head +in wrath. + +The old man, every nerve and vein in his lean, high forehead swollen +and leaping, raised his cane and shook it at him. “Dare? Dare?” he +cried, and then for very rage his voice failed him. + +Vaughan closed his eyes and opened them again. “I am dreaming,” he +said. “I must be dreaming. Are you Sir Robert Vermuyden? Is this house +Miss Sibson’s school? Are we in Bristol? Or is it all—but first, sir,” +recalling abruptly and with indignation the situation in which he had +been surprised, and raising his tone, “how come you here? I have a +right to know that!” + +“How come I here?” + +“Yes! How come you here, sir?” + +“You ask me! You ask me!” Sir Robert repeated, as if he could not +believe his ears. “How I come here! You scoundrel! You scoundrel!” + +Vaughan started under the lash of the word. The insult was gratuitous, +intolerable! No relationship, no family tie could excuse it. No wonder +that the astonishment and irritation which had been his first feelings, +gave way to pure anger. Sir Robert might be this or that. He might +have, or rather, he might have had certain rights. But now all that was +over, the relationship was a thing of the past. And to suppose that he +was still to suffer the old gentleman’s interference, to put up with +his insults, to permit him in the presence of a young girl, his +promised wife, to use such language as he was using, was out of the +question. Vaughan’s face grew dark. + +“Sir Robert,” he said, “you are too old to be called to account. You +may say, therefore, what you please. But not—not if you are a +gentleman—until this young lady has left the room.” + +“This—young—lady!” Sir Robert gasped in an indescribable tone: and with +the cane quivering in his grasp he looked from Vaughan to the girl. + +“Yes,” Vaughan answered sternly. “That young lady! And do not let me +hear you call her anything else, sir, for she has promised to be my +wife.” + +“You lie!” the baronet cried, the words leaping from his lips. + +“Sir Robert!” + +“My daughter—promised to be your wife! My—my——” + +“Your daughter!” + +“Hypocrite!” Sir Robert retorted, flinging the word at him. “You knew +it! You knew it!” + +“Your daughter?” + +“Ay, that she was my daughter!” + +“Your daughter!” + +This time the words fell from Arthur Vaughan in a whisper. And he +stood, turned to stone. His daughter? Sir Robert’s daughter? The +girl—he tried desperately to clear his mind—of whom Wetherell had told +the story, the girl whom her mother had hidden away, while in Italy, +the girl whose reappearance in life had ousted him or was to oust him +from his inheritance? Mary Smith—was that girl! His daughter! + +But no! The blood leapt back to his heart. It was impossible, it was +incredible! The coincidence was too great, too amazing. His reason +revolted against it. And “Impossible!” he cried in a louder, a bolder +tone—though fear underlay its confidence. “You are playing with me! You +must be jesting!” he repeated angrily. + +But the elder man, though his hand still trembled on his cane and his +face was sallow with rage, had regained some control of himself. +Instead of retorting on Vaughan—except by a single glance of withering +contempt—he turned to Mary. “You had better go to your room,” he said, +coldly but not ungently. For how could he blame her, bred amid such +surroundings, for conduct that in other circumstances had irritated him +indeed? For conduct that had been unseemly, unmaidenly, improper. “You +had better go to your room,” he repeated. “This is no fit place for you +and no fit discussion for your ears. I am not—the fault is not with +you, but it will be better if you leave us.” + +She was rising, too completely overwhelmed to dream of refusing, when +Vaughan interposed. “No,” he said with a gleam of defiance in his eyes. +“By your leave, sir, no! This young lady is my affianced wife. If it be +her own wish to retire, be it so. But if not, there is no one who has +the right to bid her go or stay. You”—checking Sir Robert’s wrathful +rejoinder by a gesture—“you may be her father, but before you can +exercise a father’s rights you must make good your case.” + +“Make good my case!” Sir Robert ejaculated. + +“And when you have made it good, it will still be for her to choose +between us,” Vaughan continued with determination. “You, who have never +played a father’s part, who have never guided or guarded, fostered or +cherished her—do not think, sir, that you can in a moment arrogate to +yourself a father’s authority.” + +Sir Robert gasped. But the next moment he took up the glove so boldly +flung down. He pointed to the door, and with less courtesy than the +occasion demanded—but he was sore pressed by his anger, “Leave the +room, girl,” he said. + +“Do as you please, Mary,” Vaughan said. + +“Go!” cried the baronet, stung by the use of her name. “Stay!” said +Vaughan. + +Infinitely distressed, infinitely distracted by this appeal from the +one, from the other, from this side, from that, she turned her swimming +eyes on her lover. “Oh, what,” she cried, “what am I to do?” + +He did not speak, but he looked at her, not doubting what she would do, +nor conceiving it possible that she could prefer to him, her lover, +whose sweet professions were still honey in her ears, whose arm was +still warm from the pressure of her form—that she could prefer to him, +a father who was no more than the shadow of a name. + +But he did not know Mary yet, either in her strength or her weakness. +Nor did he consider that her father was already more than a name to +her. She hung a moment undecided and wretched, drooping as the white +rose that hangs its head in the first shower. Then she turned to the +elder man, and throwing her arms about his neck hung in tears on his +breast. “You will be good to him, sir,” she whispered passionately. +“Oh, forgive him! Forgive him, sir!” + +“My dear——” + +“Oh, forgive him, sir!” + +Sir Robert smoothed her hair with a caressing hand, and with pinched +lips and bright eyes looked at his adversary over her head. “I would +forgive him,” he said, “I could forgive him—all but this! All but this, +my dear! I could forgive him had he not tricked you and deceived you, +cozened you and flattered you—into this! Into the belief that he loves +you, while he loves only your inheritance! Or that part,” he added +bitterly, “of which he has not already robbed you!” + +“Sir Robert,” Vaughan said, “you have stooped very low. But it will not +avail you.” + +“It has availed me so far,” the baronet retorted. With confidence he +was regaining also command of himself. + +Vaughan winced. In proportion as the other recovered his temper, he +lost his. + +“It will avail me still farther,” Sir Robert continued exultantly, +“when my daughter understands, as she shall understand, sir, that when +you came here to-day, when you stole a march on me, as you thought, and +proposed marriage to her behind my back, you knew all that I knew! +Knew, sir, that she was my daughter, knew that she was my heiress, knew +that she ousted you, knew that by a marriage with her, and by that +only, you could regain all that you had lost!” + +“It is a lie!” Vaughan cried, stung beyond endurance. He was pale with +anger. + +“Then refute it!” Sir Robert said, clasping the girl, who had +involuntarily winced at the word, more closely to him. “Refute it, sir! +Refute it!” + +“It is absurd! It—it needs no refutation!” Vaughan cried. + +“Why?” Sir Robert retorted. “I state it. I am prepared to prove it! I +have three witnesses to the fact!” + +“To the fact that I——” + +“That you knew,” Sir Robert replied. “Knew this lady to be my daughter +when you came here this morning—as well as I knew it myself.” + +Vaughan returned his look in speechless indignation. Did the man really +believe in a charge, which at first had seemed to be mere vulgar abuse. +It was not possible! “Sir Robert,” he said, speaking slowly and with +dignity, “I never did you harm by word or deed until a day or two ago. +And then, God knows, perforce and reluctantly. How then can you lower +yourself to—to such a charge as this?” + +“Do you deny then,” the baronet replied with contemptuous force, “do +you dare to deny—to my face, that you knew?” + +Vaughan stared. “You will say presently,” he replied, “that I knew her +to be your daughter when I made her acquaintance on the coach a week +ago. At a time when you knew nothing yourself.” + +“As to that I cannot say one way or the other,” Sir Robert rejoined. “I +do not know how nor where you made her acquaintance. But I do know that +an acquaintance so convenient, so coincident, could hardly be the work +of chance!” + +“Good G—d! Then you will say also that I knew who she was when I called +on her the day after, and again two days after that—while you were +still in ignorance?” + +“I have said,” the baronet answered with cold decision, “that I do not +know how you made, nor why you followed up your acquaintance with her. +But I have, I cannot but have my suspicions.” + +“Suspicions? Suspicions?” Vaughan cried bitterly. “And on suspicion, +the base issue of prejudice and dislike——” + +“No, sir, no!” Sir Robert struck in. “Though it may be that if I knew +who introduced you to her, who opened this house to you, and the rest, +I might find ground for more than suspicion! The schoolmistress might +tell me somewhat, and—you wince, sir! Ay,” he continued in a tone of +triumph. “I see there is something to be learned! But it is not upon +suspicion that I charge you to-day! It is upon the best of grounds. Did +you not before my eyes and in the presence of two other witnesses, +read, no farther back than the day before yesterday, in the +drawing-room of my house, the whole story of my daughter’s movements up +to her departure from London for Bristol! With the name of the school +to which she was consigned? Did you not, sir? Did you not?” + +“Never! Never!” + +“What?” The astonishment in Sir Robert’s voice was so real, so +unfeigned, that it must have carried conviction to any listener. + +Vaughan passed his hand across his brow; and Mary, who had hitherto +kept her face hidden, shivering under the stroke of each harsh word—for +to a tender heart what could be more distressing than this strife +between the two beings she most cherished?—raised her head +imperceptibly. What would he answer? Only she knew how her heart beat; +how sick she was with fear; how she shrank from that which the next +minute might unfold! + +And yet she listened. + +“I—I remember now,” Vaughan said—and the consternation he felt made +itself heard in his voice. “I remember that I looked at a paper——” + +“At a paper!” Sir Robert cried in a tone of withering contempt. “At a +detailed account, sir, of my daughter’s movements down to her arrival +at Bristol! Do you deny that?” he continued grimly. “Do you deny that +you perused that account?” + +Vaughan stood for a moment with his hand pressed to his brow. He +hesitated. “I remember taking a paper in my hands,” he said slowly, his +face flushing, as the probable inference from his words occurred to +him. “But I was thinking so much of the disclosure you had made to me, +and of the change it involved—-to me, that——” + +“That you took no interest in the written details!” Sir Robert cried in +a tone of bitter irony. + +“I did not.” + +“You did not read a word, I suppose?” + +“I did not.” + +Before the baronet could utter the sneer which was on his lips, Mary +interposed. “I—I would like to go,” she murmured. “I feel rather +faint!” + +She detached herself from her father’s arm as she spoke, and with her +face averted from her lover, she moved uncertainly towards the door. +She had no wish to look on him. She shrank from meeting his shamed +eyes. But something, either the feeling that she would never see him +again, and that this was the end of her maiden love, or the desperate +hope that even at this last moment he might explain his admission—and +those facts, “confirmation strong as hell” which she knew, but which +Sir Robert did not know—one or other of these feelings made her falter +on the threshold, made her turn. Their eyes met. + +He stepped forward impulsively. He was white with pain, his face rigid. +For what pain is stronger than the pang of innocence accused? + +“One moment!” he said, in an unsteady voice. “If we part so, Mary, we +part indeed! We part forever! I said awhile ago that you must choose +between us. And you have chosen—it seems,” he continued unsteadily. +“Yet think! Give yourself, give me a chance. Will you not believe my +word?” And he held out his arms to her. “Will you not believe that when +I came to you this morning I thought you penniless? I thought you the +unknown schoolmistress you thought yourself a week ago! Will you not +trust me when I say that I never connected you with the missing +daughter? Never dreamed of a connection? Why should I?” he added, in +growing agitation as the words of his appeal wrought on himself. “Why +should I? Or why do you in a moment think me guilty of the meanest, the +most despicable, the most mercenary of acts?” + +He was going to take her hand, but Sir Robert stepped between them, +grim as fate and as vindictive. “No!” he said. “No! No more! You have +given her pain enough, sir! Take your dismissal and go! She has +chosen—you have said it yourself!” + +He cast one look at Sir Robert, and then, “Mary,” he asked, “am I to +go?” + +She was leaning, almost beside herself, against the door. And oh, how +much of joy and sorrow she had known since she crossed the threshold. A +man’s embrace, and a man’s treachery. The sweetness of love and the +bitterness of—reality! + +“Mary!” Vaughan repeated. + +But the baronet could not endure this. “By G—d, no!” he cried, +infuriated by the other’s persistence, and perhaps a little by fear +that the girl would give way. “You shall not soil her name with your +lips, sir! You shall torture her no longer! You have your dismissal! +Take it and go!” + +“When she tells me with her own lips to go,” Vaughan answered doggedly, +“I will go. Not before!” For never had she seemed more desirable to +him. Never, though contempt of her weakness wrestled with his love, had +he wanted her more. Except that seat in the House which had cost him so +dearly, she was all he had left. And it did not seem possible that she +whom he had held so lately in his arms, she who had confessed her love +for him, with whom he had vowed to share his life and his success, his +lot good or bad—it did not seem possible that she could really believe +this miserable, this incredible, this impossible thing of him! She +could not! Or, if she could, he was indeed mistaken in her. “I shall +go,” he repeated coldly, “and I shall not return.” + +And Mary had not believed it of him, had she known him longer or +better; had she known him as girls commonly know their lovers. But his +wooing had been short, we know: and we know, too, the distrust of men +in which she had been trained. He had taken her by storm, stooping to +her from the height of his position, having on his side her poverty and +loneliness, her inexperience and youth. Now all these things, and her +ignorance of his world weighed against him. Was it to be supposed, +could it be credited that he, who had come to her bearing her mother’s +commendation, knew nothing, though he was her kinsman? That he, who +after plain hesitation and avowed doubt, laid all at her feet as soon +as her father was prepared to acknowledge her—still sought her in +ignorance? That he, who had read her story in black and white, still +knew nothing? + +No, she could not believe it. But it was a bitter thing to know that he +did not love her, that he had not loved her! That he had come to her +for gain! She must speak if it were only to escape, only to save +herself from—from collapse. She yearned for nothing now so much as to +be alone in her room. + +“Good-bye,” she muttered, with averted eyes and pallid lips. “I—I +forgive you. Good-bye.” + +And she opened the door with groping fingers; and still, still looking +away from him lest she should break down, she went out. + +He drew a deep breath as she passed the threshold; and his eyes did not +leave her. But he did not speak. Nor did Sir Robert Vermuyden until his +daughter’s step, light as thistledown that morning, and now uncertain +and lagging, passed out of hearing, and—and at last a door closed on +the floor above. + +Then the elder man looked at the other. “Are you not going?” he said +with stern meaning. “You have robbed me of my borough, sir—I give you +joy of your cleverness. But you shall not rob me of my daughter!” + +“I wonder which you love the better!” Vaughan snarled. And with the +vicious gibe he took his hat and went. + + + + +XXI +A MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS + + +It was September. The House elected in those first days of May was four +months old, and already it had fulfilled the hopes of the country. +Without a division it had decreed the first reading, and by a majority +of one hundred and thirty-six, the second reading of the People’s Bill; +that Bill by which the preceding House slaying, had been slain. New +members were beginning to lose the first gloss of their enthusiasm; the +youngest no longer ogled the M.P. on their letters, nor franked for the +mere joy of franking. But the ministry still rode the flood tide of +favour, Lord Grey was still his country’s pride, and Brougham a hero. +It only remained to frighten the House of Lords, and in particular +those plaguy out-of-date fellows, the Bishops, into passing the Bill; +and the battle would be won, + +_The streets be paved with mutton pies_, + +_Potatoes eat like pine!_ + + +And, in fine, everyone would live happily ever afterwards. + +To old Tories of the stamp of Sir Robert Vermuyden, the outlook was +wholly dark. But it is not often that public care clouds private joy; +and had Eldon been prime minister, with Wetherell for his Chancellor, +the grounds of Stapylton could hardly have worn a more smiling aspect +than they presented on the fine day in early September, which Sir +Robert had chosen for his daughter’s first party. The abrupt addition +of a well-grown girl to a family of one is a delicate process. It is +apt to open the door to scandal. And a little out of discretion, and +more that she, who was now the apple of his eye, might not wear her +wealth with a difference, nor lack anything of the mode, he had not +hastened the occasion. A word had been dropped here and there—with +care; the truth had been told to some, the prepossessions of others had +been consulted. But at length the day was come on which she must stand +by his side and receive the world of Wiltshire. + +And she had so stood for more than an hour of this autumn afternoon; +with such pride on his side as was fitting, and such blushes on hers as +were fitting also. Now, the prime duty of reception over, and his +company dispersed through the gardens, Sir Robert lingered with one or +two of his intimates on the lawn before the house. In the hollow of the +park hard by, stood the ample marquee in which his poorer neighbours +were presently to feed; gossip had it that Sir Robert was already at +work rebuilding his political influence. Near the tent, Hunt the +Slipper and Kiss in the Ring were in progress, and Moneymusk was being +danced to the strains of the Chippinge church band; the shrill voices +of the rustic youth proving that their first shyness was wearing off. +Within the gardens, a famous band from Bath played the new-fashioned +quadrilles turn about with Moore’s Irish Melodies; and a score of the +fair, gorgeous as the dragon-flies which darted above the water, +meandered delicately up and down the sward; or escorted by gentlemen in +tightly strapped white trousers and blue coats—or in Wellington frocks, +the latest mode—appeared and again disappeared among the elms beside +the Garden Pool. In the background, the house, adorned and refurnished, +winked with all its windows at the sunshine, gave forth from all its +doors the sweet scent of flowers, throbbed to the very recesses of the +haunted wing with small talk and light laughter, the tap of sandalled +feet and the flirt of fans. + +Sir Robert thanked his God as he looked upon it all. And five years +younger in face and more like the Duke than ever, he listened, almost +purring, to the praises of his new-found darling. The odds had been +great that with such a breeding, she had been coarse or sly, common or +skittish. And she was none of these things, but fair as a flower, +slender as Psyche, sweet-eyed as a loving woman, dainty and virginal as +the buds of May! And withal gentle and kind and obedient—above all, +obedient. He could not thank God enough, as he read in the eyes of +young men and old women, what they thought of her. And he was thanking +Him, though in outward seeming he was attentive to an old friend’s +prattle, when his eyes fell on a carriage and four which, followed by +two outriders, was sweeping past the marquee and breasting the gentle +ascent to the house. All who were likely to arrive in such state, the +Beauforts, Suffolks, Methuens, were come; the old Duke of Beaufort, +indeed, and his daughter-in-law were gone again. So Sir Robert stared +at the approaching carriage, wondering whom it might contain. + +“They are the Bowood liveries,” said his friend, who had longer sight. +“I thought they had gone to town for the Coronation.” + +Sir Robert too had thought so. Indeed, though he had invited the +Lansdownes upon the principle, which even the heats attending the +Reform Bill did not wholly abrogate, that family friendships were above +party—he had been glad to think that he would not see the spoliators. +The trespass was too recent, the robbery too gross! Ay, and the times +too serious. + +Here they were, however; Lady Lansdowne, her daughter, and a small +gentleman with a merry eye and curling locks. And Sir Robert repressed +a sigh, and advanced four or five paces to meet them. But though he +sighed, no one knew better what became a host; and his greeting was +perfect. One of his bitterest flings at Bowood painted it as the common +haunt of fiddlers and poets, actors and the like. But he received her +ladyship’s escort, who was no other than Mr. Moore of Sloperton, and of +the Irish Melodies, with the courtesy which he would have extended to +an equal; nor when Lady Lansdowne sent her girl to take tea under the +poet’s care did he let any sign of his reprobation appear. Those with +whom he had been talking had withdrawn to leave him at liberty, and he +found himself alone with Lady Lansdowne. + +“We leave for Berkeley Square to-morrow, for the Coronation on the +8th,” she said, playing with her fan in a way which would have betrayed +to her intimates that she was not at ease. “I had many things to do +this morning in view of our departure and I could not start early. You +must accept our apologies, Sir Robert.” + +“It was gracious of your ladyship to come at all,” he said. + +“It was brave,” she replied, with a gleam of laughter in her eyes. “In +fact, though I bear my lord’s warmest felicitations on this happy +event, and wreathe them with mine, Sir Robert——” + +“I thank your ladyship and Lord Lansdowne,” he said formally. + +“I do not think that I should have ventured,” she continued with +another glint of laughter, “did I not bear also an olive branch.” + +He bowed, but waited in silence for her explanation. + +“One of a—a rather delicate nature,” she said. “Am I permitted, Sir +Robert, to—to speak in confidence?” + +He did not understand and he sought refuge in compliments. “Permitted?” +he said, with the gallant bow of an old beau. “All things are permitted +to so much——” + +“Hush!” she said. “But there! I will take you at your word. You know +that the Bill—there is but one Bill now-a-days—is in Committee?” + +He frowned, disliking the subject. “I don’t think,” he said, “that any +good can come of discussing it, Lady Lansdowne.” + +“I think it may,” she replied, with a confidence which she did not +feel, “if you will hear me. It is whispered that there is a question in +Committee of one of the doomed boroughs. One, I am told, Sir Robert, +hangs between schedule A and schedule B; and that borough is Chippinge. +Those who know whisper Lord Lansdowne that ultimately it will be +plucked from the burning, and will be found in schedule B. Consequently +it will retain one member.” + +Sir Robert’s thin face turned a dull red. So the wicked Whigs, who had +drawn the line of disfranchisement at such a point as to spare their +pet preserves, their Calne and Bedford and the like, had not been able +with all their craft to net every fish. One had evaded the mesh, and by +Heavens, it was Chippinge! Chippinge, though shorn of its full glory, +would still return one member. He had not hoped, he had not expected +this. Now + +_Non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei +Vitabit Libitinam!_ + + +he thought with jubilation. And then another thought darted through his +mind and changed his joy to chagrin. A seat had been left to Chippinge. +But why? That Arthur Vaughan, that his renegade cousin, might continue +to fill it, might continue to hold it, under his nose and to his daily, +hourly, his constant mortification. By Heaven, it was too much! They +had said well, who said that an enemy’s gift was to be dreaded. But he +would fight the seat, at the next election and at every election, +rather than suffer that miserable person, miserable on so many +accounts, to fill it at his will. And after all the seat was saved; and +no one could tell the future. The lasting gain might outlive the +temporary vexation. + +So, after frowning a moment, he tried to smooth his brow. “And your +mission, Lady Lansdowne,” he said politely, “is to tell me this?” + +“In part,” she said, with hesitation, for the course, of his feelings +had been visible in his countenance. “But also——” + +“But also—and in the main,” he answered with a smile, “to make a +proposition, perhaps?” + +“Yes.” + +He thought of the most obvious proposition, and he spoke in pursuance +of his thought. “Then forgive me if I speak plainly,” he said. “Whether +the borough lose one member or both, whether it figure in schedule B, +or in schedule A, cannot affect my opposition to the Bill! If you have +it in commission, therefore, to make any proposal, based on a contrary +notion, I cannot listen even to your ladyship.” + +“I have not,” she answered with a smile. “Sir Robert Vermuyden’s +malignancy is too well known. Yet I am the bearer of a proposition. +Suppose the Bill to become law, and I am told that it will surely +become law, can we not avoid future conflict, and—I will not say future +ill-will, for God knows there is none on our side, Sir Robert—but +future friction, by an agreement? Of course it will not be possible to +nominate members in the future as in the past. But for some time to +come whoever is returned for Chippinge must be returned by your +influence, or by my lord’s.” + +He coughed drily. “Possibly,” he said. + +“In view of that,” she continued, flirting her fan, as she watched his +face—his manner was not encouraging, “and for the sake of peace between +families, and a little, perhaps, because I do not wish Kerry to be +beggared by contested elections, can we not now, while the future is on +the lap of the gods——” + +“In Committee,” Sir Robert corrected with a grave bow. + +She laughed pleasantly. “Well,” she allowed, “perhaps it is not quite +the same thing. But no matter! Whoever the Fates in charge, can we +not,” with her head on one side and a charming smile, “make a treaty of +peace?” + +“And what,” Sir Robert asked with urbane sarcasm, “becomes of the +rights of the people in that case, Lady Lansdowne? And of the purity of +elections? And of the new and independent electors whom my lord has +brought into being? Must we not think of these things?” + +She looked for an instant rather foolish. Then she rallied, and with a +slightly heightened colour, “In good time, we must,” she replied. “But +for the present it is plain that they will not be able to walk without +assistance.” + +“What?” it was on the tip of his tongue to answer. “The new and +independent electors? Not walk without assistance? Oh, what a change is +here!” But he forbore. He said instead—but with the faintest shade of +irony, “Without _our_ assistance, I think you mean, Lady Lansdowne?” + +“Yes. And that being so, why should we not agree, my lord and you—to +save Kerry’s pocket shall I say—to bring forward a candidate +alternately?” + +Sir Robert shook his head gravely. He would fight. + +“Allowing to you, Sir Robert, as the owner of the influence hitherto +dominant in the borough, the first return.” + +“The first return—after the Bill passes?” + +“Yes.” + +That was a different thing. That was another thing altogether. A gleam +of satisfaction shone for an instant under the baronet’s bushy +eyebrows. The object he had most at heart was to oust his treacherous +cousin. And here was a method, sure and safe: more safe by far than any +contest under the new Bill? + +“Well I—I cannot say anything at this moment,” he said, at last, trying +to hide his satisfaction. “These heats once over I do not see—your +ladyship will pardon me—why my influence should not still predominate.” + +It was Lady Lansdowne’s turn. “And things be as before?” she answered. +“No, Sir Robert, no. You forget those rights of the people which you +were so kind as to support a moment ago. Things will not be as before. +But—but perhaps I shall hear from you? Of course it is not a matter +that can be settled, as in the old days, by our people.” + +“You shall certainly hear,” he said, with something more than courtesy. +“In the meantime——” + +“I am dying to see your daughter,” she answered. “I am told that she is +very lovely. Where is she?” + +“A few minutes ago she was in the Elm Walk,” Sir Robert answered, a +slight flush betraying his gratification. “I will send for her.” + +But her ladyship would not hear of this; nor would she suffer him to +leave his post to escort her. “Here’s la belle Suffolk coming to take +leave of you,” she said. “And I know my way.” + +“But you will not know her,” Sir Robert answered. + +Lady Lansdowne let her parasol sink over her shoulder. “I think I +shall,” she said with a glance of meaning, “if she is like her mother.” + +And without waiting to see the effect of her words, she moved away. It +was said of old time of Juno, that she walked a Goddess confessed. And +of Lady Lansdowne as she moved slowly across the sunny lawn before the +church, her dainty skirts trailing and her parasol inclined, it might +with equal justice have been said, that she walked a great lady, of +that day when great ladies still were, + +_Nor mill nor mart had mocked the guinea’s stamp_. + + +Whether she smiled on this person or bowed to that, or with a slighter +movement acknowledged the courtesy of those who, without claiming +recognition made respectful way for her, a gracious ease and a quiet +nonchalance were in all her actions. The deeper emotions seemed as far +from her as were Hodge and Joan playing Kiss in the Ring. But her last +words to Sir Robert had reacted on herself, and as she crossed the +rustic bridge, she paused a moment to gaze on the water. The band was +playing the air of “She is far from the Land,” and tears rose to her +eyes as she recalled the past and pictured scene after scene, absurd or +pathetic in the career of the proud beauty who had once queened it +here, whose mad pranks and madder sayings had once filled these +shrubberies with mirth or chagrin, and whose child she was about to +see. + +She sighed, as she resumed her course, unable even now to blame Lady +Sybil as her conduct to her child deserved. But where was the child? +Not on the walk under the elms, which was deserted in favour of the +more lively attractions of the park. Lady Lansdowne looked this way and +that; at length availing herself of the solitude, she paced the walk to +its end. Thence a short path which she well remembered, led to the +kennels; and rather to indulge her sentiment and recall the days when +she was herself young, and had been intimate here, than because she +expected to meet Mary, she took this path. She had not followed it a +dozen steps, and was hesitating whether to go on or return, the strains +of Moore’s melody were scarcely blurred by the intervening laurels, +when a tall dark-robed figure stepped with startling abruptness from +the shrubbery, and stood before her. + +“Louisa,” said the stranger. And she raised her veil. “Don’t you know +me?” + +“Sybil!” + +“Yes, Sybil!” the other answered curtly. And then as if something in +Lady Lansdowne’s tone had wounded her, “Why not?” she continued, +raising her head proudly. “My name came easily enough to your +ladyship’s lips once! And I am not aware that I have done anything to +deprive me of the right to call my friends by their names, be they whom +they may!” + +“No, no! But——” + +“But you meant it, Louisa!” the other retorted with energy. “Or is it +that you find me so changed, so old, so worn, so altered from her you +once knew, that it astonishes you to trace in this face the features of +Sybil Matching!” + +“You are changed,” the other answered kindly. “I fear you have been +ill?” + +“I am ill. I am more, I am dying. Not here, nor to-day, nor +to-morrow——” + +Lady Lansdowne interrupted her. “In that sense,” she said gently, “we +are all dying.” But though she said it, the change in Lady Sybil’s +appearance did indeed shock her; almost as much as her presence in that +place amazed her. + +“I have but three months to live,” Lady Sybil answered feverishly; and +her sunken cheeks and bright eyes, which told of some hidden disease, +confirmed her words. “I am dying in that sense! Do you hear? But I dare +say,” with a flash of her old levity, “it is my presence here that +shocks you? You are thinking what Vermuyden would say if he turned the +corner behind you, and found us together!” And, as Lady Lansdowne, with +a nervous start, looked over her shoulder, with the old recklessness, +“I’d like—I’d like to see his face, my dear, and yours, too, if he +found us. But,” she continued, with an abrupt change to impassioned +earnestness, “it’s not to see you that I came to-day! Don’t think it! +It’s not to see you that I’ve been waiting for two hours past. I want +to see my girl! I am going to see her, do you hear! You must bring her +to me!” + +“Sybil!” + +“Don’t contradict me, Louisa,” she cried peremptorily. “Haven’t I told +you that I am dying? Don’t you hear what I say! Am I to die and not see +my child? Cruel woman! Heartless creature! But you always were! And +cold as an icicle!” + +“No, indeed, I am not! And I think you should see her,” Lady Lansdowne +answered, in no little distress. How could she not be distressed by the +contrast between this woman plainly and almost shabbily dressed—for the +purpose perhaps of evading notice—and with illness stamped on her face, +and the brilliant, harum-scarum Lady Sybil, with whom her thoughts had +been busy a few minutes before? “I think you ought to see her,” she +repeated in a soothing tone. “But you should take the proper steps to +do so. You——” + +“You think—yes, you do!” Lady Vermuyden retorted with fierce +energy—“you think that I have treated her so ill that I have no right +to see her! That I cannot care to see her! But you do not know how I +was tried! How I was suspected, how I was watched! What wrongs I +suffered! And—and I never meant to hide her for good. When I died, she +would have come home. And I had a plan too—but never mind that—to right +her without Vermuyden’s knowledge and in his teeth. I saw her on a +coach one day along with—what is it?” + +“There is someone coming,” Lady Lansdowne said hurriedly. Her ladyship +indeed was in a state of great apprehension. She knew that at any +moment she might be found, perhaps by Sir Robert: and the thought of +the scene which would follow—aware as she was of the exasperation of +his feelings—appalled her. She tried to temporise. “Another time,” she +said. “I think someone is coming now. See me another time and I will do +what I can.” + +“No!” the other broke in, her face flushing with sudden anger. “See +you, Louisa? What do I care for seeing you? It is my girl I wish to +see, that I’m come to see, that I’m going to see! I’m her mother, fetch +her to me! I have a right to see her, and I will see her! I demand her! +If you do not go for her——” + +“Sybil! Sybil!” Lady Lansdowne cried, thoroughly alarmed by her +friend’s violence. “For Heaven’s sake be calm!” + +“Calm?” Lady Vermuyden answered. “Do you cease to dictate to me, and do +as I bid you! Go, and fetch her, or I will go myself and claim her +before all his friends. He has no heart. He never had a heart! It’s +sawdust,” with a hysterical laugh. “But he has pride and I’ll trample +on it! I’ll tread it in the mud—if you don’t fetch her! Are you going, +Miss Gravity? We used to call you Miss Gravity, I remember. You were +always,” with a faint sneer, “a bit of a prude, my dear!” + +Miss Gravity! What long-forgotten trifles, what thoughts of youth the +nickname brought back to Lady Lansdowne’s recollection. What wars of +maidens’ wits, and half-owned jealousies, and light resentments, and +sunny days of pique and pleasure! Her heart, never anything but soft, +under the mask of her great-lady’s manner, waxed sore and pitiful. Yet +how was she to do the other’s bidding? How could she betray Sir +Robert’s confidence? How—— + +Someone was coming—really coming this time. She looked round. + +“I’ll give you five minutes!” Lady Sybil whispered. “Five minutes, +Louisa! Remember!” + +And when Lady Lansdowne turned again to her, she had vanished among the +laurels. + + + + +XXII +WOMEN’S HEARTS + + +Lady Lansdowne walked slowly away in a state of perplexity, from which +the monotonous lilt of the band which was now playing quadrille music +did nothing to free her. Whether Sybil Vermuyden were dying or not, it +was certain that she was ill. Disease had laid its hand beyond +mistaking on that once beautiful face; the levity and wit which had +formerly dazzled beholders now gleamed but fitfully and with such a +ghastly light as the corpse candle gives forth. The change was great +since Lady Lansdowne had seen her in the coach at Chippenham; and it +might well be that if words of forgiveness were to be spoken, no time +was to be lost. Old associations, a mother’s feelings for a mother, +pity, all urged Lady Lansdowne to compliance with her request; nor did +the knowledge that the woman, who had once queened it so brilliantly in +this place, was now lurking on the fringe of the gay crowd, athirst for +a sight of her child, fail to move a heart which all the jealousies of +a Whig coterie had not hardened or embittered. + +Unluckily the owner of that heart felt that she was the last person who +ought to interfere. It behoved her, more than it behoved anyone, to +avoid fresh ground of quarrel with Sir Robert. Courteously as he had +borne himself on her arrival, civilly as he had veiled the surprise +which her presence caused him, she knew that he was sore hurt by his +defeat in the borough. And if those who had thwarted him publicly were +to intervene in his private concerns, if those who had suborned his +kinsman were now to tamper with his daughter, ay, or were to incur a +suspicion of tampering, she knew that his anger would know no bounds. +She felt, indeed, that it would be justified. + +She had to think, too, of her husband, who had sent her with the +olive-branch. He was a politic, long-sighted man; who, content with the +solid advantage he had gained, had no mind to push to extremity a +struggle which must needs take place at his own door. He would be +displeased, seriously displeased, if her mission, in place of closing, +widened the breach. + +And yet—and yet her heart ached for the woman, who had never wholly +lost a place in her affections. And there was this. If Lady Sybil were +thwarted no one was more capable of carrying out her threat and of +taking some violent step, which would make matters a hundred times +worse, alike for Sir Robert and his daughter. + +While she weighed the matter, Lady Lansdowne found herself back at the +rustic bridge. She was in the act of stepping upon it—still deep in +thought—when her eyes encountered those of a young couple who were +waiting at the farther end to give her passage. She looked a second +time; and she stood. Then, smiling, she beckoned to the girl to come to +her. Meanwhile, a side-thought, born of the conjunction of the two +young people, took form in her mind. “I hope that may come to nothing,” +she reflected. + +Possibly it was for this reason, that when the man would have come +also, she made it clear that the smile was not for him. “No, Mr. +Flixton,” she said, the faintest possible distance in her tone. “I do +not want you. I will relieve you of your charge.” + +And when Mary, timid and blushing, had advanced to her, “My dear,” she +said, holding out both her hands, and looking charmingly at her, “I +should have known you anywhere.” And she drew her to her and kissed +her. “I am Lady Lansdowne. I knew your mother, and I hope that you and +my daughter will be friends.” + +The mention of her mother increased Mary’s shyness. “Your ladyship is +very kind,” she murmured. She did not know that her embarrassment was +so far from hurting her, that the appeal in her eyes went straight to +the elder woman’s heart. + +“I mean to be kind at any rate,” Lady Lansdowne answered, smiling on +the lovely face before her. And then, “My dear,” she said, “have they +told you that you are very beautiful? More beautiful, I think, than +your mother was: I hope”—and she did not try to hide the depth of her +feelings—“that you may be more happy.” + +The girl’s colour faded at this second reference to her mother; made, +she could not doubt, with intention. Her father, even while he had +overwhelmed her with benefits, even while he had opened this new life +to her with a hand full of gifts, had taught her—tacitly or by a word +at most—that that name was the key to a Bluebeard’s chamber; that it +must not be used. She knew that her mother lived; she guessed that she +had sinned against her husband; she understood that she had wronged her +child. But she knew no more: and with this, since this at the least she +must know, Sir Robert would have had her content. + +And yet, to speak correctly, she did know more. She knew that the +veiled lady who had intervened at long intervals in her life must have +been her mother. But she felt no impulse of affection towards that +woman—whom she had not seen. Her heart went out instead to a shadowy +mother who walked the silent house at sunset, whose skirts trailed in +the lonely passages, of whose career of wild and reckless gaiety she +had vague hints here and there. It was to this mother, radiant and +young, with the sheen of pearls in her hair, and the haunting smile, +that she yearned. She had learned in some subtle way that the vacant +place over the mantel in the hall which her own portrait by Maclise was +to fill, had been occupied by her mother’s picture. And dreaming of the +past, as what young girl alone in that stately house would not, she had +seen her come and go in the half lights, a beautiful, spoilt child of +fashion. She had traced her up and down the wide polished stairway, +heard the tap of her slender sandal on the shining floors, perceived in +long-closed chambers the fading odours of her favourite scent. And in a +timid, frightened way she had longed to know her and to love her, to +feel her touch on her hair and give her pity in return. + +It is possible that she might have dwelt more intimately on Lady +Sybil’s fate, possible that she might have ventured on some line of her +own in regard to her, if her new life had been free from preoccupation; +if there had not been with her an abiding regret, which clouded the +sunniest prospects. But love, man’s love, woman’s love, is the most +cruel of monopolists: it tramples on the claims of the present, much +more of the absent. And if the novelty of Mary’s new life, the many +marvels to which she must accustom herself, the new pleasures, the new +duties, the strange new feeling of wealth—if, in fine, the necessity of +orientating herself afresh in relation to every person and +everything—was not able to put thoughts of her lover from her mind, the +claims of an unknown mother had an infinitely smaller chance of +asserting themselves. + +But now at that word, twice pronounced by Lady Lansdowne, the girl +stood ashamed and conscience-stricken. “You knew my mother?” she +faltered. + +“Yes, my dear,” the elder woman answered gravely. “I knew her very +well.” + +The gravity of the speaker’s tone presented a new idea to Mary’s mind. +“She is not happy?” she said slowly. + +“No.” + +With that word Lady Lansdowne looked over her shoulder; conscience +makes cowards, and her nervousness communicated itself to Mary. A +possibility, at which the girl had never glanced, presented itself, and +so abruptly that all the colour left her face. “She is not here?” she +said. + +“Yes, she is here. And—don’t be frightened, my dear!” Lady Lansdowne +continued earnestly. “But listen to me! A moment ago I thought of +throwing you in her way without your knowledge. But, since I have seen +you, I have your welfare at heart, as well as hers. And I must, I ought +to tell you, that I do not think your father would wish you to see her. +I think that you should know this; and that you should decide for +yourself—whether you will see her. Indeed, you must decide for +yourself,” she repeated, her eyes fixed anxiously on the girl’s face. +“I cannot take the responsibility.” + +“She is unhappy?” Mary asked, looking most unhappy herself. + +“She is unhappy, and she is ill.” + +“I ought to go to her? You think so? Please—your ladyship, will you +advise me?” + +Lady Lansdowne hesitated. “I cannot,” she said. + +“But—there is no reason,” Mary asked faintly, “why I should not go to +her?” + +“There is no reason. I honestly believe,” Lady Lansdowne repeated +solemnly, “that there is no reason—except your father’s wish. It is for +you to say how far that, which should weigh with you in all other +things, shall weigh with you in this.” + +Suddenly a burning colour dyed Mary’s face. “I will go to her,” she +cried impulsively. She had been weak once, she had been weak! And how +she had suffered for that weakness! But she would be strong now. “Where +is she, if you please?” she continued bravely. “Can I see her at once?” + +“She is in the path leading to the kennels. You know it? No, you need +not take leave of me, child! Go, and,” Lady Lansdowne added with +feeling, “God forgive me if I have done wrong in sending you!” + +“You have not done wrong!” Mary cried, an unwonted spirit in her tone. +And, without taking other leave, she turned and went—though her limbs +trembled under her. She was going to her mother! To her mother! Oh, +strange, oh, impossible thought! + +Yet, engrossing as was that thought, it could not quite oust fear of +her father and of his anger. And the blush soon died; so that the +whiteness of her cheeks when she reached the Kennel Path was a poor set +off for the ribbons that decked her muslin robe. What she expected, +what she wished or feared or hoped she could never remember. What she +saw, that which awaited her, was a woman, ill, and plainly clad, with +only the remains of beauty in her wasted features; but withal cynical +and hard-eyed, and very, very far from the mother of her day-dreams. + +Such as she was the unknown scanned Mary with a kind of scornful +amusement. “Oh,” she said, “so this is what they have made of Miss +Vermuyden? Let me look at you, girl?” And laying her hands on Mary’s +shoulders she looked long into the tearful, agitated face. “Why, you +are like a sheet of paper!” she continued, raising the girl’s chin with +her finger. “I wonder you dared to come with Sir Robert saying no! And, +you little fool,” she continued in a swift spirit of irritation, “as +soon not come at all, as look at me like that! You’ve got my chin and +my nose, and more of me than I thought. But God knows where you got +your hare’s eyes! Are you always frightened?” + +“No, Ma’am, no!” she stammered. + +“No, Ma’am? No, goose!” Lady Sybil retorted, mimicking her. “Why, ten +kings on ten thrones had never made me shake as you are shaking! Nor +twenty Sir Roberts in twenty passions! What is it you are afraid of? +Being found with me?” + +“No!” Mary cried. And, to do her justice, the emotion with which Lady +Sybil found fault was as much a natural agitation, on seeing her +mother, as fear on her own account. + +“Then you are afraid of me?” Lady Sybil rejoined. And again she +twitched the girl’s face to the light. + +Mary was amazed rather than afraid: but she could not say that. And she +kept silence. + +“Or is it dislike of me?” the mother continued—a slight grimace, as of +pain, distorting her face. “You hate me, I suppose? You hate me?” + +“Oh, no, no!” the girl cried in distress. + +“You do, Miss!” And with no little violence she pushed Mary from her. +“You set down all to me, I suppose! I’ve kept you from your own, that’s +it! I am the wicked mother, worse than a step-mother, who robbed you of +your rights! And made a beggar of you and would have kept you a beggar! +I am she who wronged you and robbed you—the unnatural mother! And you +never ask,” she went on with fierce, impulsive energy, “what I +suffered? How I was wronged! What I bore! No, nor what I meant to +do—with you!” + +“Indeed, indeed——” + +“What I meant to do, I say!” Lady Sybil repeated violently. “At my +death—and I am dying, but what is that to you?—all would have been +told, girl! And you would have got your own. Do you believe me?” she +added passionately, advancing a step in a manner almost menacing. “Do +you believe me, girl?” + +“I do, I do!” Mary cried, inexpressibly pained by the other’s +vehemence. + +“I’ll swear it, if you like! But I hoped that he—your father—would die +first and never know! He deserved no better! He deserved nothing of me! +And then you’d have stepped into all! Or better still—do you remember +the day you travelled to Bristol? It’s not so long ago that you need +forget it, Miss Vermuyden! I was in the coach, and I saw you, and I saw +the young man who was with you. I knew him, and I told myself that +there was a God after all, though I’d often doubted it, or you two +would not have been brought together! I saw another way then, but you’d +have parted and known nothing, if,” she continued, laughing recklessly, +“I had not helped Providence, and sent him with a present to your +school! But—why, you’re red enough now, girl! What is it?” + +“He knew?” Mary murmured, with an effort. “You told him who I was, +Ma’am?” + +“He knew no more than a doll!” Lady Sybil answered. “I told him +nothing, or he’d have told again! I know his kind. No, I thought to get +all for you and thwart Vermuyden, too! I thought to marry his heir to +the little schoolmistress—it was an opera touch, my dear, and beyond +all the Tremaynes and Vivian Greys in the world! But there, when all +promised well, that slut of a maid went to my husband, and trumped my +trick!” + +“And Mr.—Mr. Vaughan,” Mary stammered, “had no knowledge—who I was?” + +“Mr.—Mr. Vaughan!” Lady Sybil repeated, mocking her, “had no knowledge? +No! Not a jot, not a tittle! But what?” she went on, in a tone of +derision, “Sits the wind there, Miss Meek? You’re not all milk and +water, bread and butter and backboard, then, but have a spice of your +mother, after all? Mr.—Mr. Vaughan!” again she mimicked her. “Why, if +you were fond of the man, didn’t you say so?” + +Mary, under the fire of those sharp, hard eyes, could not restrain her +tears. But, overcome as she was, she managed in broken words to explain +that her father had forbidden it. + +“Oh, your father, was it?” Lady Sybil rejoined. “He said ‘No,’ and no +it was! And the lord of my heart and the Man of Feeling is dismissed in +disgrace! And now we weep in secret and the worm feeds on our damask +cheek!” she ran on in a tone of raillery, assumed perhaps to hide a +deeper feeling. “I suppose,” she added shrewdly, “Sir Robert would have +you think that Vaughan knew who you were, and was practising on you?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you dismissed him at papa’s command, eh? That was it, was it?” + +Mary could only confess the fact with tears, her distress in as strange +contrast with the gaiety of her dress as with the strains of the +neighbouring band, which told of festivity and pleasure. Perhaps some +thought of this nature forced itself upon Lady Sybil’s light and +evasive mind: for as she looked, the cynical expression of her eyes +gave place to one of feeling and emotion, better fitted to those wasted +features as well as to the relation in which the two stood to one +another. She looked down the path, as if for the first time she feared +an intrusive eye. Then her glance reverted to her daughter’s slender +form and drooping head: and again it changed, it grew soft, it grew +pitiful. The laurels shut all in, the path was empty. The maternal +feeling, long repressed, long denied, long buried under a mountain of +pique and resentment, of fancied wrongs and real neglect, broke forth +irresistibly. In a step she was at the girl’s side, and snatching her +to her bosom in a fierce embrace, was covering her face, her neck, her +hair with hungry kisses. + +The action was so sudden, so unexpected, that crushed and even hurt by +the other’s grasp, and frightened by her vehemence, Mary would have +resisted, would have tried to free herself. Then she understood. And a +rush of pent-up affection, of love and pity, carried away the barriers +of constraint and timidity. She clung to Lady Sybil with tears of joy, +murmuring low broken words, calling her “Mother, Mother,” burying her +face on her shoulder, pressing herself against her. In a moment her +being was stirred to its depths. In all her life no one had caressed +her after this fashion, no one had embraced her with passion, no one +had kissed her with more than the placid affection which gentleness and +goodness earn, and which kind offices kindly performed warrant. Even +Sir Robert, even her father, proud as he was of her, much as he loved +her, had awakened in her respect and gratitude—mingled with fear—rather +than love. + +After a time, warned by approaching voices, Lady Sybil put her from +her; but with a low and exultant laugh. “You are mine, now!” she said, +“Mine! Mine! You will come to me when I want you. And I shall want you +soon! Very soon!” + +Mary laid hold of her again. “Let me come now!” she cried with passion, +forgetting all but the mother she had gained, the clinging arms which +had cherished her, the kisses that had rained on her. “Let me come to +you! You are ill!” + +“No, not now! Not now! I will send for you when I want you,” Lady Sybil +answered. “I will promise to send for you. And you will come,” she +added with the same ring of triumph in her voice. “You will come!” For +it was joy to her, even amid the satisfaction of her mother-love, to +know that she had tricked her husband; it was joy to her to know that +though she had taken all from the child and he had given all, the child +was hers—hers, and could never be taken from her! “You will come! For +you will not have me long. But,” she whispered, as the voices came +nearer, “go now! Go now! And not a word! Not a word, child, as you love +me. I will send for you when—when my time comes.” + +And with a last look, strangely made up of love and pain and triumph, +Lady Sybil moved out of sight among the laurels. And Mary, drying her +tears and composing her countenance as well as she could, turned to +meet the intruders’ eyes. + +Fortunately—for she was far from being herself—the two persons who had +wandered that way, did but pause at the end of the Kennel Path, and, +murmuring small talk, turn again to retrace their steps. She gained a +minute or two, in which to collect her thoughts and smooth her hair; +but more than a minute or two she dared not linger lest her continued +absence should arouse curiosity. As sedately as she could, she emerged +from the shrubbery and made her way—though her breast heaved with a +hundred emotions—towards the rustic bridge on which she saw that Lady +Lansdowne was standing, keeping Sir Robert in talk. + +In talk, indeed, of her. For as she approached he placed the +coping-stone on the edifice of her praises which her ladyship had +craftily led him to build. “The most docile,” he said, “I assure you, +the most docile child you can imagine! A beautiful disposition. She is +docility itself!” + +“I hope she may always remain so,” Lady Lansdowne answered slily. + +“I’ve no doubt she will,” Sir Robert replied with fond assurance, his +eye on the Honourable Bob, who was approaching the bridge from the +lawns. + +Lady Lansdowne followed the look with her eyes and smiled. But she said +nothing. She turned to Mary, who was now near at hand, and reading in +the girl’s looks plain traces of trouble, and agitation, she contented +herself with sending for Lady Louisa, and asking that her carriage +might be called. In this way she cloaked under a little bustle the +girl’s embarrassment as she came up to them and joined them. Five +minutes later Lady Lansdowne was gone. + +* * * * * + +After that, Mary would have had only too much food for thought, had her +mother alone filled her mind; had those kisses which had so stirred her +being, those clinging arms, and that face which bore the deep imprint +of illness, alone burdened her memory. Years afterwards the beat of the +music which played in the gardens that evening, while the party within +sat at dinner, haunted her; bringing back, as such things will, the +scene and her aching heart, the outward glitter and the inward care, +the Honourable Bob’s gallantries and her father’s stately figure as he +rose and drank wine with her; ay, and the hip, hip, hurrah which shook +the glasses when an old Squire, a privileged person, rose, before she +could leave, and toasted her. + +Burdened only with the sacred memories of the afternoon, and the +anxiety, the pity, the love which they engendered, she had been far +from happy, far from free. But in truth, with all her feeling for her +mother, Mary bore about with her a keener and more bitter regret. The +dull pain which had troubled her of late when thoughts of Arthur +Vaughan would beset her was grown to a pang of shame, almost +intolerable. She had told herself a hundred times before this that it +was her weakness, her fear of her father, her mean compliance that had +led her to give him up—rather than any real belief in his baseness. For +she had never, she was sure now, believed in that baseness. But now, +now when her mother, whose word it never struck her to doubt, had +affirmed his innocence, now that she knew, now since a phrase of that +mother’s had brought to her mind every incident of the +never-to-be-forgotten coach-drive, the May morning, the sunshine and +the budding trees, the birth of love—pain gnawed at her heart. She was +sick with misery. + +For, oh, how vile, how thankless, how poor and small a thing he must +think her! He would have given her all, and she had robbed him of all. +And then when she had robbed him and he could give her little she had +turned her back on him, abandoned him, believed evil of him, heard him +insulted, and joined in the outrage! Over that thought, over that +memory, she shed many and many a bitter tear. Romance had come to her +in her lowliness, and a noble lover, stooping to her; and she had +killed the one and denied the other. And now, now there was nothing she +could do, nothing she would dare to do. + +For that she had for a moment believed in his baseness—if she had +indeed believed—was not the worst. In that she had been the sport of +circumstances; appearances had deceived her, and the phase had been +brief. But that she had been weak, that she had been swayed, that she +had given him up at a word, that she had shown herself wholly unworthy +of him—there was the rub. Now, how happy had she been could she have +gone back to Miss Sibson’s, and the dull schoolroom and the old stuff +dress and the children’s prattle—and heard his step as he came across +the forecourt to the door! + + + + +XXIII +IN THE HOUSE + + +In truth Mary’s notion of the opinion which Arthur Vaughan had of her +was above, rather than below, the reality. In her most despondent +moments she scarcely exaggerated the things he thought of her, the +contempt in which he held her, or the resentment which set his blood +boiling when he remembered how she had treated him. He had gone to her +and laid all that was left to him at her feet; and she, who had already +dealt his fortunes so terrible a blow, had paid him for his unselfish +offer, for his sacrifice of much that was dear to him, with suspicion, +with contumely, with mistrust! Instead of clinging to him, to whom she +had that moment plighted her troth, she had deserted him at a word. In +place of trusting the man who had woo’d her in her poverty, she had +believed the first whisper against him. She had shown herself +heartless, faithless, inconstant as the wind—a very woman! And + +_Away, away—your smile’s a curse +Oh, blot me from the race of men, +Kind pitying Heaven! by death or worse_ + +_Before I love such things again!_ + + +he might have murmured with a bitterness of which the author of the +lines had been incapable. But then, Mr. Moore, though his poetry and +his singing brought tears to the eyes of hardened women of fashion, had +never lost at a blow a great estate, a high position, and his love. + +Certainly Vaughan had, if man ever had, grounds for a quarrel with +fate. He had left London heart-whole and happy, the heir to a large +fortune. He returned a fortnight later, a member of the Commons House +indeed, but heart-sick and soured, beggared of his expectations and +tortured by the thought of what might have been—if his love had proved +true as she was fair, and constant as she was sweet. Fond dreams of her +beauty still tormented him. Visions of the modest home in which he +would have found consolation in failure, and smiles in success, rose up +before him and derided him. He hated Sir Robert. He hated, or tried to +hate, the weakest and the most despicable of women. He saw all things +and all men with a jaundiced eye, the sound of his voice and the look +of his face were altered. Men who knew him and who passed him in the +street, or who saw him eating his chop in solitary churlishness, nudged +one another and said that he took his reverses ill; while others, +wounded by his curtness or his ill-humour, added that he did not go the +right way to make the most of what was left. + +For a certainty he was become a man unpleasant to handle. But within, +under the thorns, was a very human soul, wounded, sore, and miserable, +seeking every way for an outlet from its pains, and finding hope of +escape at one point only. Men were right, when they said that he did +not go the way to make the most of his chances. For he laid himself out +to please no one at this time; it was not in him. But he worked late +and early, and with a furious energy to fit himself for a political +career; believing that success in that career was all that was left to +him, and that by the necessary labour he could best put the past behind +him. Love and pleasure, and those sweets of home life of which he had +dreamed, were gone from him. But the stern prizes of ambition, the +crown of those who live laborious days, might still be his—if the +Mirror of Parliament were never out of his hands, and if Mr. Hume +himself were not more constant to his favourite pillar under the +gallery than he to such chance seat as might fall to him on the same +side of the House. + +Alas, he had not taken the oaths an hour—with a sore heart, in a ruck +of undistinguished new Members—before he saw that success was not so +near or so clearly within reach, as hope, with her flattering tale, had +argued. The times were propitious, certainly. The debates were close +and fiery, and were scanned out of doors with an interest unknown +before. The strife between Croker and Macaulay in the Commons, the duel +between Brougham and Lyndhurst in the Lords, were followed in the +country with as much attention as a battle between Belcher and Tom +Cribb; and by the same classes. Everywhere men talked politics, talked +of Reform, and of little else. The clubs, the ’Change, the taverns, +nay, the drawing-rooms and the schools rang with the Bill, the whole +Bill, and nothing but the Bill; with Schedule A, cruel as Herod, and +Schedule B, which spared one of twins. Before the window in the +Haymarket which weekly displayed H.B.’s Political Caricatures, crowds +stood gazing all day long, whatever the weather. + +These things were in his favour. He remembered, too, the stress which +the Chancellor had laid on the advantage of entering the House in +advance of the crowd of new men whom the first Reformed Parliament must +contain. + +Unfortunately it seemed to him that he was one of just such a mob of +new men, as it was. Nearly a fourth of his colleagues were strange to +St. Stephen’s; and the greater part of these, owing to the +circumstances of the election, were Whigs and sat on his side of the +House. To raise his head above the level of a hundred competitors, +numbering not a few men of wit and ability, and to do so within the +short life of the present Parliament—-for he saw no certain prospect of +being returned again—was no mean task. Little wonder that he was as +regular in his attendance as Mr. Speaker, and grew pale of nights over +Woodfall’s Important Debates. + +In the pride of his first return he had dreamed of a reputation to be +gained by his maiden speech; of burning periods that would astonish all +who heard them, of flights of fancy to live forever in the mouths of +men, of a marshalling of facts so masterly, and an exposition of +figures so clear, as to obscure the fame of Single-speech Hamilton, or +of that modern phenomenon, Mr. Sadler. But whatever the effect of the +present chamber on the minds of novices, there was that in the +old,—mean and dingy as was its wainscotted interior, and cumbered by +overhanging galleries—there was a something, were it but the memory +that those walls had echoed the diatribes of Chatham and given back the +voice of Burke, had heard the laugh of Walpole and the snore of North, +which cooled the spirit of a new member; which shook his knees as +effectually as if the panelling of the room had vanished at a touch, +and revealed the glories of the Gothic Chapel which lay behind it. For +behind that panelling and those galleries, the ancient Chapel, with its +sumptuous tracery and statues, its frescoed walls and stained glass, +still existed; no unfit image of the stately principles which lie +behind the dull everyday working of our Constitution. + +To Arthur Vaughan, a student of the history of the House, this effect +of the Chamber upon a new member was a commonplace. But he was a +practised speaker in the mimic arena; and he thought that he might rise +above this feeling in his own case. He fancied that he understood the +_Genius Loci_; its hatred of affectation, and almost of eloquence, its +dislike to be bored, its preference for the easy, the conversational, +and the personal. And when he had waited three weeks—so much he gave to +prudence—his time came. + +He rose in a moderately thin house in the middle of the dinner-hour; +and rose as he thought fully prepared. Indeed he started well. He +brought out two or three sentences with ease and aplomb; and he fancied +the difficulty over, the threshold passed. But then—he knew not why, +nor could he overcome the feeling—the silence, kindly meant, in which +as a new Member, he was received, had a terrifying effect upon him. A +mist rose before his eyes, his voice sounded strange to him—and +distant. He dropped the thread of what he was saying, repeated himself, +lost his nerve. For some seconds, standing there with all faces turned +to him—they seemed numberless seconds to him, though in truth they were +few—he could see nothing but the Speaker’s wig, grown to an immense +white cauliflower, which swelled and swelled and swelled until it +filled the whole House. He stammered, repeated himself again—and was +silent. And then, seeing that he was embarrassed, they cheered him—and +the mist cleared; and he went on—hurriedly and nervously. But he was +aware that he had dropped a link in his argument—which he had not now +the coolness to supply. And when he had murmured a few sentences, more +or less inept and incoherent, he sat down. + +In fact, though he had made no mark, he had also incurred no discredit. +But he felt that the eyes of all were on him, that they were gloating +over his failure, and comparing what he had done with what he had hoped +to do, his achievement with those secret hopes, those cherished +aspirations, he felt all the shame of open and disgraceful defeat. His +face burned; he sat looking before him, not daring for a while to +divert his gaze, or to learn in others’ eyes how great had been his +mishap. + +Unfortunately, when he ventured to change his posture, and to put on +his hat, which he discovered he had been holding in his hand, he +encountered Sergeant Wathen’s eyes; and he read in them a look of +amusement, which wounded his pride more than the open ridicule of a +crowd. That was the finishing stroke. He walked out soon afterwards, +bearing himself as indifferently as he could. But no man ever carried +out of the House a lower heart or a sense of more utter failure. He had +mistaken his talents, he had no aptitude for debate. Success as a +speaker was not within his reach. + +He thought something better of it next day, but not much. Nor could he +put off a sneaking, hang-dog air as he entered the lobby. A number of +members were gathered inside the double doors, where the stairs from +the cloisters came up by a third door; and one or two whom he knew +spoke to him—but not of his attempt. He fancied that he read in their +looks a knowledge that he had failed, that he was no longer a man to be +reckoned with. He imagined that they used a different tone to him. And +at last one of them spoke of it. + +“Well, Vaughan,” he said pleasantly, “you got through yesterday. But if +you’ll take my advice you’ll wait a bit. It’s only one here and there +can make much of it to begin.” + +“I certainly cannot,” Vaughan said, smiling frankly, the better to hide +his mortification. + +“Ah, well, you’re not alone,” the other answered, shrugging his +shoulders. “You’ll pick it up by and by, I dare say.” And he turned to +speak to another member. + +Vaughan turned on his side to the paper for the day winch hung against +each of the four pillars of the lobby; and he pretended to be absorbed +in it. The employment helped him to keep his countenance. But he was +sore wounded. He had held his head so high in imagination, he had given +so loose a rein to his ambition; he had dreamt of making such an +impression on the House as Mr. Macaulay, though new to it, had made in +his speech on the second reading of the former Bill, and had deepened +by his speech at the like stage of the present Bill. Now he was told +that he was no worse than the common run of country members, who twice +in three sessions rose and blundered through half a dozen sentences! He +was consoled with the reflection that only “one here and there” +succeeded! Only one here and there! When to him it was everything to +succeed, and to succeed quickly. When it was all he had left. + +The stream of members, entering the House, was large; for the motion to +commit the Bill was down for that afternoon, and if carried, would +virtually put an end to opposition in the Commons. Out of the corner of +his eye Vaughan scanned them, as they passed, and envied them. Peel, +cold, proud and unapproachable, went by on the arm of Goulburn. Croker, +pale and saturnine, casting frowning glances here and there, went in +alone. The handsome, portly form of Sir James Graham passed, in talk +with the Rupert of Debate. After these a rush of members; and at the +tail of all slouched in the unwieldy, slovenly form of Sir Charles +Wetherell, followed by a couple of his satellites. + +Vaughan, glancing on one side of the paper which he appeared to be +studying, caught Sir Charles’s eye, and reddened. Seated on opposite +sides of the House—and no man on either side was more bitter, virulent, +and pugnacious than the late Attorney-General—the two had not +encountered one another since that evening at Stapylton, when the +existence of Sir Robert’s daughter had been disclosed to Vaughan. They +had not spoken, much less had there been any friendly passage between +them. But now Sir Charles paused, and held out his hand. + +“How do you do, Mr. Vaughan?” he said, in his deep bass voice. “Your +maiden essay yesterday, eh?” + +Vaughan winced. “Yes,” he said stiffly, fancying that he read amusement +in the other’s moist eye. + +To his surprise, “You’ll do,” Sir Charles rejoined, looking at the +floor and speaking in a despondent tone. “The House would rather you +began in that way, than like some d——d peacock on a lady’s terrace. +Take the opportunity of saying three or four sentences some fine day, +and repeat it a week later. And I’ll wager you’ll do.” + +“But little, I am afraid,” Vaughan said. None the less was his heart +full of gratitude to the fat, ungainly man. + +“All, may be,” Wetherell answered. “I shouldn’t wonder. I’ve been told, +by one who heard him, that Canning hesitated in his first speech, very +much as you did. It was on the Sardinian Subsidy. The men who don’t +feel the House never know the House. They dazzle it, Mr. Vaughan, but +they don’t guide it. And that’s what we’ve got to do.” + +He passed on then, with a melancholy nod and averted eyes, but Vaughan +could have blest him for that “we.” “There’s one man at least believes +in me,” he told himself. And when a few hours later, in the midst of a +scene as turbulent as any which the House of Commons had ever +witnessed—nine times without a pause it divided on the motion that +“this House do now adjourn”—he watched the man who had commended him, +riding the storm and directing the whirlwind, now lashing the Whigs to +fury by his sarcasm, and now, carrying the whole House away in a +hurricane of laughter, if he did not approve—and with his views he +could not approve—he learnt, and learnt much. He saw that the fat, +slovenly man, with the heavy face and that hiatus between his breeches +and his waistcoat which had made him famous, was allowed to do things, +and to say things, and to look things, for which a less honest man had +been hurried long ago to the Clock Tower. And this, because the House +believed in him; because it knew that he was fighting for a principle +really dear to him; because it knew that he honestly put faith in those +predictions of woe, which he scattered so freely, and in that ruin of +the Constitution, with which he twitted his opponents. + +A week later Vaughan acted upon his advice. He seized an opportunity +and, catching the Chairman’s eye—the Bill was in Committee—delivered +himself of a dozen sentences, with so much spirit and propriety, that +Sir Robert Peel, speaking an hour later, referred to the “plausible +defence raised by the Honourable Member for Chippinge.” The reference +drew all eyes to Vaughan: and though nothing was said to him and he +took care to bear himself as if he had done no better than before, he +left the House with a lighter step and a comfortable warmth about the +heart. He was more at ease that evening, if not more happy, than he had +been for weeks past. Love, pleasure, and the rest were gone; and faith +in woman. But if he could be sure of gaining a seat in the next +Parliament, the way might be longer than he had hoped, it might be more +toilsome and more dusty: but in the end he would arrive at the Treasury +Bench. + +He little thought, alas, that the effort on which he hugged himself was +to prove a source of misfortunes. But so it was. His maiden speech had +attracted neither notice nor envy. But those few sentences, short and +simple as they were, by drawing an answer from the leader of the +Opposition, had gained both for him. Within five minutes a score of +members had asked “Who is he?” and another score had detailed the +circumstances of his election for Chippinge. He had gone down to vote +for his cousin, in his cousin’s borough, family vote and the rest; so +the story ran. Then, finding on the morning of the polling that if he +threw over his cousin, he might gain the seat for himself, he had +turned his coat in a—well, in a very dubious manner, snatched the seat, +and—here he was! + +In a word, it was the version of the facts which he had once dreaded, +and about which he had afterwards ceased to trouble himself. + +There were, perhaps, half a dozen persons in the House who knew the +facts, and knew that the young man had professed from the first the +opinions which he was now supporting. But there was just so much truth +in the version, garbled as it was, just so much _vraisemblance_ in the +tale that even those who knew the facts, could not wholly contradict +it. The story did not come to Wetherell’s ears; or he, for certain, +would have gainsaid it. But it did come to Wathen’s. Now the Sergeant +was capable of spite, and he had not forgotten the manner after which +Vaughan had flouted him at Chippinge; his defence—if a defence it could +be called—was accompanied by so many nods and shrugs, that persons less +prejudiced than Tories, embittered by defeat, and wounded by +personalities, might have been forgiven, if they went from the Sergeant +with a lower opinion of our friend than before. + +From that day Vaughan, though he knew nothing of it, and though no one +spoke to him of it, was a marked man in the eyes of the opposite party. +They regarded him as a renegade; while his own side were not +overanxious to make his cause their own. The May elections had been +contested with more spirit and less scruple than any elections within +living memory; and many things had been done and many said, of which +honourable men were not proud. Still it was acknowledged that such +things must be done—here and there—and even that the doers must not be +repudiated. But it was felt that the party was not required to grapple +the latter to its breast with hooks of steel. Rumour had it that Lord +Lansdowne felt himself to blame; and that the offender had been +disinherited by his cousin was asserted. The man would be of no great +importance, therefore, in the future; and if he did not make a second +appearance in Parliament, the loss in the end would be small. Not a few +summed up the matter in that way. + +If Vaughan had been intimate with anyone in the House he would have +learned what was afoot; and he might have taken steps to set himself +right. But he had lived little of his life in London, he had but made +his bow to Society; of late, also, he had been too sore to make new +friends. Of course he had acquaintances, every man has acquaintances. +But no one in political circles knew him well enough to think it worth +while to put him on his guard. + +Unluckily, the next occasion which brought him to his feet, was of a +kind to give point to the feeling against him. On a certain Thursday, +Sergeant Wathen moved that the Borough of Chippinge be removed from +Schedule A, to Schedule B—his object being that it might retain one +member; and Vaughan, thinking the opening favourable, rose, intending +to make a few remarks in a strain to which the House, proverbially fond +of a personal explanation, is prone to listen with indulgence. For the +motion itself, he had not much hope that it would be carried: in a +dozen other cases, a similar motion had failed. + +“It can only be,” he began—and this time the sound of his voice did not +perturb him—“from a strict sense of duty, Mr. Bernal, it cannot be +without pain that any Member—and I say this not on my account only, but +on behalf of many Honourable Members of this House——” + +“No! No! Leave us out.” + +The words were uttered so loudly and so rudely that they silenced him; +and he looked in the direction whence they came. At once cries of “No, +no! Divide! No! No!” poured on him from all parts of the House, +accompanied by a dropping fire of catcalls and cockcrows. He lost the +thread of his remarks, and for a moment stood abashed and confounded. +The Chairman did not interfere and for an instant it looked as if the +young speaker would be compelled to sit down. + +But he recovered himself, gaining courage from the very vigour with +which he was attacked; and which seemed out of proportion to his +importance. The moment a lull in the fire of interruption occurred, he +spoke in a louder voice. + +“I say, sir,” he proceeded, looking about him courageously, “that it is +only with pain, only under the _force majeure_ of a love of their +country, that any Member can support the deletion from the Borough Roll +of this House, of that Constituency which has honoured him with its +confidence.” + +“Divide! Divide!” roared many on both sides of the House. For the +Tories were uncertain on which side he was speaking. +“Cock-a-doodle-doo-doo-doo!” + +But this fresh burst of disapproval found him better prepared. Firmly, +though the beads of perspiration stood on his brow, he persisted. “And +if,” he continued, “in the case which appeals so nearly to himself an +Honourable Member sees that the standard which justifies the survival +of a representative can be reached, with what gratification, sir, +whether he sits on this side of the House or on that——” + +“No! No! Leave us out!” in a roar of sound. And “Divide! Divide!” + +“Or on that,” he repeated. + +“Divide! Divide!” + +“Must he not press its claims and support its interests?” he persisted +gallantly. “Ay, sir, welcome in the event of success a decision at once +just, and of so much advantage, I will not say to himself——” + +“It never will be to you!” shrieked a voice from the darker corner +under the opposite gallery. + +The shaft went home. He faltered. A roar of laughter drowned his last +words, and he sat down with a burning face; in some confusion, but in +greater perplexity. Had he transgressed, he wondered ruefully, some +unwritten law of the House! Had he offended in ignorance, and persisted +in his offence? Should he not, though Wathen had spoken, have spoken in +his own case? In a matter so nearly touching himself? + +He spoke to the Member who chanced to sit next him. “What was it?” he +asked humbly. “Did I do something wrong?” + +The man glanced at him coldly. “Oh, no,” he said. And he shrugged his +shoulders. + +“But——” + +“On the contrary, I fancy you’ve to congratulate yourself,” with a +sneer so faint that Vaughan did not perceive it. “I understand that +we’re to do as we like on this—and they know it on the other side. Eh? +Yes, there’s the division. I think,” he added with the same faint +sneer, “you’ll save your seat.” + +“By Jove!” Vaughan exclaimed. “You don’t say so!” + +He could hardly believe it. But so it turned out. And so great was the +boon—the greater as no other borough was transferred in Committee—that +it swept away for the time the memory of what had happened. His eyes +sparkled. The seat saved, it was odd if with the wider electorate +created by the Bill, he was not sure of return! Still more odd, if he +was not sure of beating Wathen—he, who had opened the borough and been +returned by the Whig interest even while it was closed! No longer need +he feel so anxious and despondent when the Dissolution, which must +follow the passage of the Bill, rose to his mind. No longer need he be +in so great a hurry to make his mark, so envious of Mr. Macaulay, so +jealous of Mr. Sadler. + +Certainly as far as his political career was in question the horizon +was clearing. If only other things had been as favourable! If only +there had been someone, were it in a cottage at Hammersmith or in a +dull street off Bloomsbury Square, to whom he might take home this +piece of news; certain that other eyes would sparkle more brightly than +his, and another heart beat quick with joy! + +That could not be. There was an end of that. And his face settled back +into its gloom. Still he was less unhappy. The certainty of a seat in +the next Parliament was a great point gained! A great point to the +good! + + + + +XXIV +A RIGHT AND LEFT + + +If anything was certain in a political world so changed, it was certain +that if the Reform Bill passed the Lords—in the teeth of those plaguy +Bishops of whose opposition so much was heard—a Dissolution would +immediately follow. To not a few of the members this contingency was a +spectre, ever present, seated at bed and board, and able to defy the +rules even of Almack’s and Crockford’s. For how could a gentleman, who +had just given five thousand pounds for his seat, contemplate with +equanimity a notice to quit, so rude and so premature? And worse, a +notice to quit which meant extrusion into a world in which seats at +five thousand for a Parliament would be few and far between; and fair +agreements to pay a thousand a year while the privilege lasted, would +be unknown! + +Many a member asked loudly and querulously, “What will happen to the +country if the Bill pass?” But more asked themselves in their hearts, +and more often and more querulously, “What will happen to me if the +Bill pass? How shall I fare at the hands of these new constituencies, +which, unwelcome as a gipsy’s brats, I am forced to bring into the +world?” + +Hitherto few on his own side of the House, and not many on the Tory +side, had regarded a Dissolution with more misgiving than Arthur +Vaughan. The borough for which he sat lay under doom; and he saw no +opening elsewhere. He had no longer the germs of influence nor great +prospects: nor yet such a fortune as justified him in an appeal to one +of the new and populous boroughs. It was a pleasant thing to go in and +out by the door of the privileged, to take his chop at Bellamy’s, to +lounge in the dignified seclusion of the library, or to air his new +honours in Westminster Hall; pleasant also to have that sensation of +living at the hub of things, to receive whips, to give franks, to feel +that the ladder of ambition was open to him. But he knew that an +experience of the House counted by months did no man good; and the +prospect of losing his plumes and going forth again a common biped, was +the more painful to him because his all was embarked in the venture. He +might, indeed, fall back on the bar; but with half a heart and the +reputation of a man who had tried to fly before he could walk. + +His relief, therefore, when Chippinge, alone of all the Boroughs in +Schedule A, was removed in Committee to Schedule B, may be imagined. +The road before him was once more open, while the exceptional nature of +his luck almost persuaded him that he was reserved for greatness. True, +Sergeant Wathen might pride himself on the same fact; but at the +thought Vaughan smiled. The Sergeant and Sir Robert would find it a +trifle harder, he thought, to deal with the hundred-and-odd voters whom +the Act enfranchised, than with the old Cripples! And very, very +ungrateful would those hundred-and-odd be, if they did not vote for the +man who had made their cause his own! + +A load, indeed, was lifted from his mind, and for some days his relief +could be read in the lightness of his step, and the returning gaiety of +his eyes. He knew nothing of the things which were being whispered +about him. And though he had cause to fancy that he was not _persona +grata_ on his own benches, he thought sufficiently well of himself to +set this down to jealousy. There is a stage in the life of a rising man +when many hands are against him; and those most cruelly which will +presently applaud him most loudly. He flattered himself that he had set +a foot on the ladder: and while he waited for an opportunity to raise +himself another step, he came as near to a kind of feverish happiness +as thoughts of Mary, ever recurring when he was alone, would permit. +For the time the loss of his prospects ceased to trouble him seriously. +He lived less in his rooms, more among men. He was less crabbed, less +moody. And so the weeks wore away in Committee, and a day or two after +the Coronation, the Bill came on for the third reading. + +The House was utterly weary. The leaders on both sides were reserving +their strength for the final debate, and Vaughan had some hope that he +might find an opening to speak with effect. With this in his mind he +was on his way across the Park about three in the afternoon, conning +his peroration, when a hand was clapped on his shoulder, and he turned +to find himself face to face with Flixton. + +So much had happened since they stood together on the hustings at +Chippinge, Vaughan’s fortunes had changed so greatly since they had +parted in anger in Queen’s Square, that he, at any rate, had no thought +of bearing malice. To Flixton’s “Well, my hearty, you’re a neat artist, +ain’t you? Going to the House, I take it?” he gave a cordial answer. + +“Yes,” he said. “That’s it.” + +“Bringing ruination on the country, eh?” Flixton continued. And he +passed his arm through Vaughan’s, and walked on with him. “That’s the +ticket?” + +“Some say so, but I hope not.” + +“Hope’s a cock that won’t fight, my boy!” the Honourable Bob rejoined. +“Fact is, you’re doing your best, only the House of Lords is in the +way, and won’t let you! They’ll pull you up sweetly by and by, see if +they don’t!” + +“And what will the country say to that?” Vaughan rejoined +good-humouredly. + +“Country be d——d! That’s what all your chaps are saying. And I tell you +what! That book-in-breeches man—what do you call him—Macaulay?—ought to +be pulled up! He ought indeed! I read one of his farragoes the other +day and it was full of nothing but ‘Think long, I beg, before you +thwart the public will!’ and ‘The might of an angered people!’ and ‘Let +us beware of rousing!’ and all that rubbish! Meaning, my boy, only he +didn’t dare to say it straight out, that if the Lords did not give way +to you chaps, there’d be a revolution; and the deuce to pay! And I say +he ought to be in the dock. He’s as bad as old Brereton down in +Bristol, predicting fire and flames and all the rest of it.” + +“But you cannot deny, Flixton,” Vaughan answered soberly, “that the +country is excited as we have never known it excited before? And that a +rising is not impossible!” + +“A rising! I wish we could see one! That’s just what we want,” the +Honourable Bob answered, stopping and bringing his companion to a +sudden stand also. “Eh? Who was that old Roman—Poppæa, or some name +like that, who said he wished the people had all one head that he might +cut it off?” suiting the action to the word with his cane. “A rising, +begad? The sooner the better! The old Fourteenth would know how to deal +with it!” + +“I don’t know,” Vaughan answered, “that you would be so confident if +you were once face to face with it!” + +“Oh, come! Don’t talk nonsense!” + +“Well, but——” + +“Oh, I know all that! But I say, old chap,” he continued, changing his +tone, and descending abruptly from the political to the personal +situation, “You’ve played your cards badly, haven’t you? Eh?” + +Vaughan fancied that he referred to Mary; or at best to his quarrel +with Sir Robert. And he froze visibly, “I won’t discuss that,” he said +in a different tone. And he moved on again. + +“But I was there the evening you had the row!” + +“At Stapylton?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well?” stiffly. + +“And, lord, man, why didn’t you sing a bit small? And the old gentleman +would have come round in no time!” + +Vaughan halted, with anger in his face. “I won’t discuss it!” he said +with something of violence in his tone. + +“Very well, very well!” Flixton answered with the superabundant +patience of the man whose withers are not wrung. “But when you did get +your seat—why didn’t you come to terms with someone?” with a wink. “As +it is, what’s the good of being in the House three months, or six +months—and out again?” + +Vaughan wished most heartily that he had not met the Honourable Bob; +who, he remembered, had always possessed, hearty and jovial as he +seemed, a most remarkable knack of rubbing him the wrong way. “How do +you know?” he asked with a touch of contempt—was he, a rising Member of +Parliament to be scolded after this fashion?—“How do you know that I +shall be out?” + +“You’ll be out, if it’s Chippinge you are looking to!” + +“Why, if you please, my friend? Why so sure?” + +Flixton winked with deeper meaning than before. “Ah, that’s telling,” +he said. “Still—why not? If you don’t hear it from me, old chap, you’ll +soon hear it from someone. Why, you ask? Well, because a little bird +whispered to me that Chippinge was—arranged! That Sir Robert and the +Whigs understood one another, and whichever way it went it would not +come your way!” + +Vaughan reddened deeply. “I don’t believe it,” he said bluntly. + +“Did you know that Chippinge was going to be spared?” + +“No.” + +“They didn’t tell you?” + +“No.” + +“Ah!” shrugging his shoulders, with a world of meaning, and preparing +to turn away. “Well, other people did, and there it is. I may be wrong, +I hope I am, old chap. Hope I am! But anyway—I must be going. I turn +here. See you soon, I hope!” + +And with a wave of the hand the Honourable Bob marched off through +Whitehall, his face breaking into a mischievous grin as soon as he was +out of Vaughan’s sight. “Return hit for your snub, Miss Mary!” he +muttered. “If you prick me, at least I can prick him! And do him good, +too! He was always a most confounded prig.” + +Meanwhile, Vaughan, freed from his companion, was striding on past +Downing Street; the old street, long swept away, in which Walpole +lived, and to which the dying Chatham was carried. And unconsciously, +under the spur of his angry thoughts, he quickened his pace. It was +incredible, it was inconceivable that so monstrous an injustice had +been planned, or could be perpetrated. He, who had stepped into the +breach, well-nigh in his own despite, he, who had refused, so +scrupulous had he been, to stand on a first invitation, he, who had +been elected almost against his will, was, for all thanks, to be set +aside, and by his friends! By those whose unsolicited act it had been +to return him and to put him into this position! It was impossible, he +told himself. It was unthinkable! Were this true, were this a fact, the +meanness of political life had reached its apogee! The faithlessness of +the Whigs, their incredible treachery to their dependants, could need +no other exemplar! + +“I’ll not bear it! By Heaven, I’ll not bear it!” he muttered. And as he +spoke, striding along in the hurry of his spirits as if he carried a +broom and swept the whole Whig party before him, he overtook no less a +person than Sergeant Wathen, who had been lunching at the Athenæum. + +The Sergeant heard his voice and turning, saw who it was. He fancied +that Vaughan had addressed him. “I beg your pardon,” he said politely. +“I did not catch what you said, Mr. Vaughan.” + +For a moment Vaughan glowered at him, as if he would sweep him from his +path, along with the Whigs. Then out of the fullness of the heart the +mouth spoke. “Mr. Sergeant,” he said, in a not very friendly tone, “do +you know anything of an agreement disposing of the future +representation of Chippinge?” + +The Sergeant who knew all under the rose, looked shrewdly at his +companion to see, if possible, what he knew. And, to gain time, “I beg +your pardon,” he said. “I don’t think I—quite understand you.” + +“I am told,” Vaughan said haughtily, “that an agreement has been made +to avoid a contest at Chippinge.” + +“Do you mean,” the Sergeant asked blandly, “at the next election, Mr. +Vaughan?” + +“At future elections!” + +The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders. “As a member,” he said primly, “I +take care to know nothing of such agreements. And I would recommend +you, Mr. Vaughan, to adopt that rule. For the rest,” he added, with a +candid smile, “I give you fair warning that I shall contest the seat. +May I ask who was your informant?” + +“Mr. Flixton.” + +“Flixton? Flixton? Ah! The gentleman who is to marry Miss Vermuyden! +Well, I can only repeat that I, at any rate, am no party to such an +agreement.” + +His sly look which seemed to deride his companion’s inexperience, said +as plainly as a look could say, “You find the game of politics less +simple than you thought?” And at another time it would have increased +Vaughan’s ire. But as one pellet drives out another, the Sergeant’s +reference to Miss Vermuyden had in a second driven the prime subject +from his mind. He did not speak for a moment. Then with his face +averted, “Is Mr. Flixton—going to marry Miss Vermuyden?” he asked, in a +muffled tone. “I had not heard of it.” + +“I only heard it yesterday,” the Sergeant answered, not unwilling to +shelve the other topic. “But it is rumoured, and I believe it is true. +Quite a romance, wasn’t it?” he continued airily. “Quite a nine days’ +wonder! But”—he pulled himself up—“I beg your pardon! I was forgetting +how nearly it concerned you. Dear me, dear me! It is a fair wind indeed +that blows no one any harm!” + +Vaughan made no reply. He could not speak for the hard beating of his +heart. Wathen saw that there was something wrong and looked at him +inquisitively. But the Sergeant had not the clue, and could only +suspect that the marriage touched the other, because issue of it would +entirely bar his succession. And no more was said. As they crossed New +Palace Yard, a member drew the Sergeant aside, and Vaughan went up +alone to the lobby. + +But all thought of speaking was flown from his mind; nor did the +thinness of the House when he entered tempt him. There were hardly more +than a hundred present; and these were lolling here and there with +their hats on, half asleep it seemed, in the dull light of a September +afternoon. A dozen others looked sleepily from the galleries, their +arms flattened on the rail, their chins on their arms. There were a +couple of ministers on the Treasury Bench, and Lord John Russell was +moving the third reading. No one seemed to take much interest in the +matter; a stranger entering at the moment would have learned with +amazement that this was the mother of parliaments, the renowned House +of Commons; and with still greater amazement would he have learned that +the small, boyish-looking gentleman in the high-collared coat, and with +lips moulded on Cupid’s bow, who appeared to be making some perfunctory +remarks upon the weather, or the state of the crops, was really +advancing by an important stage the famous Bill, which had convulsed +three kingdoms and was destined to change the political face of the +land. + +Lord John sat down presently, thrusting his head at once into a packet +of papers, which the gloom hardly permitted him to read. A clerk at the +table mumbled something; and a gentleman on the other side of the House +rose and began to speak. He had not uttered many sentences, however, +before the members on the Reform benches awoke, not only to life, but +to fury. Stentorian shouts of “Divide! Divide!” rendered the speaker +inaudible; and after looking towards the door of the House more than +once he sat down, and the House went to a division. In a few minutes it +was known that the Bill had been read a third time, by 113 to 58. + +But the foreign gentleman would have made a great mistake had he gone +away, supposing that Lord John’s few placid words—and not those +spiteful shouts—represented the feelings of the House. In truth the +fiercest passions were at work under the surface. Among the fifty-eight +who shrugged their shoulders and accepted the verdict in gloomy silence +were some primed with the fiercest invective; and others, tongue-tied +men, who nevertheless honestly believed that Lord John Russell was a +republican, and Althorp a fool; who were certain that the Whigs +wittingly or unwittingly were working the destruction of the country, +were dragging her from the pride of place to which a nicely-balanced +Constitution had raised her, and laying her choicest traditions at the +feet of the rabble. Men who believed such things, and saw the deed done +before their eyes, might accept their doom in silence—even as the King +of old went silently to the Banquet Hall hard by—but not with joy or +easy hearts! + +Vaughan, therefore, was not the only one who walked into the lobby that +evening, brooding darkly on his revenge. Yet, even he behaved himself +as men, so bred, so trained do behave themselves. He held his peace. +And no one dreamed, not even Orator Hunt, who sat not far from him +under the shadow of his White Hat, that this well-conducted young +gentleman was revolving thoughts of the Social Order, and of the Party +System, and of most things which the Church Catechism commends, beside +which that terrible Radical’s own opinions were mere Tory prejudices. +The fickleness of women! The treachery of men! Oh, Aetna bury them! Oh, +Ocean overwhelm them! Let all cease together and be no more! But give +me sweet, oh, sweet, oh, sweet Revenge! + + + + +XXV +AT STAPYLTON + + +It was about a week before his encounter with Vaughan in the park—and +on a fine autumn day—that the Honourable Bob, walking with Sir Robert +by the Garden Pool, allowed his eyes to travel over the prospect. The +smooth-shaven lawns, the stately, lichened house, the far-stretching +park, with its beech-knolls and slopes of verdure, he found all fair; +and when to these, when to the picture on which his bodily eyes rested, +that portrait of Mary—Mary, in white muslin and blue ribbons, bowing +her graceful head while Sir Robert read prayers—which he carried in his +memory, he told himself that he was an uncommonly happy fellow. + +Beauty he might have had, wealth he might have had, family too. But to +alight on all in such perfection, to lose his heart where his head +approved the step, was a gift of fortune so rare, that as he strutted +and talked by the side of his host, his face beamed with ineffable +good-humour. + +Nevertheless for a few moments silence had fallen between the two; and +gradually Sir Robert’s face had assumed a grave and melancholy look. He +sighed more than once, and when he spoke, it was to repeat in different +words what he had already said. + +“Certainly, you may speak,” he said, in a tone of some formality. “And +I have little doubt, Mr. Flixton, that your overtures will be received +as they deserve.” + +“Yes? Yes? You think so?” Flixton answered with manifest delight. “You +really think so, Sir Robert, do you?” + +“I think so,” his host replied. “Not only because your suit is in every +way eligible, and one which does us honour.” He bowed courteously as he +uttered the compliment. “But because, Mr. Flixton, for docility—and I +think a husband may congratulate himself on the fact——” + +“To be sure! To be sure!” Flixton cried, not permitting him to finish. +“Yes, Sir Robert, capital! You mean that if I am not a happy man——” + +“It will not be the fault of your wife,” Sir Robert said; remembering +with a faint twinge of conscience that the Honourable Bob’s past had +not been without its histories. + +“No! By gad, Sir Robert, no! You’re quite right! She’s got an ank——” He +stopped abruptly, his mouth open; bethinking himself, when it was +almost too late, that her father was not the person to whom to detail +her personal charms. + +But Sir Robert had not divined the end of the sentence. He was a trifle +deaf. “Yes?” he said. + +“She’s an—an—animated manner, I was going to say,” Flixton answered +with more readiness than fervour. And he blessed himself for his +presence of mind. + +“Animated? Yes, but gentle also,” Sir Robert replied, well-nigh purring +as he did so. “I should say that gentleness, and—and indeed, my dear +fellow, goodness, were the—but perhaps I am saying more than I should.” + +“Not at all!” Flixton answered with heartiness. “Gad, I could listen to +you all day, Sir Robert.” + +He had listened, indeed, during a large part of the last week; and with +so much effect, that those histories to which reference has been made, +had almost faded from the elder man’s mind. Flixton seemed to him a +hearty, manly young fellow, a little boastful and self-assertive +perhaps—but remarkably sound. A soldier, who asked nothing better than +to put down the rabble rout which was troubling the country; a Tory, of +precisely his, Sir Robert’s opinions; the younger son of a peer, and a +West Country peer to boot. In fine, a staunch, open-air patrician, with +good old-fashioned instincts, and none of that intellectual conceit, +none of those cranks, and fads, and follies, which had ruined a man who +also might have been Sir Robert’s son-in-law. + +Well that man, Sir Robert, perhaps because his conscience pricked him +at times by suggesting impossible doubts, was still bitterly angry. So +angry that, had the Baronet been candid, he must have acknowledged that +the Honourable Bob’s main virtue was his unlikeness to Arthur Vaughan; +it was in proportion as he differed from the young fellow who had so +meanly intrigued to gain his daughter’s affections, that Flixton +appeared desirable to the father. Even those histories proved that at +any rate he had blood in him; while his loud good-nature, his +positiveness, as long as it marched with Sir Robert’s positiveness, his +short views, all gained by contrast. “I am glad he is a younger son,” +the Baronet thought. “He shall take the old Vermuyden name!” And he +lifted his handsome old chin a little higher as he pictured the +honours, that even in a changed and worsened England, might cluster +about his house. At the worst, and if the Bill passed, he had a seat +alternately with the Lansdownes; and in a future, which would know +nothing of Lord Lonsdale’s cat-o’-nine-tails, when pocket boroughs +would be rare, and great peers and landowners would be left with scarce +a representative, much might be done with half a seat. + +Suddenly, “Damme, Sir Robert,” Flixton cried, “there is the little +beauty—hem!—there she is, I think. With your permission I think I’ll +join her.” + +“By all means, by all means,” Sir Robert answered indulgently. “You +need not stand on ceremony.” + +Flixton waited for no more. Perhaps he had no mind to be bored, now +that he had gained what he wanted. He hurried after the slim figure +with the white floating skirts and the Leghorn hat, which had descended +the steps of the house, moved lightly across the lawns—and vanished. He +guessed, however, whither she was bound. He knew that she had a liking +for walking in the wilderness behind the house; a beech wood which was +already beginning to put on its autumn glory. And sure enough, +hastening to a point among the smooth grey trunks where three paths +met, he discerned her a hundred paces away, walking slowly from him +with her eyes raised. + +“Squirrels!” Flixton thought. And he made up his mind to bring the +terriers and have a hunt on the following Sunday afternoon. In the +meantime he had another quarry in view, and he made after the +white-gowned figure. + +She heard his tread on the carpet of dry beech leaves, and she turned +and saw him. She had come out on purpose that she might be alone, at +liberty to think at her ease and orientate herself, in relation to her +new environment, and the fresh and astonishing views which were +continually opening before her. Or, perhaps, that was but her pretext: +an easy explanation of silence and solitude, which might suffice for +her father and possibly for Miss Sibson. For, for certain, amid sombre +thoughts of her mother, she thought more often and more sombrely in +these days of another; of happiness which had been forfeited by her own +act; of weakness, and cowardice, and ingratitude; of a man’s head that +stooped to her adorably, and then again of a man’s eyes that burned her +with contempt. + +It is probable, therefore, that she was not overjoyed when she saw Mr. +Flixton. But Sir Robert was so far right in his estimate of her nature +that she hated to give pain. It was there, perhaps, that she was weak. +And so, seeing the Honourable Bob, she smiled pleasantly on him. + +“You have discovered a favourite haunt of mine,” she said. She did not +add that she spent a few minutes of every day there: that the smooth +beech-trunks knew the touch of her burning cheeks, and the rustle of +the falling leaves the whisper of her penitence. Daily she returned by +way of the Kennel Path and there breathed a prayer for her mother, +where a mother’s arms had first enfolded her, and a mother’s kisses won +her love. What she did add was, “I often come here.” + +“I know you do,” the Honourable Bob answered, with a look of +admiration. “I assure you, Miss Mary, I could astonish you with the +things I know about you!” + +“Really!” + +“Oh, yes. Really.” + +There was a significant chuckle in his voice which brought the blood to +her check. But she was determined to ignore its meaning. “You are +observant?” she said. + +“Of those—yes, by Jove, I am—of those, I—admire,” he rejoined. He had +it on his tongue to say “those I love,” but she turned her eyes on him +at the critical moment, and though he was doing a thing he had often +done, and he had impudence enough, his tongue failed him. There are +women so naturally modest that until the one man who awakens the heart +appears, it seems an outrage to speak to them of love. Mary Vermuyden, +perhaps by reason of her bringing up, was one of these; and though +Flixton had had little to do with women of her kind, he recognised the +fact and bowed to it. He came, having her father’s leave to speak to +her; yet he found himself less at his ease, than on many a less +legitimate occasion. “Yes, by Jove,” he repeated. “I observe them, I +can tell you.” + +Mary laughed. “Some are more quick to notice than others,” she said. + +“And to notice some than others!” he rejoined, gallantly. “That is what +I mean. Now that old girl who is with you——” + +“Miss Sibson?” Mary said, setting him right with some stiffness. + +“Yes! Well, she isn’t young! Anyway, you don’t suppose I could say what +she wore yesterday! But what you wore, Miss Mary”—trying to catch her +eye and ogle her—“ah, couldn’t I! But then you don’t wear powder on +your nose, nor need it!” + +“I don’t wear it,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “But you +don’t know what I may do some day! And for Miss Sibson, it does not +matter, Mr. Flixton, what she wears. She has one of the kindest hearts, +and was one of the kindest friends I had—or could have had—when things +were different with me.” + +“Oh, yes, good old girl,” he rejoined, “but snubby! Bitten my nose off +two or three times, I know. And, come now, not quite an angel, you +know, Miss Mary!” + +“Well,” she replied, smiling, “she is not, perhaps, an angel to look +at. But——” + +“She can’t be! For she is not like you!” he cried. “And you are one, +Miss Mary! You are the angel for me!” looking at her with impassioned +eyes. “I’ll never want another nor ask to see one!” + +His look frightened her; she began to think he meant—something. And she +took a new way with him. “How singular it is,” she said, thoughtfully, +“that people say those things in society! Because they sound so very +silly to one who has not lived in your world!” + +“Silly!” Flixton replied, in a tone of mortification; and for a moment +he felt the check. He was really in love, to a moderate extent; and on +the way to be more deeply in love were he thwarted. Therefore he was, +to a moderate extent, afraid of her. And, “Silly?” he repeated. “Oh, +but I mean it, so help me! I do, indeed! It’s not silly to call you an +angel, for I swear you are as beautiful as one! That’s true, anyway!” + +“How many have you seen?” she asked, ridiculing him. “And what coloured +wings had they?” But her cheek was hot. “Don’t say, if you please,” she +continued, before he could speak, “that you’ve seen me. Because that is +only saying over again what you’ve said, Mr. Flixton. And that is worse +than silly. It is dull.” + +“Miss Mary,” he cried, pathetically, “you don’t understand me! I want +to assure you—I want to make you understand——” + +“Hush!” she said, cutting him short, in an earnest whisper. And, +halting, she extended a hand behind her to stay him. “Please don’t +speak!” she continued. “Do you see them, the beauties? Flying round and +round the tree after one another faster than your eyes can follow them. +One, two, three—three squirrels! I never saw one, do you know, until I +came here,” she went on, in a tone of hushed rapture. “And until now I +never saw them at play. Oh, who could harm them?” + +He stood behind her, biting his lip with vexation; and wholly untouched +by the scene, which, whether her raptures were feigned or not, was +warrant for them. Hitherto he had had to do with women who met him +halfway; who bridled at a compliment, were alive to an _équivoque_, and +knew how to simulate, if they did not feel, a soft confusion under his +gaze. For this reason Mary’s backwardness, her apparent unconsciousness +that they were not friends of the same sex, puzzled him, nay, angered +him. As she stood before him, a hand still extended to check his +advance, the sunshine which filtered through the beech leaves cast a +soft radiance on her figure. She seemed more dainty, more graceful, +more virginal than aught that he had ever conceived. It was in vain +that he told himself, with irritation, that she was but a girl after +all. That, under her aloofness, she was a woman like the others, as +vain, passionate, flighty, as jealous as other women. He knew that he +stood in awe of her. He knew that the words which he had uttered so +lightly many a time—ay, and to those to whom he had no right to address +them—stuck in his throat now. He wanted to say “I love you!” and he had +the right to say it, he was commissioned to say it. Yet he was dumb. +All the boldness which he had exhibited in her presence in Queen’s +Square—where another had stood tongue-tied—was gone. + +He took at last a desperate step. The girl was within arm’s reach of +him; her delicate waist, the creamy white of her slender neck, invited +him. Be she never so innocent, never so maidenly, a kiss, he told +himself, would awaken her. It was his experience, it was a scrap drawn +from his store of worldly wisdom, that a woman kissed was a woman won. + +True, as he thought of it, his heart began to riot, as it had not +rioted from that cause since he had kissed the tobacconist’s daughter +at Exeter, his first essay in gallantry. But only the bold deserve the +fair! And how often had he boasted that, where women were concerned, +lips were made for other things than talking! + +And—in a moment it was done. + +Twice! Then she slipped from his grasp, and stood at bay, with flaming +checks and eyes that—that had certainly not ceased to be virginal. +“You! You!” she cried, barely able to articulate. “Don’t touch me!” + +She had been taken utterly, wholly by surprise; and the shock was +immensely increased by the facts of her bringing up and the restraints +and conditions of school-life. In his grasp, with his breath on her +cheek, all those notions about ravening wolves and the danger which +attached to beauty in low places—notions no longer applicable, had she +taken time to reason—returned upon her in force. The man had kissed +her! + +“How—-how dare you?” she continued, trembling with rage and +indignation. + +“But your father——” + +“How dare you——” + +“Your father sent me,” he pleaded, quite crestfallen. “He gave me +leave——” + +She stared at him, as at a madman. “To insult me?” she cried. + +“No, but—but you won’t understand!” he answered, almost querulously. He +was quite chapfallen. “You don’t listen to me. I want to marry you. I +want you to be my wife. Your father said I might come to you, and—and +ask you. And—and you’ll say ‘Yes,’ won’t you? That’s a good girl!” + +“Never!” she answered. + +He stared at her, turning red. “Oh, nonsense!” he stammered. And he +made as if he would go nearer. “You don’t mean it. My dear girl! Listen +to me! I do love you! I do indeed! And I—I tell you what it is, I never +loved any woman——” + +But she looked at him in such a way that he could not go on. “Do not +say those things!” she said. And her austerity was terrible to him. +“And go, if you please. My father, if he sent you to me——” + +“He did!” + +“Then he did not,” she replied with dignity, “understand my feelings.” + +“But—but you must marry someone,” he complained. “You know—you’re +making a great fuss about nothing!” + +“Nothing!” she cried, her eyes sparkling. “You insult me, Mr. Flixton, +and——” + +“If a man may not kiss the girl he wants to marry——” + +“If she does not want to marry him?” + +“But it’s not as bad as that,” he pleaded. “No, by Jove, it’s not. +You’ll not be so cruel. Come, Miss Mary, listen to me a minute. You +must marry someone, you know. You are young, and I’m sure you have the +right to choose——” + +“I’ve heard enough,” she struck in, interrupting him with something of +Sir Robert’s hauteur. “I understand now what you meant, and I forgive +you. But I can never be anything to you, Mr. Flixton——” + +“You can be everything to me,” he declared. It couldn’t, it really +couldn’t be that she meant to refuse him! Finally and altogether! + +“But you can be nothing to me!” she answered, cruelly—very cruelly for +her, but her cheek was tingling. “Nothing! Nothing! And that being so, +I beg that you will leave me now.” + +He looked at her with a mixture of supplication, resentment, chagrin. + +But she showed no sign of relenting. “You really—you really do mean +it?” he muttered, with a sickly smile. “Come, Miss Mary!” + +“Don’t! Don’t!” she cried, as if his words pained her. And that was +all. “Please go! Or I shall go.” + +The Honourable Bob’s conceit had been so far taken out of him that he +felt that he could make no farther fight. He could see no sign of +relenting, and feeling that, with all his experience, he had played his +cards ill, he turned away sullenly. “Oh, I will go,” he said. And he +longed to add something witty and careless. But he could not add +anything. He, Bob Flixton, the hero of so many _bonnes fortunes_, to be +refused! He had laid his all, and _pour le bon motif_ at the feet of a +girl who but yesterday was a little schoolmistress. And she had refused +him! It was incredible! But, alas, it was also fact. + +Mary, the moment his back was turned, hurried with downcast face +towards the Kennels; to hide her hot cheeks and calm her feelings in +the depths of the shrubbery. Oddly enough, her first thoughts were less +of that which had just happened to her than of that suit which had been +paid to her months before. This man might love her or not; she could +not tell. But Arthur Vaughan had loved her: the fashion of this love +taught her to prize the fashion of that. + +He had loved her. And if he had treated her as Mr. Flixton had treated +her? Would she have held to him, she wondered. She believed that she +would. But the mere thought set her knees trembling, made her cheeks +flame afresh, filled her with rapture. So that, shamefaced, frightened, +glancing this way and that, as one hunted, she longed to be safe in her +room, there to cry at her ease. + +Doubtless it was natural that the incident should turn her thoughts to +that other love-making; and presently to her father’s furious dislike +of that other lover. She could not understand that dislike; for the +Bill and the Borough, Franchise or No Franchise, were nothing to her. +And the grievance, when Sir Robert had essayed to explain it, had been +nothing. To her mind, Trafalgar and Waterloo and the greatness of +England were the work of Nelson and Wellington—at the remotest, +perhaps, of Mr. Pitt and Lord Castlereagh. She could not enter into the +reasoning which attributed these and all other blessings of her country +to a System! To a System which it seemed her lover was pledged to +overthrow. + +She walked until the tumult of her thoughts had somewhat abated; and +then, still yearning for the security of her own chamber, she made for +the house. She saw nothing of Flixton, no one was stirring. Already she +thought herself safe; and it was the very spirit of mischief which +brought her, at the corner of the church, face to face with her father. +Sir Robert’s brow was clouded, and the “My dear, one moment,” with +which he stayed her, was pitched in a more decisive tone than he +commonly used to her. + +“I wish to speak to you, Mary,” he continued. “Will you come with me to +the library?” + +She would fain have postponed the discussion of Mr. Flixton’s proposal, +which she foresaw. But her father, affectionate and gentle as he was, +was still unfamiliar; and she had not the courage to make her petition. +So she accompanied him, with a sinking heart, to the library. And, when +he pointed to a seat, she was glad to sit down. + +He took up his own position on the hearth rug; whence he looked at her +gravely before he spoke. At length: + +“My dear,” he said, “I’m sorry for this! Though I do not blame you. I +think that you do not understand, owing to those drawbacks of your +early life, which have otherwise, thank God, left so slight a mark upon +you, that there are things which at your time of life you must leave +to—to the decision of your elders.” + +She looked at him. And there was not that complete docility in her look +which he expected to find. “I don’t think I understand, sir,” she +murmured. + +“But you can easily understand this, Mary,” he replied. “That young +girls of your age, without experience of life or of—of the darker side +of things, cannot be allowed to judge for themselves on all occasions. +There are sometimes circumstances to be weighed which it is not +possible to detail to them.” + +She closed her eyes for an instant, to collect her thoughts. + +“But—but, sir,” she said, “you cannot wish me to have no will—no +choice—in a matter which affects me so nearly.” + +“No,” he said, speaking seriously and with something approaching +sternness. “But that will and that choice must be guided. They should +be guided. Your feelings are natural—God forbid that I should think +them otherwise! But you must leave the decision to me.” + +She looked at him, aghast. She had heard, but had never believed, that +in the upper classes matches were arranged after this fashion. But to +have no will and no choice in such a thing as marriage! She must be +dreaming. + +“You cannot,” he continued, looking at her firmly but not unkindly, +“have either the knowledge of the past,” with a slight grimace, as of +pain, “or the experience needful to enable you to measure the result of +the step you take. You must, therefore, let your seniors decide for +you.” + +“But I could never—never,” she answered, with a deep blush, “marry a +man without—liking him, sir.” + +“Marry?” Sir Robert repeated. He stared at her. + +She returned the look. “I thought, sir,” she faltered, with a still +deeper blush, “that you were talking of that.” + +“My dear,” he said, gravely, “I am referring to the subject on which I +understood that you requested Miss Sibson to speak to me.” + +“My mother?” she whispered, the colour fading quickly from her face. + +He paused a moment. Then, “You would oblige me,” he said, slowly and +formally, “by calling her Lady Sybil Vermuyden. And not—that.” + +“But she is—my mother,” she persisted. + +He looked at her, his head slightly bowed, his lower lip thrust out. +“Listen,” he said, with decision. “What you propose—to go to her, I +mean—is impossible. Impossible, you understand. There must be an end of +any thought of it!” His tone was cold, but not unkind. “The thing must +not be mentioned again, if you please,” he added. + +She was silent a while. Then, “Why, sir?” she asked. She spoke +tremulously, and with an effort. But he had not expected her to speak +at all. + +Yet he merely continued, as he stood on the hearth rug, to look at her +askance. “That is for me,” he said, “to decide.” + +“But——” + +“But I will tell you,” he said, stiffly. “Because she has already +ruined part of your life!” + +“I forgive her, from my heart!” Mary cried. + +“And ruined, also,” he continued, putting the interruption aside, “a +great part of mine. At your age I do not think fit to tell you—all. It +is enough, that she has robbed me of you, and deceived me. Deceived +me,” he repeated, more bitterly, “through long years when you, my +daughter, might have been my comfort and—” he ended, almost inaudibly, +“my joy.” + +He turned his back on her with the word and began to walk the room, his +chin sunk on his breast, his hands clasped. It was clear to Mary, +watching him with loving, pitying eyes, that his thoughts were with the +unhappy past, with the short fever, the ignoble contentions of his +married life, or with the lonely, soured years which had followed. She +felt that he was laying to his wife’s charge the wreck of his life, and +the slow dry-rot which had sapped hope, and strength, and development. + +Mary waited until his step trod the carpet less hurriedly. Then, as he +paused to turn, she stepped forward. + +“Yet, sir—forgive her!” she cried. And there were warm tears in her +voice. + +He turned and looked at her. Possibly he was astonished at her +persistence. + +“Never!” he said in a tone of finality. “Never! Let that be the end.” + +But Mary had been dreaming of this moment for days. And she had +resolved that, come what might, though he frown, though his tone grow +hard and his eye angry, though he bring to bear on her the stern +command of his eagle visage, she would not be found lacking a second +time. She would not again give way to her besetting weakness, and spend +sleepless nights in futile remorse. Diffidence in the lonely +schoolmistress had been pardonable, had been natural. But now, if she +were indeed sprung from those who had a right to hold their heads above +the crowd, if the doffed hats which greeted her when she went abroad, +in the streets of Chippinge as well as in the lanes and roads,—if these +meant anything—shame on her if she proved craven. + +“It cannot be the end, sir,” she said, in a low voice. “For she +is—still my mother. And she is alone and ill—and she needs me.” + +He had begun to pace the room anew, this time with an impatient, angry +step. But at that he stood and faced her, and she needed all her +courage to support the gloom of his look. “How do you know?” he said. +For Miss Sibson, discharging an ungrateful task, had not entered into +details. “Have you seen her?” + +She felt that she must judge for herself; and though her mother had +said something to the contrary, and hitherto she had obeyed her, she +thought it best to tell all. “Yes, sir,” she said. + +“When?” + +“A fortnight ago?” She trembled under the growing darkness of his look. + +“Here?” + +“In the grounds, sir.” + +“And you never told me!” he cried. “You never told me!” he repeated, +with a strange glance, a glance which strove with terror to discern the +mother’s features in the daughter’s face. “You, too—you, too, have +begun to deceive me!” + +And he threw up his hands in despair. + +“Oh, no! no!” Mary cried, infinitely distressed. + +“But you have!” he rejoined. “You have kept this from me.” + +“Only, believe me, sir,” she cried, eagerly, “until I could find a +fitting time.” + +“And now you want to go to her!” he answered, unheeding. “She has +suborned you! She, who has done the greatest wrong to you, has now done +the last wrong to me!” + +He began again to pace up and down the room. + +“Oh, no! no!” she sobbed. + +“It is so!” he answered, darting an angry glance at her. “It is so! But +I shall not let you go! Do you hear, girl? I shall not let you go! I +have suffered enough,” he continued, with a gesture which called those +walls to witness to the humiliations, the sorrows, the loneliness, from +which he had sought refuge within them. “I will not—suffer again! You +shall not go!” + +She was full of love for him, and of pity. She understood even that +gesture, and the past wretchedness to which it bore witness. And she +yearned to comfort him, and to convince him that nothing that had gone +before, nothing that could happen in the future, would set her against +him. Had he been seated, she would have knelt and kissed his hand, or +cast herself on his breast and his love, and won him to her. But as he +walked she could not approach him, she did not know how to soften him. +Yet her duty was clear. It lay beside her dying mother. Nevertheless, +if he forbade her to go, if he withstood her, how was she to perform +it? + +At length, “But if she be dying, sir,” she murmured. “Will you not then +let me see her?” + +He looked at her from under his heavy eyebrows. “I tell you, I will not +let you go!” he said stubbornly. “She has forfeited her right to you. +When she made you die to me—you died to her! That is my decision. You +hear me? And now—now,” he continued, returning in a measure to +composure, “let there be an end!” + +She stood silenced, but not conquered; knowing him more intimately than +she had known him before; and loving him not less, but more, since pity +and sympathy entered into her love and drove out fear; but assured that +he was wrong. It could not be her duty to forsake: it must be his duty +to forgive. But for the present she saw that in spite of all his +efforts he was cruelly agitated, that she had stirred pangs long lulled +to rest, that he had borne as much as he could bear. And she would not +press him farther for the time. + +Meanwhile he, as he stood fingering his trembling lips, was trying to +bring the cunning of age to bear. He was silently forming his plan. She +had been too much alone, he reflected; that was it. He had forgotten +that she was young, and that change and movement and life and gaiety +were needful for her. This about—that woman—was an obsession, an +unwholesome fancy, which a few days in a new place, and amid lively +scenes, would weaken and perhaps remove. And by and by, when he thought +that he could trust his voice, he spoke. + +“I said, let there be an end! But—you are all I have,” he continued, +with emotion, “and I will say instead, let this be for a time. I must +have time to think. You want—there are many things you want that you +ought to have—frocks, laces, and gew-gaws,” he added, with a sickly +smile, “and I know not what, that you cannot get here, nor I choose for +you. Lady Worcester has offered to take you with her to town—she goes +the day after to-morrow. I was uncertain this morning whether to send +you or not, whether I could spare you or not. Now, I say, go. Go, and +when you return, Mary, we will talk again.” + +“And then,” she said, pleading softly, “you will let me go!” + +“Never!” he cried, lifting his head in a sudden, uncontrollable +recurrence of rage. “But there, there! There! there! I shall have +thought it over—more at leisure. Perhaps! I don’t know! I will tell you +then. I will think it over.” + +She saw with clear eyes that this was an evasion, that he was deceiving +her. But she felt no resentment, only pity. She had no reason to think +that her mother needed her on the instant. And much was gained by the +mere discussion of the subject. At least he promised to consider it: +and though he meant nothing now, perhaps when he was alone he would +think of it, and more pitifully. Yes, she was sure he would. + +“I will go, if you wish it,” she said, submissively. She would show +herself obedient in all things lawful. + +“I do wish it,” he answered. “My daughter must know her way about. Go, +and Lady Worcester will take care of you. And when—when you come back +we will talk. You will have things to prepare, my dear,” he continued, +avoiding her eyes, “a good deal to prepare, I dare say, since this is +sudden, and you had better go now. I think that is all.” + + + + +XXVI +THE SCENE IN THE HALL + + +Arthur Vaughan had been quick to see that he could not step at once +into place and fame; that success in political life could not in these +days be attained at a bound. But had he been less quick, the great +debate which preceded the passage of the Bill through the Commons must +have availed to persuade him. That their last words of warning to the +country, their solemn remonstrances, might have more effect, the +managers of the Opposition had permitted the third reading to be +carried in the manner which has been described. But, that done, they +unmasked all their forces, bent on proving that if in the time to come +the peers threw out the Bill they would do so with a respectable +weight, not only of argument, but of public feeling behind them; and +that, not only in the country, but in the popular House. All that the +bitter invective of Croker, the mingled gibes and predictions of +Wetherell, the close and weighty reasoning of Peel, the precedents of +Sugden could do to warn the timid and arouse the prudent was done. That +ancient Chamber, which was never again to echo the accents of a debate +so great, which stood indeed already doomed, as if it could not long +survive the order of things of which it had been for centuries the +centre, had heard, it may be, speeches more lofty, men more +eloquent—for whom had it not heard?—but never men more in earnest, or +words more keenly barbed by the prejudices of the passing, or the +aspirations of the coming, age. Of the one party were those who could +see naught but glory in the bygone, naught but peril in change, of the +other, those whose strenuous aim it was to make the future redress the +wrongs of the past. The former were like children, viewing the Armada +hangings which tapestried the neighbouring Chamber, and seeing only the +fair front: the latter like the same children, picking with soiled +fingers at the backing, coarse, dusty and cobwebbed, which for two +hundred years had clung to the roughened masonry. + +Vaughan sat through the three nights, brooding darkly on the feats +performed before him. If they who fought in the arena were not giants, +if the House no longer held a match for Canning and Brougham, the +combatants seemed giants to him; for a man’s opinion of himself is +never far from the opinion which others hold of him. And he soon +perceived that a common soldier might as easily step from the ranks and +set the battle in order as he, Arthur Vaughan, rise up, without farther +training, and lead the attack or cover the defence. He sat soured and +gloomy, a mere spectator; dwelling, even while he listened to the +flowery periods of Macaulay, or the trenchant arguments of Peel, on the +wrong done to himself by the disposal of his seat. + +It was so like the Whigs, he told himself. Here on the floor of the +House who so loud as they in defence of the purity of elections, of the +people’s right to be represented, of the unbiassed vote of the +electors? But behind the scenes they were as keenly bent on jobbing a +seat here, or neutralising a seat there, and as careless of the +people’s rights as they had ever been! It was atrocious, it was +shameful! If this were political life, if this were political honesty, +he had had enough of it! + +But alas, though he said it in his anger, there was the rub! He had not +had, and now he was not likely to have, enough of it. The hostility to +himself, of which he had come slowly to be conscious, as a man grows +slowly to perceive a frostiness in the air, had insensibly sapped his +self-confidence and lowered his claims. He no longer dreamt of rising +and outshining the chiefs of his party. But he still believed that he +had it in him to succeed—were time given him. And all through the long +hours of the three nights’ debates his thoughts were as often on his +wrongs as on the momentous struggle which was passing before his eyes, +and for the issue of which the clubs of London were keeping vigil. + +But enthusiasm is infectious. And when the tellers for the last time +walked up to the table, at five o’clock on the morning of the 22nd of +September, with the grey light of daybreak stealing in to shame the +candles and betray the jaded faces—when he and all men knew that for +them the end of the great struggle was come—Vaughan waited breathless +with the rest and strained his ears to catch the result. And when, a +moment later, peal upon peal of fierce cheering shook the old panels in +their frames, and being taken up by waiting crowds without, carried the +news through the dawn to the very skirts of London—the news that Reform +had passed the People’s House, and that only the peers now stood +between the country and its desire—he shared the triumph and shouted +with the rest, shook hands with exultant neighbours, and waved his hat, +perspiring. + +But in his case the feeling of exultation was short-lived; perhaps in +the case of many another, who roared himself hoarse and showed a +gleeful face to the daylight. Certainly it was something to have taken +part in such a scene, the memory of which must survive for generations. +It was something to have voted in such a division. He might talk of it +in days to come to his grandchildren. But for him personally it meant +that all was over; that here, if the Lords passed the Bill, was the +end. A Dissolution must follow, and when the House met again, his place +would know him no more. He would be gone, and no man would feel the +blank. + +Nor were less selfish doubts wanting. As he stood, caught in the press +and awaiting his turn to leave the crowded House, his eyes rested on +the pale, scowling faces which dotted the opposite benches; the faces +of men who, honestly believing that here and now the old Constitution +of England had got its deathblow, could not hide their bitter chagrin, +or their scorn of the foe. Nor could he, at any rate, view those men +without sympathy; without the possibility that they were right weighing +on his spirits; without a faint apprehension that this might indeed be +the beginning of decay, the starting point of that decadence which +every generation since Queen Anne’s had foreseen. For if many on that +side represented no one but themselves, they still represented vast +interests, huge incomes, immense taxation. They were those who, if +England sank, had most to lose. He, in the past, had given up almost +his all that he might stand aloof from them; and that, because he +thought them prejudiced, wrong-headed, unreasonable. But he respected +them. And—what if they were right? + +Meanwhile the persistent cheering of his friends began to jar on his +tired nerves. He seemed to see in this a beginning of disorder, of +license, of revolution, of all those evils which the other party +foretold. And then he had little liking for the statistics of Hume: and +Hume with his arm about his favourite pillar, was high among the +triumphant. Hard by him again was the tall, thin form of Orator Hunt, +for whom the Bill was too moderate; and the taller, thinner form of +Burdett. They, crimson with shouting, were his partners in this; the +bedfellows among whom his opinions had cast him. + +Thinking such thoughts, he was among the last to leave the House, which +he did by way of Westminster Hall. The scene as he descended to the +Hall was so striking that he stood an instant on the steps to view it. +The hither half of the great space was comparatively bare, but the +farther half was occupied by a throng of people held back by a line of +the New Police, who were doing all they could to keep a passage for the +departing Members. As groups of the latter, after chatting awhile at +the upper end, passed, conscious of the greatness of the occasion, down +the lane thus formed, bursts of loud cheering greeted the better-known +Reformers. Some of the more forward of those who waited shook hands +with them, or patted them on the back; while others cried “God bless +you, sir! Long life to you, sir!” On the other hand, an angry moan, or +a spirit of hissing, marked the passage of a known Tory; or a voice was +raised calling to these to bid the Lords beware. A few lamps, which had +burned through the night, contended pallidly with the growing daylight, +and gave to the scene that touch of obscurity, that mingling of light +and shadow—under the dusky, far-receding roof—which is necessary to the +picturesque. + +Vaughan did not suspect that, as he paused, looking down on the Hall, +he was himself watched, and by some sore enough that moment to be glad +to wreak their feelings in any direction. As he set his foot on the +stone pavement a group near at hand raised a cry of “Turncoat! +Turncoat!” and that so loudly that he could not but hear it. An +unmistakable hiss followed; and then, “Who stole a seat?” cried one of +the men. + +“And isn’t going to keep it?” cried another. + +Vaughan turned short at the last words—he had not felt sure that the +first were addressed to him. With a hot face, and every fibre in his +body tingling with defiance, he stepped up to the group. “Did you speak +to me?” he said. + +A man with a bullying air put himself before the others. He was a +ruined Irish Member, who had sat for years for a close borough, and for +whom the Bill meant duns, bailiffs, a sponging-house, in a word, the +loss of all those thing’s which made life tolerable. He was full of +spite and spoiling for a fight with someone, no matter with whom. + +“Who are you?” he replied, confronting our friend with a sneer. “I have +not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir!” + +Vaughan was about to answer him in kind, when he espied in the middle +of the group the pale, keen face and greyish whiskers of Sergeant +Wathen. And, “Perhaps you have not,” he retorted, “but that gentleman +has.” He pointed to Wathen. “And, if what was said a moment ago,” he +continued, “was meant for me, I have the honour to ask for an +explanation.” + +“Explanation?” a Member in the background cried, in a jeering tone. “Is +there need of one?” + +Vaughan was no longer red, he was white with anger. “Who spoke?” he +asked, his voice ringing. + +The Irishman looked over his shoulder and laughed. “Right you are, +Jerry!” he said: “I’ll not give you up!” And then to Vaughan, “I did +not,” he said rudely. “For the rest, sir, the Hall is large enough. And +we have no need of your heroics here!” + +“Your pleasure, however,” Vaughan replied, haughtily, “is not my law. +Some one of you used words a moment ago which seemed to imply——” + +“What, sir?” + +“That I obtained my seat by unfair means! And the truth being perfectly +well known to that gentleman”—again he pointed to the Sergeant in a way +which left Wathen anything but comfortable. “I am sure that he will +tell you that the statement——” + +“Statement?” + +“Statement or imputation, or whatever you please to call it,” Vaughan +answered, sticking to his point in spite of interruptions, “is +absolutely unfounded—and false. And false! And, therefore, must be +retracted.” + +“Must, sir?” + +“Yes, must!” Vaughan replied—he was no coward. “Must, if you call +yourselves gentlemen. But first, Mr. Sergeant,” he continued, fixing +Wathen with his eye, “I will ask you to tell these friends of yours +that I did not turn my coat at Chippinge. And that there was nothing in +my election which in any degree touched my honour.” + +The Sergeant looked flurried. He was of those who love to wound, but do +not love to fight. And at this moment he wished from the crown of his +head to the soles of his feet, that he had held his tongue. But +unluckily, whether the cloud upon Vaughan’s reputation had been his +work or not, he had certainly said more than he liked to remember; and, +worse still, had said some part of it within the last five minutes, in +the hearing of those about him. To retract, therefore, was to dub +himself a liar; and he sought refuge, the perspiration standing on his +brow, in that half-truth which is at once worse than a lie—and safer. + +“I must say, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, “that the—the circumstances in +which you used the vote given to you by your cousin, and—and the way in +which you turned against him after attending a dinner of his +supporters——” + +“Openly, fairly, and after warning, I turned against him,” Vaughan +cried, enraged at the show of justice which the accusation wore. “And +that, sir, in pursuance of opinions which I had publicly professed. +More, I allowed myself to be elected only after I had once refused Lord +Lansdowne’s offer of the seat! And after, only after, Sir Robert +Vermuyden had so treated me that all ties were broken. Sergeant Wathen, +I appeal to you again! Was that not so?” + +“I know nothing of that,” Wathen answered, sullenly. + +“Nothing? You know nothing of that?” Vaughan cried. + +“No,” the Sergeant answered, still more sullenly. “I know nothing of +what passed between you and your cousin. I know only that you were +present, as I have said, at a dinner of his supporters on the eve of +the election, and that on a sudden, at that dinner, you declared +yourself against him—with the result that you were elected by the other +side!” + +For a moment Vaughan stood glowering at him, struck dumb by his denial +and by the unexpected plausibility, nay, the unexpected strength of the +case against him. He was sure that Wathen knew more, he was sure that +if he would he could say more! He was sure that the man was dishonest. +But he did not see how he could prove it, and—— + +The Irish Member laughed. “Well, sir,” he said, derisively, “is the +explanation, now you’ve got it, to your mind?” + +The taunt stung Vaughan. He took a step forward. The next moment would +have seen him commit himself to a foolish action, that could only have +led him to Wimbledon Common or Primrose Hill. But in the nick of time a +voice stayed him. + +“What’s this, eh?” it asked, its tone more lugubrious than usual. And +Sir Charles Wetherell, who had just descended the stairs from the +lobby, turned a dull eye from one disputant to the other. “Can’t you do +enough damage with your tongues?” he rumbled. “Brawl upstairs as much +as you like! That’s the way to the Woolsack! But you mustn’t brawl +here!” And the heavy-visaged man, whose humour had again and again +conciliated a House which his coarse invective had offended, once more +turned from one to the other. “What is it?” he repeated. “Eh?” + +Vaughan hastened to appeal to him. “Sir Charles,” he said, “I will +abide by your decision! Though I do not know, indeed, that I ought to +take any man’s decision on a point which touches my honour!” + +“Oh!” Wetherell said in an inimitable tone. “Court of Honour, is it?” +And he cast a queer look round the circle. “That’s it, is it? Well, I +dare say I’m eligible. I dare swear I know as much about honour as +Brougham about equity! Or the Sergeant there”—Wathen reddened +angrily—“about law! Or Captain McShane here about his beloved country! +Yes,” he continued, amid the unconcealed grins of those of the party +whose weak points had escaped, “you may proceed, I think.” + +“You are a friend, Sir Charles,” Vaughan said, in a voice which +quivered with anxiety, “you are a friend of Sir Robert Vermuyden’s?” + +“Well, I won’t deny him until I know more!” Wetherell answered +quaintly. “What of it?” + +“You know what occurred at Chippinge before the election?” + +“None better. I was there.” + +“And what passed between Sir Robert Vermuyden and me?” Vaughan +continued, eagerly. + +“I think I do,” Wetherell answered. “In the main I do.” + +“Thank you, Sir Charles. Then I appeal to you. You are opposed to me in +politics, but you will do me justice. These gentlemen have thought fit +to brand me here and now as a turncoat; and, worse, as one who was—who +was elected”—he could scarcely speak for passion—“in opposition to Sir +Robert’s, to my relative’s candidates, under circumstances +dishonourable to me!” + +“Indeed? Indeed? That is serious.” + +“And I ask you, sir, is there a word of truth in that charge?” + +Wetherell had his eyes fixed gloomily on the pavement. He appeared to +weigh the matter a moment or two. Then he shook his head. + +“Not a word,” he said, ponderously. + +“You—you bear me out, sir.” + +“Quite, quite,” the other answered slowly, as he took out his snuffbox. +“To tell the truth, gentlemen,” he continued, in the same melancholy +tone, “Mr. Vaughan was fool enough to quarrel with his bread and butter +for the sake of the most worthless, damnable and mistaken convictions +any man ever held! That’s the truth. He showed himself a very perfect +fool, but an honourable and an honest fool—and that’s a rare thing. I +see none here.” + +No one laughed at the gibe, and he turned to Vaughan, who stood, +relieved indeed, but stiff and uncomfortable, uncertain what to do +next. “I’ll take your arm,” he said. “I’ve saved you,” coolly, “from +the ragged regiment on my side. Do you take me safe,” he continued, +with a look towards the lower end of the Hall, “through your ragged +regiment outside, my lad!” + +Vaughan understood only too well the generous motive which underlay the +invitation. But for a moment he hung back. + +“I am your debtor, Sir Charles,” he said, deeply moved, “as long as I +live. But I would like to know before I go,” and he raised his head, +with a look worthy of Sir Robert, “whether these gentlemen are +satisfied. If not——” + +“Oh, perfectly,” the Sergeant cried, hurriedly. “Perfectly!” And he +muttered something about being glad—hear explanation—satisfactory. + +But the Irish Member stepped up and held out his hand. “Faith,” he +said, “there’s no man whose word I’d take before Sir Charles’s! There’s +no hiatus in his honour, whatever may be said of his breeches! That’s +one for you,” he added, addressing Wetherell. “I owed you one, my good +sir!” And then he turned to Vaughan. “There’s my hand, sir! I +apologise,” he said. “You’re a man of honour, and it’s mistaken we +were!” + +“I am obliged to you for your candour,” Vaughan said, gratefully. + +Half a dozen others raised their hats to him, or shook hands with him +frankly. The Sergeant did the same less frankly. But Vaughan saw that +he was cowed. Wetherell was Sir Robert Vermuyden’s friend, and the +Sergeant was Sir Robert’s nominee. So he pushed his triumph no farther. +With a feeling of gratitude too deep for words, he offered his arm to +Sir Charles, and went down the Hall in his company. + +By this time the crowd at the lower end had carried their joy and their +horseplay elsewhere; and no attempt was made—Vaughan only wished an +attempt had been made—to molest Wetherell. They walked across the yard +to Parliament Street, as the first sunshine of the day fell on the +bridge and the river. Flocks of gulls were swinging to and fro in the +clear air above the water, and dumb barges were floating up with the +tide. The hub-bub in that part was past and over; at that moment a +score of coaches were speeding through the suburbs, bearing to +market-town and busy city, ay, and to village greens, where the news +was awaited eagerly, the tidings that the Bill had passed the Lower +House. + +Sir Charles walked a short distance in silence. Then, “I thought some +notion of the kind was abroad,” he said. “It’s as well this happened. +What are you going to do about your seat if the Bill pass, young man?” + +“I am told that it is pre-empted,” Vaughan answered, in a tone between +jest and earnest. + +“It is. But——” + +“Yes, Sir Charles?” + +“You should see your own side about it,” Wetherell answered gruffly. “I +can’t say more than that.” + +“I am obliged to you for that.” + +“You should be!” Wetherell retorted in a peculiar tone. And with an +oath and a strange gesture he disengaged his arm. Halting and wheeling +about, he pointed with a shaking hand to the towers of the Abbey, which +rose against the blue, beatified by the morning sunshine. “If I said +‘batter down those walls, undig the dead, away with every hoary thing +of time, the present and the future are enough, and we, the generation +that burns the mummies, which three thousand years have spared—we are +wiser than all our forbears—’ what would you say? You would call me +mad. Yet what are you doing? Ay, you, you among the rest! The building +that our fathers built, patiently through many hundred years, adding a +little here and strengthening there, the building that Hampden and +Shrewsbury and Walpole, Chatham and his son, and Canning, and many +others tended reverently, repairing here and there, as time required, +you, you, who think you know more than all who have gone before you, +hurry in ruin to the ground! That you may build your own building, +built in a day, to suit the day, and to perish with the day! Oh, mad, +mad, mad! Ay, + + +“_Hostis habet muros; ruit alta a culmine Troja. +Sat patriæ Priamoque datum; si Pergama linquâ. +Defendi possent, etiam, hoc defensa fuissent!_” + + +His voice quavered on the last accent, his chin sank on his breast. He +turned wearily and resumed his course. When Vaughan, who did not +venture to address him again, parted from him in silence at the door of +his house, the fat man’s pendulous lip quivered, and a single tear ran +down his cheek. + + + + +XXVII +WICKED SHIFTS + + +It was with a lighter heart that Vaughan walked on to Bury Street. +There were still, it seemed, faith and honour in the world, and some +men who could be trusted. But if he expected much to come of this, if +he expected to be received with an ovation on his next appearance at +Westminster, he was doomed to disappointment. Wetherell’s defence +convinced those who heard it; and in time, no doubt, passing from mouth +to mouth, would improve the young Member’s relations, not only on the +floor of the House, but in the lobbies and at Bellamy’s. But the +English are not dramatic. They have no love for scenes. And no one of +those whose silence or whose catcalls had wronged him thought fit to +take his hand in cold blood and ask his pardon; nor did any Don Quixote +cast down his glove in Westminster Hall and offer to do battle with his +traducers. The manner of one man became a shade more cordial; another +spoke where he would have nodded. And if Vaughan had risen at this time +to speak on any question which he understood he would have been heard +upon his merits. + +But the change, slow though genial, like the breaking up of an English +frost, came too late to do him much service. With the transfer of the +Bill to the House of Lords public interest deserted the Commons. They +sat, indeed, through the month of September, to the horror of many a +country gentleman, who saw in this the herald of evil days; and they +debated after a fashion. But the attendance was sparse, and the +thoughts and hopes of all men were in another place. Vaughan saw that +for all the reputation he could now make the Dissolution might be come +already. And with this, and the emptiness of his heart, from which he +could no more put the craving for Mary Vermuyden than he could dismiss +her image from the retina of his mind, he was very miserable. The void +left by love, indeed, was rendered worse by the void left unsatisfied +by ambition. Mary’s haunting face was with him at his rising, went with +him to his pillow, her little hand was often on his sleeve, her eyes +often pleaded to his. In his lonely rooms he would pace the floor +feverishly, savagely, pestering himself with what might have been; +kicking the furniture from his path and—and hating her! For the idea of +marriage, once closely presented to man or woman, leaves neither +unchanged, leaves neither as it found them, however quickly it be put +aside. + +Still it was not possible for one who sprang from the governing +classes, and was gifted with political instincts, to witness the +excitement which moved the whole country during those weeks of +September and the early days of October, without feeling his own blood +stirred; without sharing to some extent the exhilaration with which the +adventurous view the approach of adventures. What would the peers do? +All England was asking that question. At Crockford’s, in the little +supper-room, or at the French Hazard table itself, men turned to put it +and to hear the answer. At White’s and Boodle’s, in the hall of the +Athenæum, as they walked before Apsley House, or under the gas-lamps of +Pall Mall, men asked that question again and again. It shared with +Pasta and the slow-coming cholera—which none the less was coming—the +chit-chat of drawing-rooms; and with the next prize fight or with +ridicule of the New Police, the wrangling debates of every tavern and +posthouse. Would the peers throw out the Bill? Would they—would those +doting old Bishops in particular—dare to thwart the People’s will? +Would they dare to withhold the franchise from Birmingham and +Manchester, Leeds and Sheffield? On this husbands took one side, wives +the other, families quarrelled. What Croker thought, what Lord Grey +threatened, what the Duke had let drop, what Brougham had boasted, how +Lady Lyndhurst had sneered, or her husband retorted, what the Queen +wished—scraps such as these were tossed from mouth to mouth, greedily +received, carried far into the country, and eventually, changed beyond +recognition, were repeated in awestruck ears, in county ballrooms and +at Sessions. + +One member of the Privy Council, who had left his party on the Bill, +and whose vote, it was thought, had turned a division, shot himself. +And many another, it was whispered, never recovered wholly from the +strain of those days. + +For far more hung upon the Lords’ decision than the mere fate of the +Bill. If they threw it out, what would the Ministry do? And—more +momentous still, and looming larger in the minds of men—what would the +country do? What would Birmingham and Sheffield, Manchester and Leeds +do? What would they do? + +Lord Grey, strong in the King’s support, would persevere, said some. He +would bring in the Bill again, and create peers in number sufficient to +carry it. And Macaulay’s squib was flung from club to club, from +meeting to meeting, until it reached the streets: + +_What, though new opposed I be_, + +_Twenty peers shall carry me!_ + +_If twenty won’t, thirty will_, + +_For I am his Majesty’s bouncing Bill_. + + +Ay, his Majesty’s Bill, God bless him! His Majesty’s own Bill! Hurrah +for Lord Grey! Hurrah for Brougham! Hurrah for Lord John, and down with +the Bishops! So the word flew from mouth to mouth, so errand boys +yelled it under the windows of London House, in St. James’s Square, and +wherever aproned legs might be supposed to meet under the mahogany. + +But others maintained that Lord Grey would simply resign, and let the +consequences fall on the heads of those who opposed the People’s will. +Those consequences, it was whispered everywhere—and not by the timid +and the rich only—spelled Revolution! Revolution, red and anarchical, +was coming, said many. Was not Scotland ready to rise? Was not the +Political Union of Birmingham threatening to pay no taxes? Were not the +Political Unions everywhere growling and lashing their sides? The +winter was coming, and there would be fires by night and drillings by +day, as there had been during the previous autumn. Through the long +dark nights there would be fear and trembling, and barring of doors, +and waiting for the judgment to come. And then some morning the +crackling sound of musketry would awaken Pall Mall and Mayfair, the mob +would seize the Tower and Newgate, the streets would run blood and the +guillotine would rise in Leicester Square or Finsbury Fields. + +So widely were these fears spread—fostered as they were by both +parties, by the Tories for the purpose of proving whither Reform was +leading the country, by the Whigs to show to what the obstinacy of the +borough-mongers was driving it—that few were proof against them. So +few, that when the Bill was rejected in the early morning of Saturday, +the 8th of October, the Tory peers, from Lord Eldon downwards, though +they had not shrunk from doing their duty, could hardly be made to +believe that they were at liberty to go to their homes unscathed. + +They did so, however. But the first mutterings of the storm soon made +themselves heard. Within twenty-four hours the hearts of many failed +them for fear. The Funds fell at once. The journals appeared in +mourning borders. In many towns the bells were tolled and the shops +were shut. The mob of Nottingham rose and burned the Castle and fired +the house of an unpopular squire. The mob of Derby besieged the gaol +and released the prisoners. At Darlington, Lord Tankerville narrowly +escaped with his life; Lord Londonderry was left for dead; no Bishop +dared to wear his apron in public. Everywhere rose the cry of “No +Taxes!” Finally, the rabble rose in immense numbers, paraded the West +End of London, broke the windows of many peers, assaulted others, and +were only driven from Apsley House by the timely arrival of the Life +Guards. The country, amazed and shaken from end to end, seemed to be +already in the grip of rebellion; so that within the week the very +Tories hastened to beg Lord Grey to retain office. Even the King, it +was supposed, was shaken; and his famous distich—his one contribution +to the poetry of the country, + +_I consider Dissolution +Tantamount to Revolution_, + + +found admirers for its truth, if not for its beauty. + +Such a ferment could not but occupy Vaughan’s mind and divert his +thoughts from his own troubles, even from thoughts of Mary. Every day +there was news: every day, in the opinion of many, the sky grew darker. +But though the rejection of the Bill promised him a second short +session, and many who sat for close boroughs chuckled privately over +the respite, he was ill-content with a hand-to-mouth life. He saw that +the Bill must pass eventually. He did not believe that there would be a +revolution. It was clear that his only chance lay in following +Wetherell’s advice, and laying his case before one of his chiefs. + +Some days after the division he happened on an opportunity. He was +walking down Parliament Street when he came on a scene, much of a piece +of the unrest of the time. A crowd was pouring out of Downing Street, +and in the van of the rabble he espied the tall, ungainly figure of no +less a man than Lord Brougham. Abreast of the Chancellor, but keeping +himself to the wall as if he desired to dissociate himself from the +demonstration, walked another tall figure, also in black, with +shepherd’s plaid trousers. A second glance informed Vaughan that this +was no other than Mr. Cornelius, who had been present at his interview +with Brougham; and accepting the omen, he made up to the Chancellor +just as the latter halted to rid himself of the ragged tail, which had, +perhaps, been more pleasing to his vanity in the smaller streets. + +“My friends,” Brougham cried, checking with his hand the ragamuffins’ +shrill attempt at a cheer, “I am obliged to you for your approval; but +I beg to bid you good-day! Assemblages such as these are——” + +“Disgusting!” Cornelius muttered audibly, wrinkling his nose as he eyed +them over his high collar. + +“Are apt to cause disorder!” the Chancellor continued, smiling. “Rest +assured that your friends, of whom, if I am the highest in office I am +not the least in good-will, will not desert you.” + +“Hurrah! God bless you, my lord! Hurrah!” cried the tatterdemalions in +various tones more or less drunken. And some held out their caps. +“Hurrah! If your lordship would have the kindness to——” + +“Disgusting!” Cornelius repeated, wheeling about. + +Vaughan seized the opportunity to intervene. “May I,” he said, raising +his hat and addressing the Chancellor as he turned, “consult you, my +lord, for two minutes as you walk?” + +Brougham started on finding a gentleman of his appearance at his elbow; +and looked as if he were somewhat ashamed of the guise in which he had +been detected. “Ah!” he said. “Mr.—Mr. Vaughan? To be sure! Oh, yes, +you can speak to me, what can I do for you? It is,” he added, with +affected humility, “my business to serve.” + +Vaughan looked doubtfully at Mr. Cornelius, who raised his hat. “I have +no secrets from Mr. Cornelius,” said the Chancellor pleasantly. And +then with a backward nod and a tinge of colour in his cheek, +“Gratifying, but troublesome,” he continued. “Eh? Very troublesome, +these demonstrations! I often long for the old days when I could walk +out of Westminster Hall, with my bag and my umbrella, and no one the +wiser!” + +“Those days are far back, my lord,” Vaughan said politely. + +“Ah, well! Ah, well! Perhaps so.” They were walking on by this time. “I +can’t say that since the Queen’s trial I’ve known much privacy. +However, it is something that those whom one serves are grateful. +They——” + +“Cry ‘Hosanna’ to-day,” Cornelius said gruffly, with his eyes fixed +steadily before him, “and ‘Crucify him’ tomorrow!” + +“Cynic!” said the Chancellor, with unabated good-humour. “But even you +cannot deny that they are better employed in cheering their friends +than in breaches of the peace? Not that”—cocking his eye at Vaughan +with a whimsical expression of confidence—“a little disorder here and +there, eh, Mr. Vaughan—though to be deplored, and by no one more than +by one in my position—has not its uses? Were there no apprehension of +mob-rule, how many borough-mongers, think you, would vote with us? How +many waverers, like Harrowby and Wharncliffe, would waver? And how, if +we have no little ebullitions here and there, are we to know that the +people are in earnest? That they are not grown lukewarm? That Wetherell +is not right in his statement—of which he’ll hear more than he will +like at Bristol, or I am mistaken—that there is a Tory re-action, an +ebb in the tide which so far has carried us bravely? But of course,” he +added, with a faint smile, “God forbid that we should encourage +violence!” + +“Amen!” said Mr. Cornelius. And sniffed in a very peculiar manner. + +“But to discern that camomile,” the Chancellor continued gaily, “though +bitter to-day makes us better tomorrow, is a different thing from——” + +“Administering a dose!” Vaughan laughed, falling into the great man’s +humour. + +“To be sure. But enough of that. Now I think of it, Mr. Vaughan,” he +continued, looking at his companion, “I have not had the pleasure of +seeing you since—but I need not remind you of the occasion. You’ve had +good cause to remember it! Yes, yes,” he went on with voluble +complacency—he was walking as well as talking very fast—“I seldom speak +without meaning, or interfere without result. I knew well what would +come of it. It was not for nothing, Mr. Vaughan, that I got down our +Borough List and asked you if you had no thought of entering the House. +The spark—and tinder! For there you are in the House!” + +“Yes,” Vaughan replied, astonished at the coolness with which the other +unveiled, and even took credit for, the petty intrigue of six months +back. “But——” + +“But,” Brougham said, taking him up with a quick, laughing glance, “you +are not yet on the Treasury Bench? That’s it?” + +“No, not yet,” Vaughan answered, good-humouredly. + +“Ah, well, time and patience and Bellamy’s chops, Mr. Vaughan, will +carry you far, I am sure.” + +“It is on that subject—the subject of time—I venture to trouble your +lordship.” + +The Chancellor’s lumpish but singularly mobile features underwent a +change. Caught in a complacent, vain humour, he had forgotten a thing +which, with Vaughan’s last words, recurred to him. “Yes?” he said, +“yes, Mr. Vaughan?” But the timbre of that marvellously flexible voice +with which he boasted that he could whisper so as to be heard to the +very door of the House of Commons, was changed. “Yes, what is it, +pray?” + +“It is time I require,” Vaughan answered. “And, in fine, I have done +some service, yeoman service, my lord, and I think that I ought not to +be cast aside by the party in whose interest I was returned, and with +whose objects I am in sympathy.” + +“Cast aside? Tut, tut! What do you mean?” + +“I am told that though the borough for which I sit will continue to +return one member, I shall not have the support of the party in +retaining my seat.” + +“Indeed! Indeed!” Brougham answered, “Is it so? I am sorry to hear +that.” + +“But——” + +“Very sorry, Mr. Vaughan.” + +“But, with submission, my lord, it is something more than sorrow I +seek,” Vaughan answered, too sore to hide his feelings. “You have owned +very candidly that I derived from you the impulse which has carried me +so far. Is it unreasonable if I venture to turn to you, when advised to +see one of the chiefs of my party?” + +“Who,” Brougham asked with a quick look, “gave you that advice, Mr. +Vaughan?” + +“Sir Charles Wetherell.” + +“Um!” the Chancellor replied through pinched lips. And he stood, “they +had crossed Piccadilly and Berkeley Square, and had reached the corner +of Hill Street, where at No. 5, Brougham lived. + +“I repeat, my lord,” Vaughan continued, “is it unreasonable if I apply +to you in these circumstances, rather——” + +“Rather than to one of the whips?” Brougham said drily. + +“Yes.” + +“But I know nothing of the matter, Mr. Vaughan.” + +But Vaughan was in no mood to put up with subterfuges. If the other did +not know, he should know. He had been all-powerful, it seemed, to bring +him in: was he powerless to keep him in? “There is a compact, I am +told,” he said, “under which the seat is to be surrendered—for this +turn, at any rate—to my cousin’s nominee.” + +Brougham shrugged his shoulders, and looked at Mr. Cornelius. “Dear me, +dear me,” he said. “That’s not a thing of which I can approve. Far from +it! Far from it! But you must see, Mr. Vaughan, that I cannot meddle in +my position with arrangements of that kind. Impossible, my dear sir, it +is clearly impossible!” + +Vaughan stared; and with some spirit and more temper, “But the spark, +my lord! I’m sure you won’t forget the spark?” he said. + +For an instant a gleam of fun shone in the other’s eyes. Then he was +funereal again. “Before the Bill, and after the Bill, are two things,” +he said drily. “Before the Bill all is, all was impure. And in an +impure medium—you understand me, I am sure? You are scientific, I +remember. But after the Bill—to ask me, who in my humble measure, Mr. +Vaughan, may call myself its prime cause—to ask me to infringe its +first principles by interposing between the Electors and their rights, +to ask me to use an influence which cannot be held legitimate—no, Mr. +Vaughan, no!” He shook his head solemnly and finally. And then to Mr. +Cornelius, “Yes, I am coming, Mr. Cornelius,” he said. “I know I am +late.” + +“I can wait,” said Mr. Cornelius. + +“But I cannot. Good-day, Mr. Vaughan. Good-day,” he repeated, refusing +to see the young man’s ill-humour. “I am sorry that I cannot help you. +Or, stay!” he continued, halting in the act of turning away. “One +minute. I gather that you are a friend of Sir Charles Wetherell’s?” + +“He has been a friend to me,” Vaughan answered sullenly. + +“Ah, well, he is going to Bristol to hold his sessions—on the 29th, I +think. Go with him. Our fat friend hates me like poison, but I would +not have a hair of his head injured. We have been warned that there +will be trouble, and we are taking steps to protect him. But an +able-bodied young soldier by his side will be no bad thing. And upon my +honour,” he continued, eyeing Vaughan with impudent frankness—impudent +in view of all that had gone before—“upon my honour, I am beginning to +think that we spoiled a good soldier when we—eh!” + +“The spark!” Mr. Cornelius muttered grimly. + +“Good-day, my lord,” said Vaughan with scant ceremony; his blood was +boiling. And he turned and strode away, scarcely smothering an +execration. The two, who did not appear to be in a hurry after all, +remained looking after him. And presently Mr. Cornelius smiled. + +“What amuses you?” Brougham asked, with a certain petulence. For at +bottom, and in cases where no rivalry existed, he was good-natured; and +in his heart he was sorry for the young man. But then, if one began to +think of the pawn’s feelings, the game he was playing would be spoiled. +“What is it?” + +“I was thinking,” Mr. Cornelius answered slowly, “of purity.” He +sniffed. “And the Whigs!” + +Meanwhile Arthur Vaughan was striding down Bruton Street with every +angry passion up in arms. He was too clever to be tricked twice, and he +saw precisely what had happened. Brougham—well, well was he called +Wicked Shifts!—reviewing the Borough List before the General Election, +had let his eyes fall on Sir Robert’s seats at Chippinge; and looking +about, with his customary audacity, for a means of snatching them, had +alighted on him—and used him for a tool! Now, he was of no farther use. +And, as the loss of his expectations rendered it needless to temporise +with him, he was contemptuously tossed aside. + +And this was the game of politics which he had yearned to play! This +was the party whose zeal for the purity of elections and the +improvement of all classes he had shared, and out of loyalty to which +he had sacrificed a fortune! He strode along the crowded pavement of +Parliament Street—it was the fashionable hour of the afternoon and the +political excitement kept London full—his head high, his face flushed. +And unconsciously as he shouldered the people to right and left, he +swore aloud. + +As he uttered the word, regardless in his anger of the scene about him, +his fixed gaze pierced for an instant the medley of gay bonnets and +smiling faces, moving chariots and waiting footmen, which even in those +days filled Parliament Street—and met another pair of eyes. + +The encounter lasted for a second only. Then half a dozen heads and a +parasol intervened. And then—in another second—he was abreast of the +carriage in which Mary Vermuyden sat, her face the prettiest and her +bonnet the daintiest—Lady Worcester had seen to that—of all the faces +and all the bonnets in Parliament Street that day. The landau in which +she sat was stationary at the edge of the pavement; and on the farther +side of her reposed a lady of kind face and ample figure. + +For an instant their eyes met again; and Mary’s colour, which had fled, +returned in a flood of crimson, covering brow and cheeks. She leaned +from the carriage and held out her white-gloved hand. “Mr. Vaughan!” +she said. And he might have read in her face, had he chosen, the +sweetest and frankest appeal. “Mr. Vaughan!” + +But the moment was unlucky. The devil had possession of him. He raised +his hat and passed on, passed on wilfully. He fancied—afterwards, that +is, he fancied—that she had risen to her feet after he had gone by and +called him a third time in a voice at which the convenances of +Parliament Street could only wink. But he went on. He heard, but he +went on. He told himself that all was of a piece. Men and women, all +were alike. He was a fool who trusted any, believed in any, loved any. + + + + +XXVIII +ONCE MORE, TANTIVY! + + +Vaughan had been sore at heart before the meeting in Parliament Street. +After that meeting he was in a mood to take any step which promised to +salve his self-esteem. The Chancellor, Lord Lansdowne, Sir Robert, +and—and Mary, all, he told himself, were against him. But they should +not crush him. He would prove to them that he was no negligible +quantity. Parliament was prorogued; the Long Vacation was far advanced; +the world, detained beyond its time, was hurrying out of town. He, too, +would go out of town; and he would go to Chippinge. There, in defiance +alike of his cousin and the Bowood interest, he would throw himself +upon the people. He would address himself to those whom the Bill +enfranchised, he would appeal to the future electors of Chippinge, he +would ask them whether the will of their great neighbours was to +prevail, and the claims of service and of gratitude were to go for +nothing. Surely at this time of day the answer could not be adverse! + +True, the course he proposed matched ill with the party notions which +still prevailed. It was a complete breach with the family traditions in +which he had been reared. But in his present mood Vaughan liked his +plan the better for this. Henceforth he would be iron, he would be +adamant! And only by a little thing did he betray that under the iron +and under the adamant he carried an aching heart. When he came to book +his place, deliberately, wilfully, he chose to travel by the Bath road +and the White Lion coach, though he could have gone at least as +conveniently by another coach and another route. Thus have men ever, +since they first felt the pangs of love, rejoiced to press the dart +more deeply in the wound. + +A dark October morning was brooding over the West End when he crossed +Piccadilly to take his place outside the White Horse Cellar. Now, as on +that distant day in April, when the car of rosy-fingered love had +awaited him ignorant, the coaches stood one behind the other in a long +line before the low-blind windows of the office. But how different was +all else! To-day the lamps were lighted and flickered on wet pavements, +the streets were windy and desolate, the day had barely broken above +the wet roofs, and on all a steady rain was falling. The watermen went +to and fro with sacks about their shoulders, and the guards, bustling +from the office with their waybills and the late parcels, were short of +temper and curt of tongue. The shivering passengers, cloaked to the +eyes in boxcoats and wrap-rascals, climbed silently and sullenly to the +roof, and there sat shrugging their shoulders to their ears. Vaughan, +who had secured a place beside the driver, cast an eye on all, on the +long dark vista of the street, on the few shivering passers; and he +found the change fitting. Let it rain, let it blow, let the sun rise +niggardly behind a mask of clouds! Let the world wear its true face! He +cared not how discordantly the guard’s horn sounded, nor how the +coachman swore at his cattle, nor how the mud splashed up, as two +minutes after time they jostled and rattled and bumped down the slope +and through the dingy narrows of Knightsbridge. + +Perhaps to please him, the rain fell more heavily as the light +broadened and the coach passed through Kensington turnpike. The +passengers, crouching inside their wraps, looked miserably from under +dripping umbrellas on a wet Hammersmith, and a wetter Brentford. Now +the coach ploughed through deep mud, now it rolled silently over a bed +of chestnut or sycamore leaves which the first frost of autumn had +brought down. Swish, swash, it splashed through a rivulet. It was full +daylight now; it had been daylight an hour. And, at last, joyous sight, +pleasant even to the misanthrope on the box-seat, not far in front, +through a curtain of mist and rain, loomed Maidenhead—and breakfast. + +The up night-coach, retarded twenty minutes by the weather, rattled up +to the door at the same moment. Vaughan foresaw that there would be a +contest for seats at the table, and, without waiting for the ladder, he +swung himself to the ground, and entered the house. Hastily doffing his +streaming overcoats, he made for the coffee-room, where roaring fires +and a plentiful table awaited the travellers. In two minutes he was +served, and isolated by his gloomy thoughts and almost unconscious of +the crowded room and the clatter of plates, he was eating his breakfast +when his next-door neighbour accosted him. + +“Beg your pardon, sir,” he said in a meek voice. “Are you going to +Bristol, sir?” + +Vaughan looked at the speaker, a decent, clean-shaven person in a black +high-collared coat, and a limp white neck-cloth. The man’s face seemed +familiar to him, and instead of answering the question, Vaughan asked +if he knew him. + +“You’ve seen me in the Lobby, sir,” the other answered, fidgeting in +his humility. “I’m Sir Charles Wetherell’s clerk, sir.” + +“Ah! To be sure!” Vaughan replied. “I thought I knew your face. Sir +Charles opens the Assizes to-morrow, I understand?” + +“Yes, sir, if they will let him. Do you think that there is much +danger, sir?” + +“Danger?” Vaughan answered with a smile. “No serious danger.” + +“The Government did not wish him to go, sir,” the other rejoined with +an air of mystery. + +“Oh, I don’t believe that,” Vaughan said. + +“Well, the Corporation didn’t, for certain, sir,” the man persisted in +a low voice. “They wanted him to postpone the Assizes. But he doesn’t +know what fear is, sir. And now the Government’s ordered troops to +Bristol, and I’m afraid that’ll make ’em worse. They’re so set against +him for saying that Bristol was no longer for the Bill. And they’re a +desperate rough lot, sir, down by the Docks!” + +“So I’ve heard,” Vaughan said. “But you may be sure that the +authorities will see that Sir Charles is well guarded!” + +The clerk said nothing to that, although it was clear that he was far +from convinced, or easy. And Vaughan returned to his thoughts. But by +and by it chanced that as he raised his eyes he met those of a girl who +was passing his table on her way from the room; and he remembered with +a sharp pang how Mary had passed his table and looked at him, and +blushed; and how his heart had jumped at the sight. Why, there was the +very waiting-maid who had gone out with her! And there, where the April +sun had shone on her through the window, she had sat! And there, three +places only from his present seat, he had sat himself. Three seats +only—and yet how changed was all! The unmanly tears rose very near to +his eyes as he thought of it. + +He sat so long brooding over this, in that mood in which a man recks +little of time, or of what befalls him, that the guard had to summon +him. And even then, as he donned his coats, with the “boots” fussing +about him, and the coachman grumbling at the delay, his memory was busy +with that morning. There, in the porch, he had stood and heard the +young waterman praise her looks! And there Cooke had stood and +denounced the Reform placard! And there—— + +“Let go!” growled the coachman, losing patience a last. “The +gentleman’s not coming!” + +“I’m coming,” he answered curtly. And crossing the pavement in two +strides, he swung himself up hand over hand, as the stableman released +the horses. The coach started as his foot left the box of the wheel. +And something else started—furiously. + +His heart. For in the place behind the coachman, in the very seat which +Mary Smith had occupied on that far-off April morning, sat Mary +Vermuyden! For an infinitely small fraction of a second, as he turned +himself to drop into his seat, his eyes swept her face. The rain had +ceased to fall, the umbrellas were furled; for that infinitely short +space his eyes rested on her features. Then his back was turned to her. + +Her eyes had been fixed elsewhere, her face had been cold—she had not +seen him. So much, in the confused pounding rush of his thoughts, as he +sat tingling in every inch of his frame, he could remember; but nothing +else except that in lieu of the plain Quaker-like dress which Mary +Smith had worn—oh, dress to be ever remembered!—she was wearing rich +furs, with a great muff and a small hat of sable, and was Mary Smith no +longer. + +Probably she had been there from the start, seated behind him under +cover of the rain and the umbrellas. If so—and he remembered that that +seat had been occupied when he got to his place—she had perceived his +coming, had seen him mount, had been aware of him from the first. She +could see him now, watch every movement, read his self-consciousness in +the stiff pose of his head, perceive the rush of colour which dyed his +ears and neck. + +And he was planted there, he could not escape. And he suffered. Asked +beforehand, he would have said that his uppermost feeling in such +circumstances would be resentment. But, in fact, he could think of +nothing except that meeting in Parliament Street, and the rudeness with +which he had treated her. If he had not refused to speak to her, if he +had not passed her by, rejecting her hand with disdain, he might have +been his own master now; he would have been free to speak, or free to +be silent, as he pleased. And she who had treated him so ill would have +been the one to suffer. But, as it was, he was hot all over. The +intolerable _gêne_ of the situation rested on him and weighed him down. + +Until the coachman called his attention to a passing waggon, and +pointed out a something unusual in its make; which broke the spell and +freed his thoughts. After that he began to feel a little of the wonder +which the coincidence demanded. How came she in the same seat, on the +same coach on which she had travelled before. He could not bring +himself to look round and meet her eyes. But he remembered that a +man-servant, doubtless in attendance on her, shared the hind seat with +the clerk who had spoken to him; and the middle-aged woman who sat with +her was doubtless her maid. Still, he knew Sir Robert well enough to be +sure that he would not countenance her journeying, even with this +attendance, on a public vehicle; and therefore, he argued, she must be +doing it without Sir Robert’s knowledge, and probably in pursuance of +some whim of her own. Could it be that she, too, wished to revive the +bitter-sweet of recollection, the memory of that April day? And, to do +so, had gone out of her way to travel on this cold wet morning on the +same coach, which six months before had brought them together? + +If so, she must love him in spite of all. And in that case, what must +her feelings have been when she saw him take his place? What, when she +knew that she would not taste the bitter-sweet alone, but in his +company? What, when she foresaw that, through the day she would not +pass a single thing of all those well-remembered things, that milestone +which he had pointed out to her, that baiting-house of which she had +asked the name, that stone bridge with the hundred balustrades which +they had crossed in the gloaming—her eyes would not alight on one of +these, without another heart answering to every throb of hers, and +another breast aching as hers ached. + +At that thought a subtle attraction, almost irresistible, drew him to +her, and he could have cried to her, under the pain of separation. For +it was all true. Before his eyes those things were passing. There was +the milestone which he had pointed out to her. And there the ruined +inn. And here were the streets of Reading opening before them, and the +Market Place, and the Bear Inn, where he had saved her from injury, +perhaps from death. + +* * * * * + +They were out of the town, they were clear of the houses, and he had +not looked, he had not been able to look at her. Her weakness, her +inconstancy deserved their punishment: but for all her fortune, to +recover all that he had lost and she had gained, he would not have +looked at her there. Yet, while the coach changed horses in the Square +before the Bear, he had had a glimpse of her—reflected in the window of +a shop; and he had marked with greedy eyes each line of her figure and +seen that she had wound a veil round her face and hat, so that, +whatever her emotions, she might defy curious eyes. And yet, as far as +he was concerned, she had done it in vain. The veil could not hide the +agitation, could not hide the strained rigidity of her pose, or the +convulsive force with which one hand gripped the other in her lap. + +Well, that was over, thank God! For he had as soon seen a woman beaten. +The town was behind them; Newbury was not far in front. And now with +shame he began to savour a weak pleasure in her presence, in her +nearness to him, in the thought that her eyes were on him and her +thoughts full of him, and that if he stretched out his hand he could +touch her; that there was that between them, that there must always be +that between them, which time could not destroy. The coach was loaded, +but for him it carried her only: and for Mary he was sure that he +filled the landscape were it as wide as that which, west of Newbury, +reveals to the admiring traveller the whole wide vale of the Kennet. He +thrilled at the thought; and the coachman asked him if he were cold. +But he was far from cold; he knew that she too trembled, she, too, +thrilled. And a foolish exultation possessed him. He had hungry +thoughts of her nearness, and her beauty; and insane plans of snatching +her to his breast when she left the coach, and covering her with kisses +though a hundred looked on. He might suffer for it, he would deserve to +suffer for it, it would be an intolerable outrage. But he would have +kissed her, he would have held her to his heart. Nothing could undo +that. + +Yet it was only in fancy that he was reckless, for still he did not +dare to look at her. And when they came at last to Marlborough, and +drew up at the door of the Castle Inn, where west-bound travellers +dined, he descended hurriedly and went into the coffee-room to secure a +place in a corner, whence he might see her enter without meeting her +eyes. + +But she did not enter the house, soon or late. And a vain man might +have thought that she was not only bent on doing everything which she +had done on the former journey, but that it was not without intention +that she remained alone on the coach, exposed to his daring—if he chose +to dare. Not a few indeed, of his fellow-passengers, wandered out +before the time, and on the pretence of examining the façade of the +handsome old house, shot sidelong glances at the young lady, who, +wrapped in her furs and veiled to the throat, sat motionless in the +keen October air. But Vaughan was not of these; nor was he vain. When +he found that she did not come in, he decided that she would not meet +him, that she remained on the coach rather than sit in his company; and +forgetting the overture in Parliament Street, he remembered only her +fickleness and weakness. He fell to the depths. She had never loved +him, never, never! + +On that he almost made up his mind to stay there; and to go on by the +next coach. His presence must be hateful to her, a misery, a torment, +he told himself. It was bad enough to force her to remain exposed to +the weather while others dined; it would be monstrous to go on and +continue to make her wretched. + +But, before the time for leaving came, he changed his mind, and he went +out, feeling cowed and looking hard. He could not mount without seeing +her out of the corner of his eye; but the veil masked all, and left him +no wiser. The sun had burst through the clouds, and the sky above the +curving line of the downs was blue. But the October air was still +chilly, and he heard the maid fussing about her, and wrapping her up +more warmly. Well, it mattered little. At Chippenham, the carriage with +its pomp of postillions and outriders—Sir Robert was particular about +such things—would meet her; and he would see her no more. + +His pride weakened at that thought. She could never be anything to him +now; he had no longer the least notion of kissing her. But at +Chippenham, before she passed out of his life, he would speak to her. +Yes, he would speak. He did not know what he would say, but he would +not part from her in anger. He would tell her that, and bid her +good-bye. Later, he would be glad to remember that they had parted in +that way, and that he had forgiven! + +While he thought of it they fell swiftly from the lip of the downs, and +rattling over the narrow bridge and through the stone-built streets of +Calne, were out again on the Bath road. After that, though they took +Black Dog hill at a slow pace, they seemed to be at Chippenham in a +twinkling. Before he could calm his thoughts the coach was rattling +between houses, and the wide straggling street was opening before them, +and the group assembled in front of the Angel to see the coach arrive +was scattering to right and left. + +A glance told him that there was no carriage-and-four in waiting. And +because his heart was jumping so foolishly he was glad to put off the +moment of speaking to her. She would go into the house to wait for the +carriage, and when the coach, with its bustle and its many eyes, had +gone its way, he would be able to speak to her. + +Accordingly, the moment the coach stopped he descended and hastened +into the house. He sent out the “boots” for his valise and betook +himself to the bar-parlour, where he called for something and jested +cheerily with the smiling landlady, who came herself to attend upon +him. He kept his back to the door which Mary must pass to ascend the +stairs, for well he knew the parlour of honour to which she would be +ushered. But though he listened keenly for the rustle of her skirts, a +couple of minutes passed and he heard nothing. + +“You are not going on, sir?” the landlady asked. She knew too much of +the family politics to ask point-blank if he were going to Chippinge. + +“No,” he replied; “no, I”—his attention wandered—“I am not.” + +“I hope we may have the honour of keeping you tonight, sir?” she said. + +“Yes, I”—was that the coach starting?—“I think I shall stay the night.” +And then, “Sir Robert’s carriage is not here?” he asked, setting down +his glass. + +“No, sir. But two gentlemen have just driven in from Sir Robert’s in a +chaise. They are posting to Bath. One’s Colonel Brereton, sir. The +other’s a young gentleman, short and stout. Quite the gentleman, sir, +but that positive, the postboy told me, and talkative, you’d think he +was the Emperor of China! That’s their chaise coming out of the yard +now, sir.” + +A thought, keen as a knife-stab, darted through Vaughan’s mind. In +three strides he was out of the bar-parlour, in three more he was at +the door of the Angel. + +The coach was in the act of starting, the ostlers were falling back, +the guard was swinging himself up; and Mary Vermuyden was where he had +left her, in the place behind the coachman. And in the box-seat, the +very seat which he had vacated, was Bob Flixton, settling himself in +his wraps and turning to talk to her. + +Vaughan let fall a word which we will not chronicle. It was true, then! +They were engaged! Doubtless Flixton had come to meet her, and all was +over. Fan-fa-ra! Fan-fa-ra! The coach was growing small in the +distance. It veered a little, a block of houses hid it, Vaughan saw it +again. Then in the dusk of the October evening the descent to the +bridge swallowed it, and he turned away miserable. + +He walked a little distance from the door that his face might not be +seen. He did not tell himself that, because the view grew misty before +his eyes, he was taking the blow contemptibly; he told himself only +that he was very wretched, and that she was gone. It seemed as if so +much had gone with her; so much of the hope and youth and fortune, and +the homage of men, which had been his when he and she first saw the +streets of Chippenham together and he alighted to talk to Isaac White, +and mounted again to ride on by her side. + +He was standing with his back to the inn thinking of this—and not +bitterly, but in a broken fashion—when he heard his name called, and he +turned and saw Colonel Brereton striding after him. + +“I thought it was you,” Brereton said. But though he had not met +Vaughan for some months, and the two had liked one another, he spoke +with little cordiality, and there was a vague look in his face. “I was +not sure,” he added. + +“You came with Flixton?” Vaughan said, speaking, on his side also, +rather dully. + +“Yes, and meant to go on with him. But there’s no counting on men in +love,” Brereton continued with more irritation than the occasion seemed +to warrant. “He saw his charmer on the coach, and a vacant seat—and I +may find my way to Bath as I can.” + +“They are to be married, I hear?” Vaughan said in the same dull tone +and with his face averted. + +“I don’t know,” Brereton answered sourly. “What I do know is that I’m +not best pleased that he has left me. I heard Sir Charles Wetherell was +sleeping at your cousin’s last evening, and I posted there to see him +about the arrangements for his entry. But I missed him. He’s gone to +Bath for this evening. Well, I took Flixton with me because I didn’t +know Sir Robert and he did, and he’s supposed to be playing +aide-de-camp to me. But a fine aide-de-camp he’s like to prove, if this +is the way he treats me. You know Wetherell opens the Assizes at +Bristol tomorrow?” + +“Yes, I saw his clerk on my way here.” + +“There’ll be trouble, Vaughan!” + +“Really?” + +“Ay, really! And bad trouble! I wish it was over.” He passed his hand +across his brow. + +“I heard something of it in London,” Vaughan answered. + +“Not much, I’ll wager,” Brereton rejoined, with a brusqueness which +betrayed his irritation. “They don’t know much, or they wouldn’t be +sending me eighty sabres to keep order in a city of a hundred thousand +people! Enough, you see, to anger, and not enough to intimidate! It’s +just plain madness. It’s madness. But I’ve made up my mind! I’ve made +up my mind!” he repeated, speaking in a tone which betrayed the +tenseness of his nerves. “Not a man will I show if I can help it! Not a +man! And not a shot will I fire, whatever comes of it! I’ll be no +butcherer of innocent folk.” + +“I hope nothing will come of it,” Vaughan answered, interested in spite +of himself. “You’re in command, sir, of course?” + +“Yes, and I wish to heaven I were not! But there, there!” he continued, +pulling himself up as if he kept a watch on himself and feared that he +had said too much. “Enough of my business. What are you doing here?” + +“Well, I was going to Chippinge.” + +“Come to Bath with me! I shall see Wetherell, and you know him. You may +be of use to me. There’s half the chaise at your service, and I will +tell you about it, as we go.” + +Vaughan at that moment cared little where he went, and after the +briefest hesitation, he consented. A few minutes later they started +together. It happened that as they drove in the last of the twilight +over the long stone bridge, an open car drawn by four horses and +containing a dozen rough-looking men overtook them and raced them for a +hundred yards. + +“There’s another!” Brereton said, rising with an oath and looking after +it. “I was told that two had gone through!” + +“What is it? Who are they?” Vaughan asked, leaning out on his side to +see. + +“Midland Union men, come to stir up the Bristol lambs!” Brereton +answered. “They may spare themselves the trouble,” he continued +bitterly. “The fire will need no poking, I’ll be sworn!” + +And brought back to the subject, he never ceased from that moment to +talk of it. It was plain to anyone who knew him that a nervous +excitability had taken the place of his usual thoughtfulness. Long +before they reached Bath, Vaughan was sure that, whatever his own +troubles, there was one man in the world more unhappy than himself, +more troubled, less at ease; and that that man sat beside him in the +chaise. + +He believed that Brereton exaggerated the peril. But if his fears were +well-based, then he agreed that the soldiers sent were too few. + +“Still a bold front will do much!” he argued. + +“A bold front!” Brereton replied feverishly. “No, but management may! +Management may. They give me eighty swords to control eighty thousand +people! Why, it’s my belief”—and he dropped his voice and laid his hand +on his companion’s arm,—“that the Government wants a riot! Ay, by G—d, +it is! To give the lie to Wetherell and prove that the country, and +Bristol in particular, is firm for the Bill!” + +“Oh, but that’s absurd!” Vaughan answered; though he recalled what +Brougham had said. + +“Absurd or not, nine-tenths of Bristol believe it,” Brereton retorted. +“And I believe it! But I’ll be no butcher. Besides, do you see how I am +placed? If in putting down this riot which is in the Government +interest, and is believed to be fostered by them, I exceed my duty by a +jot, I am a lost man! A lost man! Now do you see?” + +“I can’t think it’s as bad as that,” Vaughan said. + + + + +XXIX +AUTUMN LEAVES + + +Miss Sibson paused to listen, but heard nothing. And disappointed, and +with a sigh, she spread a clean handkerchief over the lap of her gown +and helped herself to part of a round of buttered toast. + +“She’ll not come,” she muttered. “I was a fool to think it! An old fool +to think it!” And she bit viciously into the toast. + +It was long past her usual tea-time, yet she paused a second time to +listen, before she raised her first cup of tea to her lips. A covered +dish which stood on a brass trivet before the bright coal fire gave +forth a savoury smell, and the lamplight which twinkled on sparkling +silver and old Nantgarw, discovered more than the tea-equipage. The red +moreen curtains were drawn before the windows, a tabby cat purred +sleepily on the hearth; in all Bristol was no more cosy or more +cheerful scene. Yet Miss Sibson left the savoury dish untouched, and +ate the toast with less than her customary appetite. + +“I shall set,” she murmured, “‘The Deceitfulness of Riches’ for the +first copy when the children return. And for the second ‘Fine Feathers +Make Fine Birds!’ And”—she continued with determination, though there +was no one to be intimidated—“for the third, ‘There’s No Fool Like an +Old Fool!’” + +She had barely uttered the words when she set down her cup. The roll of +distant wheels had fallen on her ears. She listened for a few seconds, +then she rose in haste and rang the bell. “Martha,” she said when the +maid appeared, “are the two warming-pans in the bed?” + +“To be sure, Ma’am.” + +“And well filled?” Miss Sibson spoke suspiciously. + +“The sheets are as nigh singeing as you’d like, Ma’am,” the maid +answered. “You can smell ’em here! I only hope,” she continued, with a +quaver in her voice, “as we mayn’t smell fire before long!” + +“Smell fiddlesticks!” Miss Sibson retorted. Then “That will do,” she +continued. “I will open the door myself.” + +When she did so the lights of the hackney-coach which had stopped +before the house disclosed first Mary Vermuyden in her furs, standing +on the step; secondly, Mr. Flixton, who had placed himself as near her +as he dared; and thirdly and fourthly, flanking them at a distance of a +pace or two, a tall footman and a maid. + +“Good gracious!” Miss Sibson exclaimed, dismay in her tone. + +“Yes,” Mary answered, almost crying. “They would come! I said I wished +to come alone. Good-night, Mr. Flixton!” + +“Oh, but I—I couldn’t think of leaving you like this!” the Honourable +Bob answered. He had derived a minimum of satisfaction from his ride on +the coach, for Mary had shown herself of the coldest. And if he was to +part from her here he might as well have travelled with Brereton. +Besides, what the deuce was afoot? What was she doing here? + +“And Baxter is as bad,” Mary said plaintively. “As for Thomas——” + +“Beg pardon, Ma’am,” the man said, touching his hat, “but it is as much +as my place is worth.” + +The maid, a woman of mature years, said nothing, but held her ground, +the image of stolid disapproval. She knew Miss Sibson. But Bristol was +strange to her; and the dark windy square, with its flickering lights, +its glimpses of gleaming water and skeleton masts, and its unseen but +creaking windlasses, seemed to her, fresh from Lady Worcester’s, a most +unfitting place for her young lady. + +Miss Sibson cut the knot after her own fashion. “Well, I can’t take you +in,” she said bluffly. “This gentleman,” pointing to Mr. Flixton, “will +find quarters for you at the White Lion or the Bush. And your mistress +will see you to-morrow. Thomas, bring in your young lady’s trunk. +Good-night, sir,” she added, addressing the Honourable Bob. “Miss +Vermuyden will be quite safe with me.” + +“Oh, but I say, Miss Sibson!” he remonstrated. “You can’t mean to take +the moon out of the sky like this, and leave us in the dark? Miss +Vermuyden——” + +“Good-night,” Mary said, not a whit placated by the compliment. And she +slipped past Miss Sibson into the passage. + +“Oh, but it’s not safe, you know!” he cried. “You’re not a hundred +yards from the Mansion House here. And if those beggars make trouble +to-morrow—positively there’s no knowing what will happen!” + +“We can take care of ourselves, sir,” Miss Sibson replied curtly. +“Good-night, sir!” And she shut the door in his face. + +The Honourable Bob glared at it for a time, but it remained closed and +dark. There was nothing to be done save to go. “D——n the woman!” he +cried. And he turned about. + +It was something of a shock to him to find the two servants still at +his elbow, patiently regarding him. “Where are we to go, sir?” the maid +asked, as stolid as before. + +“Go?” cried he, staring. “Go? Eh? What? What do you mean?” + +“Where are we to go, sir, for the night? If you’ll please to show us, +sir. I’m a stranger here.” + +“Oh! This is too much!” the Honourable Bob cried, finding himself on a +sudden a family man. “Go? I don’t care if you go to——” But there he +paused. He put the temptation to tell them to go to blazes from him. +After all, they were Mary’s servants. “Oh, very well! Very well!” he +resumed, fuming. “There, get in! Get in!” indicating the hackney-coach. +“And do you,” he continued, turning to Thomas, “tell him to drive to +the White Lion. Was there ever? That old woman’s a neat artist, if ever +I saw one!” + +And a moment later Flixton trundled off, boxed in with the mature maid, +and vowing to himself that in all his life he had never been so diddled +before. + +Meanwhile, within doors—for farce and tragedy are never far apart—Mary, +with her furs loosened, but not removed, was resisting all Miss +Sibson’s efforts to restrain her. “I must go to her!” she said with +painful persistence. “I must go to her at once, if you please, Miss +Sibson. Where is she?” + +“She is not here,” Miss Sibson said, plump and plain. + +“Not here!” Mary cried, springing from the chair into which Miss Sibson +had compelled her. “Not here!” + +“No. Not in this house.” + +“Then why—why did she tell me to come here?” Mary cried dumbfounded. + +“Her ladyship is next door. No, my dear!” And Miss Sibson interposed +her ample form between Mary and the door. “You cannot go to her until +you have eaten and drunk. She does not expect you, and there is no need +of such haste. She may live a fortnight, three weeks, a month even! And +she must not, my dear, see you with that sad face.” + +Mary gave way at that. She sat down and burst into tears. + +The schoolmistress knew nothing of the encounter in Parliament Street, +nothing of the meeting on the coach. But she was a sagacious woman, and +she discerned something more than the fatigue of the journey, something +more than grief for her mother, in the girl’s depression. She said +nothing, however, contenting herself with patting her guest on the +shoulder and gently removing her wraps and shoes. Then she set a +footstool for her in front of the fire and poured out her tea, and +placed hot sweetbread before her, and toast, and Sally Lunn. And when +Mary, touched by her kindness, flung her arms round her neck and kissed +her, she said only, “That’s better, my dear, drink your tea, and then I +will tell you all I know.” + +“I cannot eat anything.” + +“Oh, yes, you can! After that you are going to see your mother, and +then you will come back and take a good night’s rest. To-morrow you +will do as you like. Her ladyship is with an old servant next door, +through whom she first heard of me.” + +“Why did she not remain in Bath?” Mary asked. + +“I cannot tell you,” Miss Sibson answered. “She has whims. If you ask +me, I should say that she thought Sir Robert would not find her here, +and so could not take you from her.” + +“But the servants?” Mary said in dismay. “They will tell my father. And +indeed——” + +“Indeed what, my dear?” + +“I do not wish to hide from him.” + +“Quite right!” Miss Sibson said. “Quite right, my dear. But I fancy +that that was her ladyship’s reason. Perhaps she thought also that when +she—that afterwards I should be at hand to take care of you. As a +fact,” Miss Sibson continued, rubbing her cheek with the handle of a +teaspoon, a sure sign that she was troubled, “I wish that your mother +had chosen another place. You don’t ask, my dear, where the children +are.” + +Mary looked at her hostess. “Oh, Miss Sibson!” she exclaimed, +conscience-stricken. “You cannot have sent them away for my sake?” + +“No, my dear,” Miss Sibson answered, noting with satisfaction that Mary +was making a meal. “No, their parents have removed them. The Recorder +is coming to-morrow, and he is so unpopular on account of this nasty +Bill—which is setting everyone on horseback whether they can ride or +not—and there is so much talk of trouble when he enters, that all the +foolish people have taken fright and removed their children for the +week. It’s pure nonsense, my dear,” Miss Sibson continued comfortably. +“I’ve seen the windows of the Mansion House broken a score of times at +elections, and not another house in the Square a penny the worse! Just +an old custom. And so it will be to-morrow. But the noise may disturb +her ladyship, and that’s why I wish her elsewhere.” + +Mary did not answer, and the schoolmistress, noting her spiritless +attitude and the dark shadows under her eyes, was confirmed in her +notion that here was something beyond grief for the mother whom the +girl had scarcely known. And Miss Sibson felt a tug at her own +heartstrings. She was well-to-do and well considered in Bristol, and +she was not conscious that her life was monotonous. But the gay scrap +of romance which Mary’s coming had wrought into the dull patchwork of +days, long toned to the note of Mrs. Chapone, was welcome to her. Her +little relaxations, her cosy whist-parties, her hot suppers to follow, +these she had: but here was something brighter and higher. It stirred a +long-forgotten youth, old memories, the ashes of romance. She loved +Mary for it. + +To rouse the girl, she rose from her chair. “Now, my dear,” she said, +“you can go to your room, if you will. And in ten minutes we will step +next door.” + +Mary looked at her with grateful eyes. “I am glad now,” she said, “I am +glad that she came here.” + +“Ah!” the schoolmistress answered, pursing up her lips. And she looked +at the girl uncertainly. “It’s odd,” she said, “I sometimes think that +you are just—Mary Smith.” + +“I am!” the other answered warmly. “Always Mary Smith to you!” And the +old woman took the young one to her arms. + +A quarter of an hour later Mary came down, and she was Mary Smith in +truth. For she had put on the grey Quaker-like dress in which she had +followed her trunk from the coach-office six months before. “I +thought,” she said, “that I could nurse her better in this than in my +new clothes!” But she blushed deeply as she spoke: for if she had this +thought she had others also in her mind. She might not often wear that +dress, but she would never part with it. Arthur Vaughan’s eyes had +worshipped it; his hands had touched it. And in the days to come it +would lie, until she died, in some locked coffer, perfumed with +lavender, and sweet with the dried rose-leaves of her dead romance. And +on one day in the year she would visit it, and bury her face in its +soft faded folds, and dream the old dreams. + +It was but a step to the door of the neighbouring house. But the +distance, though short, steadied the girl’s mind and enabled her to +taste that infinity of the night, that immensity of nature, which, like +a fathomless ocean, islands the littleness of our lighted homes. The +groaning of strained cordage, the creaking of timbers, the far-off +rattle of a boom came off the dark water that lipped the wharves which +still fringe three sides of the Square. Here and there a rare gas-lamp, +lately set up, disclosed the half-bare arms of trees, or some vague +opening leading to the Welsh Back. But for all the two could see, as +they glided from the one door to the other, the busy city about them, +seething with so many passions, pregnant with so much danger, hiding in +its entrails the love, the fear, the secrets of a myriad lives, might +have been in another planet. + +Mary owned the calming influence of the night and the stars, and before +the door opened to Miss Sibson’s knock, the blush had faded from her +cheek. It was with solemn thoughts that she went up the wide oaken +staircase, still handsome, though dusty and fallen from its high +estate. The task before her, the scene on the threshold of which she +trod, brought the purest instincts of her nature into play. But her +guide knocked, someone within the room bade them enter, and Mary +advanced. She saw lights and a bed—a four-poster, heavily curtained. +And half blinded by her tears, she glided towards the bed—or was +gliding, when a querulous voice arrested her midway. + +“So you are come!” it said. And Lady Sybil, who, robed in a silken +dressing-gown, was lying on a small couch in a different part of the +room, tossed a book, not too gently, to the floor. “What stuff! What +stuff!” she ejaculated wearily. “A schoolgirl might write as good! +Well, you are come,” she continued. “There,” as Mary, flung back on +herself, bent timidly and kissed her, “that will do! That will do! I +can’t bear anyone near me! Don’t come too near me! Sit on that chair, +where I can see you!” + +Mary beat back her tears and obeyed with a quivering lip. “I hope you +are better,” she said. + +“Better!” her mother retorted in the same peevish tone. “No, and shall +not be!” Then, with a shrill scream, “Heavens, child, what have you got +on?” she continued. “What have you done to yourself? You look like a +_sœur de Charité!_” + +“I thought that I could nurse you better in this,” Mary faltered. + +“Nurse me!” + +“Yes, I——” + +“Rubbish!” Lady Sybil exclaimed with petulant impatience. “You nurse? +Don’t be silly! Who wants you to nurse me? I want you to amuse me. And +you won’t do that by dressing yourself like a dingy death’s-head moth! +There, for Heaven’s sake,” with a catch in her voice which went to +Mary’s heart, “don’t cry! I’m not strong enough to bear it. Tell me +something! Tell me anything to make me laugh. How did you trick Sir +Robert, child? How did you escape? That will amuse me,” with a +mirthless laugh. “I wish I could see his solemn face when he hears that +you are gone!” + +Mary explained that the summons had found her in London; that her +father was not there, but that still she had had to beat down Lady +Worcester’s resistance before she could have her way and leave. + +“I don’t know her,” Lady Sybil said shortly. + +“She was very kind to me,” Mary answered. + +“I dare say,” in the same tone. + +“But she would not let me go until I gave her my address.” + +Lady Sybil sat up sharply. “And you did that?” she shrieked. “You gave +it her?” + +“I was obliged to give it,” Mary stammered, “or I could not have left +London.” + +“Obliged? Obliged?” Lady Sybil retorted, in the same passionate tone. +“Why, you fool, you might have given her fifty addresses! Any address! +Any address but this! There!” Lady Sybil continued sullenly, as she +sank back and pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “You’ve done it +now. You’ve excited me. Give me those drops! There! Are you blind? +Those! Those! And—and sit farther from me! I can’t breathe with you +close to me!” + +After which, when Mary, almost heartbroken, had given her the medicine, +and seated herself in the appointed place, she turned her face to the +wall and lay silent and morose, uttering no sound but an occasional +sigh of pain. + +Meantime, to eyes that could read, the room told her story, and told it +eloquently. The table beside the couch was strewn with rose-bound +Annuals and Keepsakes, and a dozen volumes bearing the labels of more +than one library; books opened only to be cast aside. Costly toys and +embroidered nothings, vinaigrettes and scent-bottles, lay scattered +everywhere; and on other tables, on the mantelpiece, on the floor, a +litter of similar trifles elbowed and jostled the gloomy tokens of +illness. Near the invalid’s hand lay a miniature in a jewelled frame, +while a packet of letters tied with a fragment of gold lace, and a buhl +desk half-closed upon a broken fan told the same tale of ennui, and of +a vanity which survived the charms on which it had rested. The lesson +was not lost on the daughter’s heart. It moved her to purest pity; and +presently, wrung by a sigh more painful than usual, she crept to the +couch, sank on her knees, and pressed her cool lips to the wasted hand +which hung from it. Even then for a time her mother did not move or +take notice. But slowly the weary sighs grew more frequent, grew to +sobs—how much less poignant!—and her weak arm drew Mary’s head to her +bosom. + +And by-and-by the arm tightened its hold and gripped her convulsively, +the sobs grew deeper and shook the worn form at each respiration; and +presently, “Ah, God, what will become of me?” burst from the depths of +the poor quaking heart, too proud hitherto to make its fear known. +“What will become of me?” + +That cry pierced Mary like a knife, but its confession of weakness made +mother and daughter one. Her feeble arms could not avert the approach +of the dark shadow, whose coming terrified though it could not change. +But what human love could do, what patient self-forgetfulness might +teach, she vowed that she would do and teach; and what clinging hands +might compass to delay the end, her hands should compass. When Miss +Sibson’s message, informing her that it was time to return, was brought +to her, she shook her head, smiling, and locked the door. “I shall be +your nurse, after all!” she said. “I shall not leave you.” And before +midnight, with a brave contentment, for which Lady Sybil’s following +eyes were warrant, she had taken possession of the room and all its +contents; she had tidied as much as it was good to tidy, she had knelt +to heat the milk or brush the hearth, she had smoothed the pillow, and +sworn a score of times that nothing, no Sir Robert, no father, no force +should tear her from this her duty, this her joy—until the end. + +No memory of her dull childhood, or of the days of labour and servitude +which she owed to the dying woman, no thought of the joys of wealth and +youth which she had lost through her, rose to mar the sincerity of her +love. Much less did such reflections trouble her on whose flighty mind +they should have rested so heavily. So far indeed was this from being +the case, that when Mary stooped to some office which the mother’s +fastidiousness deemed beneath her, “How can you do that?” Lady Sybil +cried peevishly. “I’ll not have you do it! Do you hear me, girl? Let +some servant see to it! What else are they for!” + +“But I used to do it every day at Clapham,” Mary answered cheerfully. +She had not spoken before, aware of the reproach which her words +conveyed, she could have bitten her tongue. + +But Lady Sybil did not wince. “Then why did you do it?” she retorted, +“Why did you do it? Why were you so foolish as to stoop to such things? +I’m sure you didn’t get your poor spirit from me! And Vermuyden was as +stiff as a poker! But there! I remember the prince saying once that +ladies went out of fashion with hoops, and gentlemen with snuffboxes. +You make me think he was right. Oh, clumsy!” she continued, raising her +voice, “now you are turning the light on my face! Do you wish to see me +hideous?” + +Mary moved it. “Is that better, mother?” she asked. + +Lady Sybil cast a resentful glance at her. “There, there, let it be!” +she said. “You can’t help it. You’re like your father. He could never +do anything right! I suppose I am doomed to have none but helpless +people about me.” + +And so on, and so on. Like many invalids, she was most lively at night, +and she continued to complain through long restless hours, with the +candles burning lower and lower, and the snuffers coming into more +frequent request. Until with the chill before the dawn she fell at last +into a fitful sleep; and Mary, creeping to the close-curtained windows +to cool her weary eyes, peeped out and saw the grey of the morning. +Outside, the Square was beginning to discover its half-bare trees and +long straight rows of houses. Through openings, here and there, the +water glimmered mistily; and on the height facing her, the tall tower +of St. Mary Redcliffe rose above the roofs and pointed skywards. Little +did Mary think what the day would bring forth in that grey deserted +place on which she looked; or in what changed conditions, under what +stress of mind and heart, she would, before the sun set twice, view +that Square. + + + + +XXX +THE MAYOR’S RECEPTION IN QUEEN’S SQUARE + + +The day, of which Mary watched the cloudy opening from her mother’s +window, was drawing to a close; and from a house in the same Square—but +on the north side, whereas Miss Sibson’s was on the west—another pair +of eyes looked out, while a heart, which a few hours before had been as +sore as hers, rose a little at the prospect. Arthur Vaughan, ignorant +of her proximity—to love’s shame be it said—sat in a window on the +first floor of the Mansion House, and, undismayed by the occasional +crash of glass, watched the movements of the swaying, shouting, mocking +crowd; a crowd, numbering some thousands, which occupied the middle +space of the Square, as well as the roadways, clustered upon the +Immortal Memory, overflowed into the side streets, and now joined in +one mighty roar of “Reform! Reform!” now groaned thunderously at the +name of Wetherell. Behind Vaughan in the same room, the drawing-room of +the official residence, some twenty or thirty persons argued and +gesticulated; at one time approaching a window to settle a debated +point, at another scattering with exclamations of anger as a stone fell +or some other missile alighted among them. + +“Boo! Boo!” yelled the mob below. “Throw him out! Reform! Reform!” + +Vaughan looked down on the welter of moving faces. He saw that the +stone-throwers were few, and the daredevils, who at times adventured to +pull up the railings which guarded the forecourt, were fewer. But he +saw also that the mass sympathised with them, egged them on, and +applauded their exploits. And he wondered what would happen when night +fell, and wondered again why the peaceable citizens who wrangled behind +him made light of the position. The glass was flying, here and there an +iron bar had vanished from the railings, night was approaching. For him +it was very well. He had accompanied Brereton to Bristol to see what +would happen, and for his part, if the adventure proved to be of the +first class, so much the better. But the good pursy citizens behind +him, who, when they were not deafening the little Mayor with their +counsels, were making a jest of the turmoil, had wives and daughters, +goods and houses within reach. And in their place he felt that he would +have been far from easy. + +By and by it appeared that some of them shared his feelings. For +presently, in a momentary lull of the babel outside, a voice he knew +rose above those in the room. + +“Nothing? You call it nothing?” Mr. Cooke—for his was the voice—cried. +“Nothing, that his Majesty’s Judge has been hooted and pelted from +Totterdown to the Guildhall? Nothing, that the Recorder of Bristol has +been hunted like a criminal from the Guildhall to this place! You call +it nothing, sir, that his Majesty’s Commission has been flouted for six +hours past by all the riffraff of the Docks? And with half of decent +Bristol looking on and applauding!” + +“Oh, no, no!” the little Mayor remonstrated. “Not applauding, Mr. +Cooke!” + +“Yes, sir, applauding!” Cooke retorted with vigour. + +“And teach Wetherell a lesson!” someone in the background muttered. + +The man spoke low, but Cooke heard the words and wheeled about. “There, +sir, there!” he cried, stuttering in his indignation. “What do you say +to that? Here, in your presence, the King’s Judge is insulted. But I +warn you,” he continued, “I warn you all! You are playing with fire! +You are laughing in your sleeves, but you’ll cry in your shirts! You, +Mr. Mayor, I call upon you to do your duty! I call upon you to summon +the military and give the order to clear the streets before worse comes +of it.” + +“I don’t—I really don’t—think that it is necessary,” the Mayor answered +pacifically. “I have seen as bad as this at half a dozen elections, Mr. +Cooke.” + +The Town-clerk, a tall, thin man, who still wore his gown though he had +laid aside his wig, struck in. “Quite true, Mr. Mayor!” he said. “The +fact is, the crowd thinks itself hardly used on these occasions if it +is not allowed to break the windows and do a little mischief on the +lower floor.” + +“By G—d, I’d teach it a lesson then!” Cooke retorted. “It seems to me +it is time someone did!” + +Two or three expressed the same opinion, though they did so with less +decision. But the main part smiled at Cooke’s heat as at a foolish +display of temper. “I’ve seen as much half a dozen times,” said one, +shrugging his shoulders. “And no harm done!” + +“I’ve seen worse!” another answered. “And after all,” the speaker added +with a wink, “it is good for the glaziers.” + +Fortunately, Cooke did not hear this last. But Vaughan heard it, and he +judged that the rioters had their backers within as well as without; +and that within, as without, the notion prevailed that the Government +would not be best pleased if the movement were too roughly checked. An +old proverb about the wisdom of dealing with the beginnings of mischief +occurred to him. But he supposed that the authorities knew their +business and Bristol, and, more correctly than he, could gauge the mob +and the danger, of both of which they made so light. + +Still he wondered. And he wondered more three minutes later. Two +servants brought in lights. Unfortunately the effect of these was to +reveal the interior of the room to the mob, and the change was the +signal for a fusillade of stones so much more serious and violent than +anything which had gone before that a quick _sauve qui peut_ took +place. Vaughan was dislodged with the others—he could do no good by +remaining; and in two minutes the room was empty, and the mob were +celebrating their victory with peals of titanic laughter, accompanied +by fierce cries of “Throw him out! Throw out the d——d Recorder! +Reform!” + +Meanwhile the company, with one broken head and one or two pale faces, +had taken refuge on the landing behind the drawing-room, the stairs +ascending to which were guarded by a reserve of constables. Vaughan saw +that the Mayor and his satellites were beginning to look at one +another, and leaning, quietly observant, against the wall, he noticed +that more than one was shaken. Still the little Mayor retained his +good-humour. “Oh, dear, dear!” he said indulgently. “This is too bad! +Really too bad!” + +“We’d better go upstairs,” Sergeant Ludlow, the Town-clerk, suggested. +“We can see what passes as well from that floor as from this, and with +less risk!” + +“No, but really this is growing serious,” a third said timidly. “It’s +too bad, this.” + +He had scarcely spoken, and the Mayor was still standing undecided, as +if he did not quite like the idea of retreat, when two persons, one +with his head bandaged, came quickly up the stairs. “Where’s the +Mayor?” cried the first. And then, “Mr. Mayor, they are pushing us too +hard,” said the second, an officer of special constables. “We must have +help, or they will pull the house about our ears.” + +“Oh, nonsense!” + +“But it’s not nonsense, sir,” the man answered angrily. + +“But——” + +“You must read the Riot Act, sir,” the other, who was the +Under-Sheriff, chimed in. “And the sooner the better, Mr. Mayor,” he +added with decision. “We’ve half a dozen men badly hurt. In my opinion +you should send for the military.” + +The group on the landing looked aghast at one another. What, danger? +Really—danger? Half a dozen men badly hurt? Then one made an effort to +carry it off. “Send for the military?” he gasped. “Oh, but that is +absurd! That would only make matters worse!” + +The others did not speak, and the Mayor in particular looked upset. +Perhaps for the first time he appreciated the responsibility which lay +on his shoulders. Meanwhile Vaughan saw all; and Cooke also, and the +latter laughed maliciously. “Perhaps you will listen now,” he said with +an ill-natured chuckle. “You would not listen to me!” + +“Dear, dear,” the Mayor quavered. “Is it really as serious as that, Mr. +Hare?” He turned to the Town-clerk. “What do you advise?” he asked. + +“I think with Mr. Hare that you had better read the Riot Act, sir.” + +“Very well, I’ll come down! I’ll come down at once,” the Mayor assented +with spirit. “Only,” he continued, looking round him, “I beg that some +gentleman known to be on the side of Reform, will come with me. Who has +the Riot Act?” + +“Mr. Burges. Where is he?” + +“I am here, sir,” replied the gentleman named. “I am quite ready, Mr. +Mayor. If you will say a few words to the crowd; I am sure they will +listen. Let us go down!” + +* * * * * + +Twenty minutes later the same group, but with disordered clothes and +sickly faces—and as to Mr. Burges, with a broken head—were gathered +again on the landing. In those twenty minutes, despite the magic of the +Riot Act, the violence of the mob had grown rather than diminished. +They were beginning to talk of burning the Mansion House, they were +calling for straw, they were demanding lights. Darkness had fallen, +too, and there could be no question now that the position was serious. +The Mayor, who, below stairs, had shown no lack of courage, turned to +the Town-clerk. “Ought I to call out the military?” he asked. + +“I think that we should take Sir Charles Wetherell’s opinion,” the +tall, thin man answered, deftly shifting the burden from his own +shoulders. + +“The sooner Sir Charles is gone the better, I should say!” Cooke said +bluntly. “If we don’t want to have his blood on our heads.” + +“I am with Mr. Cooke there,” the Under-Sheriff struck in. He was +responsible for the Judge’s safety, and he spoke strongly. “Sir Charles +should be got away,” he continued. “That’s the first thing to be done. +He cannot hold the Assizes, and I say frankly that I will not be +responsible if he stays.” + +“Jonah!” someone muttered with a sneering laugh. + +The Mayor turned about. “That’s very improper!” he said. + +“It’s very improper to send a Judge who is a politician!” the voice +answered. + +“And against the Bill!” a second jeered. + +“For shame! For shame!” the Mayor cried. + +“And I fancy, sir,” the Under-Sheriff struck in with heat, “that the +gentlemen who have just spoken—I think I can guess their names—will be +sorry before morning! They will find that it is easier to kindle a fire +than to put it out! But—silence, gentlemen! Silence! Here is Sir +Charles!” + +Wetherell had that moment opened the door of his private room, of which +the window looked to the back. His face betrayed his surprise on +finding twenty or thirty persons huddled in disorder at the head of the +stairs. The two lights which had survived the flight from the +drawing-room flared in the draught of the shattered windows, and the +wavering illumination gave a sinister cast to the scene. The dull +rattle of stones on the floor of the rooms exposed to the Square—varied +at times by a roar of voices or a rush of feet in the hall +below—suggested that the danger was near at hand, and that the +assailants might at any moment break into the building. + +Nevertheless Sir Charles showed no signs of fear. After letting his +eyes travel over the group, “How long is this going on, Mr. +Under-Sheriff?” he asked, plunging his hands deep in his breeches +pockets. + +“Well, Sir Charles——” + +“They seem,” with a touch of sternness, “to be carrying the jest rather +too far.” + +“Mr. Cooke,” the Mayor said, “wishes me to call out the military.” + +Wetherell shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “The occasion is not so +serious as to justify that. You cannot say that life is in danger?” + +The Under-Sheriff put himself forward. “I can say, sir,” he answered +firmly, “that yours is in danger. And in serious danger!” + +Wetherell planted his feet further apart, and thrust his hands lower +into his pockets. “Oh, no, no,” he said. + +“It is yes, yes, sir,” the Under-Sheriff replied bluntly. “Unless you +leave the house I cannot be responsible! I cannot, indeed, Sir +Charles.” + +“But——” + +“Listen, sir! If you don’t wish a very terrible catastrophe to happen, +you must go! By G—d you must!” the Under-Sheriff repeated, forgetting +his manners. + +The noise below had swollen suddenly. Cries, blows, and shrieks rose up +the staircase, and announced that at any moment the party above might +have to defend their lives. At the prospect suddenly presented, respect +for dignities took flight; panic seized the majority. Constables, +thrusting aldermen and magistrates aside, raced up the stairs, and +bundled down again laden with beds with which to block the windows: +while the picked men who had hitherto guarded the foot of the staircase +left their posts in charge of two or three of the wounded, who groaned +dismally. Apparently the mob had broken into part of the ground floor, +and were with difficulty held at bay. + +One of the party struck his hand on the balusters—it was Mr. Cooke. “By +Heavens!” he said, “this is what comes of your d——d Reform! Your d——d +Reform! We shall all be murdered, every man of us! Murdered!” + +“For God’s sake, Mr. Mayor,” cried a quavering voice, “send for the +military.” + +“Ay, ay! the soldiers. Send for the soldiers, sir!” echoed two or +three. + +“Certainly I will,” said the Mayor, who was cooler than most. “Who will +go?” + +A man volunteered. On which Vaughan, who had so far remained silent, +stepped forward. “Sir Charles,” he said, “you must retire. Your duties +are at an end, and your presence hampers the defence. Permit me to +escort you. I am unknown here, and can pass through the streets.” + +Wetherell, as brave, stout and as solid a man as any in England, +hesitated. But he saw that it would soon be everyone for himself; and +in that event he was doomed. The din was waxing louder and more +menacing; the group on the stairs was melting away. In terror on their +own account, the officials were beginning to forget his presence. +Several had already disappeared, seeking to save themselves, this way +and that. Others were going. Every moment the confusion increased, and +the panic. He gave way. “You think I ought to go, Vaughan?” he asked in +a low voice. + +“I do, sir,” Vaughan answered. And, entering the Recorder’s room, he +brought out Sir Charles’s hat and cloak and hastily thrust them on him, +scarcely anyone else attending to them. As he did this his eye alighted +on a constable’s staff which lay on the floor where its owner had +dropped it. Thinking that, as he was without arms, he might as well +possess himself of it, Vaughan left Wetherell’s side and went to pick +it up. At that moment a roar of sound, as sudden as the explosion of a +gun, burst up the staircase. Two or three cried in a frenzied way that +the mob were coming; some fled this way, some that, a few to windows at +the back, more to the upper story, while a handful obeyed Vaughan’s +call to stand and hold the head of the stairs. For a brief space all +was disorder and—save in his neighbourhood—panic. Then a voice below +shouted that the soldiers were come, and a general “Thank God! Not a +moment too soon!” was heard on all sides. Vaughan made sure that it was +true, and then he turned to rejoin Sir Charles. + +But Wetherell had vanished, and no one could say in which direction. +Vaughan hurried upstairs and along the passages in anxious search; but +in vain. One told him that Sir Charles had left by a window at the +back; another, that he had been seen going upstairs with the +Under-Sheriff. He could learn nothing certain; and he was asking +himself what he should do next, when the sound of cheering reached his +ear. + +“What is that?” he asked a man who met him as he descended the stairs +from the second floor. + +“They are cheering the soldiers,” the man replied. + +“I am glad to hear it!” Vaughan exclaimed. + +“I’d say so too,” the other rejoined glumly, “if I was certain on which +side the soldiers were! But you’re wanted, sir, in the drawing-room. +The Mayor asked me to find you.” + +“Very good,” Vaughan said, and without delay he followed the messenger +to the room he had named. Here, with the relics of the fray about them, +he found the Mayor and four or five officials who looked woefully +shaken and flustered. With them were Brereton and the Honourable Bob, +both in uniform. The stone-throwing had ceased, for the front of the +house was now guarded by a double line of troopers in red cloaks. +Lights, too, had been brought, and in the main the danger seemed to be +over. But about this council there was none of that lightheartedness, +none of that easy contempt which had characterised the one held in the +same room an hour or two before. The lesson had been learnt in a +measure. + +The Mayor looked at Vaughan as he entered. “Is this the gentleman?” he +asked. + +“Yes, that is the gentleman who got us together at the head of the +stairs,” a person, a stranger to Vaughan, answered. “If he,” the man +continued, “were put in charge of the constables, who are at present at +sixes and sevens, we might manage something.” + +A voice in the background mentioned that it was Mr. Vaughan, the Member +for Chippinge. “I shall be glad to do anything I can,” Vaughan said. + +“In support of the military,” the tall, thin Town-clerk interposed, in +a decided tone. “That must be understood. Eh, Mr. Burges?” + +“Certainly,” the City Solicitor answered. And they both looked at +Colonel Brereton, who, somewhat to Vaughan’s surprise, had not +acknowledged his presence. + +“Of course, of course,” said the Mayor pacifically. “That is +understood. I am quite sure that Colonel Brereton will use his utmost +force to clear the streets and quiet the city.” + +“I shall do what I think right,” Brereton replied, standing up +straight, with his hand on his sword-hilt, and looking, among the +disordered citizens, like a Spanish hidalgo among a troop of peasants. +“I shall do what is right,” he repeated stubbornly; and Vaughan, +knowing the man well, perceived that, quiet as he seemed, he was +labouring under strong excitement. “I shall walk my horses about. The +crowd are perfectly good-humoured, and only need to be kept moving.” + +The Town-clerk exchanged a glance with a neighbour. “But do you think, +sir,” he said, “that that will be sufficient? You are aware, I suppose, +that great damage has been done already, and that had your troop not +arrived when it did many lives might have been sacrificed?” + +“That is all I shall do,” Brereton answered. “Unless,” with a faint +ring of contempt in his tone, “the Mayor gives me an express and +written order to attack the people.” + +The Mayor’s face was a picture. “I?” he gasped. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“But I—I could not take that responsibility on myself,” the Mayor +cried. “I couldn’t, I really couldn’t!” he repeated, taken aback by the +burden it was proposed to put on him. “I can’t judge, Colonel +Brereton—I am not a military man—whether it is necessary or not.” + +“I should consider it unwise,” Brereton replied formally. + +“Very good! Then—then you must use your discretion.” + +“Just so. That’s what I supposed,” Brereton replied, not masking his +contempt for the vacillation of those about him. “In that case I shall +pursue the line of action I have indicated. I shall walk my horses up +and down. The crowd are perfectly good-humoured. What is it, pray?” + +He turned, frowning. A man had entered the room and was whispering in +the Town-clerk’s ear. The latter straightened himself with a heated +face. “You call them good-humoured, sir?” he said. “I hear that two of +your men, Colonel Brereton, have just been brought in severely wounded. +I do not know whether you call that good-humour?” + +Brereton looked a little discomposed. “They must have brought it on +themselves,” he said, “by some rashness. Your constables have no +discretion.” + +“I think you should at least clear the Square and the neighbouring +streets,” the Town-clerk persisted. + +“I have indicated what I shall do,” Brereton replied, with a gloomy +look. “And I am prepared to be responsible for the safety of the city. +If you wish me to act beyond my judgment, the civil power must give me +an express and written order.” + +Still the Mayor and those about him looked uneasy, though they did not +dare to do what Brereton suggested. The howls of the rabble still rang +in their ears, and before their eyes they had the black, gaping +casements, through which an ominous murmur entered. They had waited +long before calling in the Military, they had hesitated long; for +Peterloo had erased Waterloo from the memory of an ungrateful +generation, and men, secure abroad and straining after Reform at home, +held a red-coat in small favour, if not in suspicion. But having called +the red-coats in, they looked for something more than this, for some +vindication of the law and the civil power, some stroke which would +cast terror into the hearts of misdoers. The Town-clerk, in particular, +had his doubts, and when no one else spoke he put them into words. + +“May I ask,” he said formally, “if you have any orders, Colonel +Brereton, from the Secretary of State or the Horse Guards, which +prevent you from obeying the directions of the magistrates?” + +Brereton looked at him sternly. + +“No,” he said, “I am prepared to obey your orders, stated in the manner +I have laid down. Then the responsibility will not lie with me.” + +But the Mayor stepped back. “I couldn’t take it on myself, sir. I—God +knows what the consequences might be!” He looked round piteously. “We +don’t want another Manchester massacre.” + +“I fancy,” Brereton answered grimly, “that if we have another +Manchester business, it will go ill with those who sign the order! +Times are changed since ’19, gentlemen—and governments! And I think we +understand that. You leave it to me, then, gentlemen?” + +No one spoke. + +“Very good,” he continued. “If your constables will do their duty with +discretion—and you could not have a better man to command them than Mr. +Vaughan, but he ought to be going about it now—I will answer for the +peace of the city.” + +“But—but we shall see you again, Colonel Brereton,” the Mayor cried in +some agitation. + +“See me, sir?” Brereton answered contemptuously. + +“Oh, yes, you can see me, if you wish to! But——” He shrugged his +shoulders, and turned away without finishing the sentence. + +Vaughan, when he heard that, knew that, cool as Brereton seemed, he was +not himself. A moody stubbornness had taken the place of last night’s +excitement; but that was all. And as the party trooped downstairs—he +had requested the Mayor to say a few words, placing the constables +under his control—he swallowed his private feelings and approached +Flixton. + +“Flixton,” he whispered, throwing what friendliness he could into his +voice. “Do you think Brereton’s right?” + +Flixton turned an ill-humoured face towards him, and dragged at his +sword-belt. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said irritably. “It’s his business, +and I suppose he can judge. There’s a deuce of a crowd, I know, and if +we go charging into it we shall be swallowed up in a twinkling!” + +“But it has been whispered to me,” Vaughan replied, “that he told the +people on his way here that he’s for Reform. Isn’t it unwise to let +them think that the soldiers may side with them?” + +“Fine talking,” Flixton answered with a sneer. “And God knows if we had +five hundred men, or three hundred, I’d agree. But what can sixty or +eighty men do galloping over slippery pavements in the dark? And if we +fire and kill a dozen, the Government will hang us to clear themselves! +And these d——d nigger-drivers and sugar-boilers behind us would be the +first to swear against us!” + +Vaughan had his own opinion. But they had to part then. Flixton, in his +blue uniform—there were two troops present, one of the 3rd Dragoon +Guards in red, and one of the 14th Dragoons in blue—went out by +Brereton’s side with his spurs ringing on the stone pavement and his +sword clanking. He was not acting with his troop, but as the Colonel’s +aide-de-camp. Meanwhile Vaughan, who could not see the old blue uniform +without a pang, went with the Mayor to marshal the constables. + +Of these no more than eighty remained, and with little stomach for the +task before them. This task, indeed, notwithstanding the check which +the arrival of the troopers had given the mob, was far from easy. The +ground-floor of the Mansion House looked like a place taken by storm +and sacked. The railings which guarded the forecourt were gone, and +even the wall on which they stood had been demolished to furnish +missiles. The doorways and windows, where they were not clumsily +barricaded, were apertures inviting entrance. In one room lay a pile of +straw ready for lighting. In another lay half a dozen wounded men. +Everywhere the cold wind, blowing off the water of the Welsh Back, +entered a dozen openings and extinguished the flares as quickly as they +could be lighted, casting now one room and now another into black +shadow. + +But if the men had little heart for further exertions, Vaughan’s +manhood rose the higher to meet the call. Bringing his soldier’s +training into play, in a few minutes he had his force divided into four +companies, each under a leader. Two he held in reserve, bidding them +get what rest they could; with the other two he manned the forecourt, +and guarded the flank which lay open to the Welsh Back. And as long as +the troopers rode up and down within a stone’s-throw all was well. But +when the soldiers passed to the other side of the Square a rush was +made on the house—mainly by a gang of the low Irish of the +neighbourhood—and many a stout blow was struck before the rabble, who +thirsted for the strong ale and wine in the cellars, could be dislodged +from the forecourt and driven to a distance. The danger to life was not +great, though the tale of wounded grew steadily; nor could the post of +Chief Constable be held to confer much honour on one who so short a +time before had dreamt of Cabinets and portfolios, and of a Senate +hanging on his words. But the joy of conflict was something to a stout +heart, and the sense of success. Something, too, it was to feel that +where he stood his men stood also; and that where he was not, the +Irish, with their brickbats and iron bars, made a way. There was a big +lout, believed by some to be a Brummagem man and a tool of the +Political Union, who more than once led on the assailants; and when +Vaughan found that this man shunned him and chose the side where he was +not, that too was a joy. + +“After all, this is what I am good for,” he told himself as he stood to +take breath after a _mêlée_ which was at once the most serious and the +last. “I was a fool to leave the regiment,” he continued, staunching a +trickle of blood which ran from a cut on his cheek bone. “For, after +all, better a good blow than a bad speech! Better, perhaps, a good blow +than all the speeches, good and bad!” And in the heat of the moment he +swung his staff. Then—then he thought of Mary and of Flixton, and his +heart sank, and his joy was at an end. + +“Don’t think they’ll try us again, sir,” said an old pensioner, who had +constituted himself his orderly, and who had known the neigh of the +war-horse in the Peninsula. “If we had had you at the beginning we’d +have had no need of the old Blues, nor the Third either!” + +“Oh, that’s rubbish!” Vaughan replied. But he owned the flattery, and +his heart warmed to the pensioner, whose prediction proved to be +correct. The crowd melted slowly but certainly after that. By eleven +o’clock there were but a couple of hundred in the Square. By twelve, +even these were gone. A half-dozen troopers, and as many +tatterdemalions, slinking about the dark corners, were all that +remained of the combatants; and the Mayor, with many words, presented +Vaughan with the thanks of the city for his services. + +“It is gratifying, Mr. Vaughan,” he added, “to find that Colonel +Brereton was right.” + +“Yes,” Vaughan agreed. And he took his leave, carrying off his staff +for a memento. + +He was very weary, and it was not the shortest way to the White Lion, +yet his feet carried him across the dark Square and past the Immortal +Memory to the front of Miss Sibson’s house. It showed no lights to the +Square, but in a first-floor window of the next house he marked a faint +radiance as of a shaded taper, and the outline of a head—doubtless the +head of someone looking out to make sure that the disorder was at an +end. He saw, but love was at fault. No inner voice told him that the +head was Mary’s! No thrill revealed to him that at that very moment, +with her brow pressed to the cold pane, she was thinking of him! None! +With a sigh, and a farther fall from the lightheartedness of an hour +before, he went his way. + +Broad Street was quiet, but half a dozen persons were gathered outside +the White Lion. They were listening: and one of them told him, as he +passed in, that the Blues, in beating back a party from the Council +House, a short time before, had shot one of the rioters. In the hall he +found several groups debating some point with heat, but they fell +silent when they saw him, one nudging another; and he fancied that they +paid especial attention to him. As he moved towards the office, a man +detached himself from them and approached him with a formal air. + +“Mr. Vaughan, I think?” he said. + +“Yes.” + +“Mr. Arthur Vaughan?” the man, who was a complete stranger to Vaughan, +repeated. “Member of Parliament for Chippinge, I believe?” + +“Yes.” + +“Reform Member?” + +Vaughan eyed him narrowly. “If you are one of my constituents,” he said +drily, “I will answer that question.” + +“I am not one,” the man rejoined, with a little less confidence. “But +it’s my business, nevertheless, to warn you, Mr. Vaughan, in your own +interests, that the part you have been taking here will not commend you +to them! You have been handling the people very roughly, I am told. +Very roughly! Now, I am Mr. Here——” + +“You may be Mr. Here or Mr. There,” Vaughan said, cutting him short—but +very quietly. “But if you say another word to me, I will throw you +through that door for your impudence! That is all. Now—have you any +more to say?” + +The man tried to carry it off. For there was sniggering behind him. But +Vaughan’s blood was up, the agitator read it in the young man’s eye, +and being a man of words, not deeds, he fell back. Vaughan went up to +bed. + + + + +XXXI +SUNDAY IN BRISTOL + + +It was far from Vaughan’s humour to play the bully, and before he had +even reached his bedroom, which looked to the back, he repented of his +vehemence. Between that and the natural turmoil of his feelings he lay +long waking; and twice, in a stillness which proclaimed that all was +well, he heard the Bristol clocks tell the hour. After all, then, +Brereton had been right! For himself, had the command been his, he +would have adopted more strenuous measures. He would have tried to put +fear into the mob before the riot reached its height. And had he done +so, how dire might have been the consequences! How many homes might at +this moment be mourning his action, how many innocent persons be +suffering pain and misery! + +Whereas Brereton, the strong, quiet man, resisting importunity, +shunning haste, keeping his head where others wavered, had carried the +city through its trouble, with scarce the loss of a single life. Truly +he was one whom + +_Non civium ardor prava jubentium_, + +_Non vultus instantis tyranni_ + +_Mente quatit solida!_ + + +Vaughan thought of him with a new respect, and of himself with a new +humility. He was forced to acknowledge that even in that field of +action which he had quitted, and to which he was now inclined to +return, he was not likely to pick up a marshal’s bâton. + +He slept at length, and long and heavily, awaking towards ten o’clock +with aching limbs and a cheek so sore that it brought all that had +passed to instant recollection. He found his hot water at his door, and +he dressed slowly and despondently, feeling the reaction and thinking +of Mary, and of that sunny morning, six months back, when he had looked +into Broad Street from a window of this very house, and dreamed of a +modest bonnet and a sweet blushing face. An hour after that, he +remembered, he had happened on the Honourable—oh, d—— Flixton! All his +troubles had started from that unlucky meeting with him. + +He found his breakfast laid in the next room, the coffee and bacon in a +Japan cat by the fire. He ate and drank in an atmosphere of gloomy +retrospect. If he had never met Flixton! If he had not gone to that +unlucky dinner at Chippinge! If he had spoken to her in Parliament +Street! If—if—if! The bells of half a dozen churches were ringing, +drumming his regrets into him; and he stood awhile irresolute, looking +through the window. The inn-yard, which was all the prospect the window +commanded, was empty; an old liver-and-white pointer, scratching itself +in a corner, was the only living thing in it. But while he looked, +wondering if the dog had been a good dog in its time, two men came +running into the yard with every sign of haste and pressure. One, in a +yellow jacket, flung himself against a stable door and vanished within, +leaving the door open. The other pounced on a chaise, one of half a +dozen ranged under a shed, and by main force dragged it into the open. + +The men’s actions impressed Vaughan with a vague uneasiness. He +listened. Was it fancy, or did he catch the sound of a distant shot? +And—there seemed to be an odd murmur in the air. He seized his hat, put +on his caped coat—for a cold drizzle was falling—and went downstairs. + +The hall was empty, but through the open doorway he could see a knot of +people, standing outside, looking up the street. He made for the +threshold, and asked the rearmost of the starers what it was. + +“Eh, what is it?” the man answered volubly. “Oh, they’re gone! It’s +true enough! And such a crowd as was never seen, I’m told—stoning them, +and shouting ‘Bloody Blues!’ after them. They’re gone right away to +Keynsham, and glad to be there with whole bones!” + +“But what is it?” Vaughan asked impatiently. “What has happened, my +man? Who’re gone?” + +The man turned for the first time, and saw who it was. “You have not +heard, sir?” he exclaimed. + +“Not a word.” + +“Not that the people have risen? And most part pulled down the Mansion +House? Ay, first thing this morning, sir! They say old Pinney, the +Mayor, got out at the back just in time or he’d have been murdered! +He’s had to send the military away—anyways, the Blues who killed the +lad last night on the Pithay.” + +“Impossible!” Vaughan exclaimed, turning red with anger. “You cannot +have heard aright.” + +“It’s as true as true!” the man replied, rubbing his hands in +excitement. “As for me,” he continued, “I was always for Reform! And +this will teach the Lords a lesson! They’ll know our mind now, and that +Wetherell’s a liar, begging your pardon, sir. And the old Corporation’s +not much better. A set of Tories mostly! If the Welsh Back drinks their +cellars dry it won’t hurt me, nor Bristol.” + +Vaughan was too sharply surprised to rebuke the man. Could the story be +true! And if it were, what was Brereton doing? He could not have been +so foolish as to halve his force in obedience to the people he was sent +to check! But the murmur in the air was a fact, and past the end of the +street men were running in anything but a Sunday fashion. + +He went back to his room and pocketed his staff. Then he descended +again and was on his way out, when a person belonging to the house +stopped him. + +“Mr. Vaughan,” she said earnestly, “don’t go, sir. You are known after +last night and will come to harm. You will indeed, sir. And you can do +no good. My father says that nothing can be done until to-morrow.” + +“I will take care of myself,” he replied, lightly. But his eyes thanked +her. He pushed his way through the gazers at the door, and set off +towards Queen’s Square. + +At every door men and women were standing looking out. In the distance +he could hear cheering, which waxed louder and more insistent as, +prudently avoiding the narrower lanes, he passed down Clare Street to +Broad Quay, from which there was an entrance to the northwest corner of +the Square. Alongside the quay, which was fringed with warehouses and +sheds, and from which the huge city crane towered up, lay a line of +brigs and schooners; the masts of the more distant of these tapering to +vanishing points in the mist which lay upon the water. At the moment, +however, Vaughan had no eye for them. He saw them, but his thoughts +were with the rioters, and in a twinkling he was within the Square, and +seeing what was to be seen. + +He judged that there were not more than fifteen hundred persons +present. Of the whole about one-half belonged to the lowest class. +These were gathered about the Mansion House, some drinking before it, +others bearing up liquor from the cellars, while others again were +tearing out the woodwork of the casements, or wantonly flinging the +last remnants of furniture from the windows. The second moiety of the +crowd, less reckless or of higher position, looked on as at a show; or +now and again, at the bidding of some active rioter, raised a cheer for +Reform, “The King and Reform! Reform!” + +There was nothing dreadful, nothing awe-inspiring in the sight. Yet it +was such a sight, for an English city on a Sunday morning, that +Vaughan’s gorge rose at it. A hundred resolute men might have put the +mob to flight. And meantime, on every point of vantage, on Redcliffe +Parade, eastward of the Square, on College Green, and Brandon Hill, to +the westward of it, thousands stood looking in silence on the scene, +and by their supineness encouraging the work of destruction. + +He thought for a moment of pushing to the front and trying what a few +reasonable words would effect. But as he advanced, his eye caught a +gleam of colour, and in the corner of the Square, most remote from the +disorder, he discovered a handful of dragoons, seated motionless in +their saddles, watching the proceedings. + +The folly of this struck him dumb. And he hurried, at a white heat, +across the Square to remonstrate. He was about to speak to the sergeant +in charge, when Flixton, with a civilian cloak masking his uniform, +rode up to the men at a foot-pace. Vaughan turned to him instead. + +“Good Heavens, man!” he cried, too hot to mince his words or remember +at the moment what there was between him and Flixton, “What’s Brereton +doing? What has happened! It is not true that he has sent the +Fourteenth away?” + +Flixton looked down at him sulkily. “He’s sent ’em to Keynsham,” he +said, shortly. “If he hadn’t, the crowd would have been out of hand!” + +“But what do you call them now?” Vaughan retorted, with angry sarcasm. +“They are destroying a public building in broad daylight! Aren’t they +sufficiently out of hand?” + +Flixton shrugged his shoulders, but did not answer. He was flushed and +has manner was surly. + +“And your squad here, looking on and doing nothing? They’re worse than +useless!” Vaughan continued. “They encourage the beggars! They’d be +better in their quarters than here! Better at Keynsham,” he added +bitterly. + +“So I’ve told him,” Flixton answered, taking the last words literally. +“He sent me to see how things are looking. And a d——d pleasant way this +is of spending a wet Sunday!” On which, without more, having seen, +apparently, what he came to see, he turned his horse to go out of the +Square by the Broad Quay. + +Vaughan walked a few paces beside the horse. “But, Flixton, press him,” +he said urgently; “press him, man, to act! To do something!” + +“That’s all very fine,” the Honourable Bob answered churlishly, “but +Brereton’s in command. And you don’t catch me interfering. I am not +going to take the responsibility off his shoulders.” + +“But think what may happen to-night!” Vaughan urged. Already he saw +that the throng was growing denser and its movements less random. +Somewhere in the heart of it a man was speaking. “Think what may happen +after dark, if they are as bad as this in daylight?” + +Flixton looked askance at him. “Ten to one, only what happened last +night,” he answered. “You all croaked then; but Brereton was right.” + +Vaughan saw that he argued to no purpose. For Flixton, forward and +positive in small things and on the surface, was discovered by the +emergency; all that now remained of his usual self-assertion was a +sense of injury. Vaughan inquired, instead, where he would find +Brereton, and as by this time the crowd had clearly outgrown the +control of a single man, he contented himself with walking round the +Square, and learning, by mingling with the fringe, what manner of +spirit moved it. + +That spirit, though he heard some ugly threats against Wetherell and +the Bishops and the Lords, was rather a reckless and mischievous than a +bloodthirsty one. To obtain drink, to destroy this or that gaol, and by +and by to destroy all gaols seemed to the crowd the first principles of +Reform. + +Presently a cry of “To the Bridewell! Come on! To the Bridewell!” was +raised, and led by a dozen hobbledehoys, armed with iron bars plucked +from the railings, a body of some hundreds trooped off, helter-skelter, +in the direction of the prison of that name. + +Vaughan saw that someone must be induced to act; and to him the +following hours of that wet, dismal Sunday were a waking nightmare. He +hurried hither and thither, from Guildhall to Council House, from +Brereton’s lodgings to the dragoons’ quarters, striving to effect +something and always failing; seeking some cohesion, some decision, +some action, and finding none. Always there had just been a meeting, or +was going to be a meeting, or would be a meeting by and by. The civil +power would not act without the military; and the military did not +think itself strong enough to act, but would act if the civil power +would do something which the civil power had made up its mind not to +do. And meantime the supineness of the mass of the citizens was +marvellous. He seemed to be moving endlessly between lines of men who +lounged at their doors, and joked, or waited for the crowd to pass that +way. Nothing, it seemed to him, would rouse these men to a sense of the +position. It would be a lesson to Wetherell, they said. It would be a +lesson to the Peers. It would be a lesson to the Tories. The Bridewell +was sacked and fired, the great gaol across the New Cut was firing, the +Gloucester gaol in the north of the city was threatened. And still it +did not occur to these householders, as they looked down the wet, misty +streets, that presently it would be a lesson to them. + +But at half-past three, with the dusk on that rainy day scarce an hour +off, there was a meeting at the Guildhall. Still no cohesion, no +action. On the other hand, much recrimination, many opinions. One was +for casting all firearms into the float. Another for arming all, fit or +unfit. One was for fetching the Fourteenth back, another for sending +the Third to join them at Keynsham. One was for appeasing the people by +parading a dummy figure of their own Recorder through the city and +burning it on College Green. Another for relying on the Political +Union. In vain Vaughan warned them that the mob would presently attack +private property; in vain he offered, in a few spirited words, to lead +the Special Constables to the rescue of the gaol. The meeting, small to +begin and always divided, dwindled fast. The handful who were ready to +follow him made the support of the military a condition. Everybody +said, “To-morrow!” To-morrow the _posse comitatus_ might be called out; +to-morrow the yeomanry, summoned by the man in the yellow jacket, would +be here! To-morrow the soldiers might act. And in fine—To-morrow! + +There was over the door of the Council House of those days a statue of +Justice, lacking the sword and the bandage. Vaughan, passing out in +disgust from the meeting, pointed to it. “There is Bristol, gentlemen,” +he said bitterly. “Your authorities have dropped the sword, and until +they regain it we are helpless. I have done my best.” And, shrugging +his shoulders, he started for Brereton’s lodgings to try a last appeal. + +He might well think it necessary. For a night which Bristol was long to +remember was closing down upon the city. Though it was Sunday, the +churches were empty; in few was a second service held. The streets, on +the contrary, were full, in spite of the cold; full of noise and +turmoil and disorder; of bands of men hastening up and down with +reckless cries and flaring lights, at the bidding of leaders as +unwitting. In Queen’s Square the rioters were drinking themselves drunk +as at a fair, while amid the falling rain, through which the last +stormy gleams of daylight strove to pass, amid the thickening dusk, +those who all day long had jested at their doors began to turn doubtful +looks on one another. From three points the smoke of fired prisons rose +to the clouds and floated in a dense pall over the city; and men +whispered that a hundred, two hundred, five hundred criminals had been +set free. On Clifton Downs, on Brandon Hill, on College Green, on +Redcliffe the thousand gazers of the morning were doubled and +redoubled. But they no longer wore the cynical faces of the morning. On +the contrary there were some who, following with their eyes the network +of waterways laden with inflammable shipping, which pierced the city in +every direction—who, tracing these and the cutthroat alleys and lanes +about them, predicted that the morning would find Bristol a heap of +ruins. And not a few, taking fright at the last moment, precipitately +removed their families to Clifton, and locked up their houses. + +Vaughan, as he walked through the dusk, had those waterways, those +lanes, those alleys, the congested heart of the old city, in his mind. +He doubted, even he, if the hour for action was not past. Nor was he +surprised when Brereton met his appeal with a flat _non possumus_. He +was more struck with the change which twenty-four hours had wrought in +the man. He looked worn and haggard. The shadows under his eyes were +deeper, the eyes shone with a more feverish light. His dress, too, was +careless and disordered, and while he was not still for a moment, he +repeated what he said over and over again as if to persuade himself of +its truth. + +Naturally Vaughan laid stress on the damage already done. “But, I tell +you,” Brereton replied angrily, “we are well clear for that! It’s not a +tithe of the harm which would have befallen if I had given way! I tell +you, we’re well clear for that. No, I’ve done, thank God, I’ve done the +only thing it was possible to do. A little too much, and if I’d +succeeded I’d have been hung—for they’re all against me, they’re all +against me, above and below! And if I’d failed, a thousand lives would +have paid the bill! And do you ever consider, man,” he continued, +striking the table, “what a massacre in this crowded place would be! +Think of the shipyards, the dockyards, the quays! The water pits and +the sunk alleys! How could I clear them with ninety swords? How could I +clear them? Eh, with ninety swords? I tell you they never meant me to +clear them.” + +“But why not clear the wider streets, sir?” Vaughan persisted, “and +keep a grip on those?” + +“No! I say, no!” + +“Yet even now, if you were to move your full force to Queen’s Square, +sir, you might clear it. And driven from their headquarters, and taught +that they are not going to have it all their own way, the more prudent +would fall off and go home.” + +“I know,” Brereton answered. “I know the argument. I know it. But who’s +to thank for the whole trouble? Your Blues, who went beyond their +orders last night. The Fourteenth, sir! The Fourteenth! But I’ll have +no more of it. Flixton is of my opinion, too.” + +“Flixton is an ass!” Vaughan cried incautiously. + +“And you think me one too!” Brereton retorted, with so strange a look +that for the first time Vaughan was sure that his mind was tottering. +“Well, think what you like! Think what you like! But I’ll trouble you +not to take that tone here.” + + + + +XXXII +THE AFFRAY AT THE PALACE + + +A little before the hour at which Vaughan interviewed Brereton, Sir +Robert Vermuyden, the arrival of whose travelling carriage at the White +Lion about the middle of the afternoon had caused some excitement, +walked back to the inn. He was followed by Thomas, the servant who had +attended Mary to Bristol, and by another servant. As he passed through +the streets the signs of the times were not lost upon him; far from it. +But the pride of caste was strong upon him, and he hid his anxiety. + +On the threshold of the inn he turned to the servants. “Are you sure,” +he asked for the fourth time, “that that was the house at which you +left her?” + +“Certain sure, Sir Robert,” Thomas answered earnestly. + +“And sure—but, ah!” the baronet broke off abruptly, his tone one of +relief. “Here’s Mr. Cooke! Go now, but be within call. Mr. Cooke,”—he +stepped, as he spoke, in front of that gentleman, who was about to +enter the house—“well met!” + +Cooke was hot with haste and ire, but at the unexpected sight of Sir +Robert he stood still. “God bless my soul!” he cried. “You here, sir?” + +“Yes. And you know Bristol well. You can help me.” + +“I wish I could help myself!” Cooke cried, forgetting himself in his +excitement. + +“My daughter is in Bristol.” + +“Indeed?” the angry merchant replied. “Then she could not be in a worse +place. That is all I can say.” + +“I am inclined to agree with you.” + +“This is your Reform!” + +Sir Robert stared. “Not my Reform, Mr. Cooke,” he said in a tone of +displeasure. + +“I beg your pardon, Sir Robert,” Cooke rejoined, speaking more coolly. +“I beg your pardon. But what I have suffered to-day is beyond telling. +By G—d, it’s my opinion that there’s only one man worthy of the name in +Bristol! And that’s your cousin, Vaughan!” + +Sir Robert struck his stick on the pavement. “Mr. Vaughan?” he +exclaimed. “He is here, then? I feared so!” + +“Here? You feared? I tell you he’s the only man to be called a man, who +is here! If it had not been for him and the way he handled the +constables last night we should have been burnt out then instead of +to-night! I don’t know that the gain’s much, but for what it’s worth we +have him to thank!” + +Sir Robert frowned. “I am surprised. He behaved well? Indeed!” he said. + +“D——d well! D——d well! If there had been half a dozen like him, we’d be +out of the wood!” + +“Where is he staying?” Sir Robert asked after a moment’s hesitation. +“I’ve lost my daughter in the confusion, and I think it possible that +he may know where she is.” + +“He is staying here at the Lion,” Cooke answered. “But he’s been up and +down all day trying to put heart into poltroons.” And he ran over the +chief events of the last few hours. + +He punctuated the story with oaths and bitter complaints, and perhaps +it was for this reason that Sir Robert, after he had heard the main +facts, broke away. He went through the hall to the bar where the +landlord, who knew him well, came forward and greeted him respectfully. +But to Sir Robert’s inquiry as to Mr. Vaughan’s whereabouts he shook +his head. + +“I wish he was in the house, Sir Robert,” he said in a low voice. “For +he’s a marked man in Bristol since last night. I was in the Square +myself, and it was wonderful what spirit he put into his men. But the +scum and the riffraff who are uppermost to-day say he handled them +cruelly, and my daughter tried to persuade him from going out to-day. +But he would go, sir.” + +Sir Robert reflected with a gloomy face. “Where are Mr. Flixton’s +quarters?” he asked at last. He might possibly learn something from +him. + +The man told him, and Sir Robert summoned his servants and went out. It +was dark by this time, but a faint glare shone overhead and there was a +murmur in the air, as if, in the gloom beneath, the heart of the city +was palpitating, in dread of it knew not what. Sir Robert had not far +to go. He had barely passed into College Green when he met Flixton +under a lamp. And so it happened that two minutes later, Vaughan, on +his way from Brereton’s lodgings in Unity Street, came plump upon the +two. He might have gone by in ignorance, but as he passed the taller +man looked up, and Vaughan with a shock of surprise recognised Sir +Robert Vermuyden. + +Flixton caught sight of Vaughan at the same moment, and “Here’s your +man, Sir Robert,” he cried with a little malice in his tone. “Here, +Vaughan,” he continued, “Here’s Sir Robert Vermuyden! He’s looking for +you. He wants to know——” + +Sir Robert stopped him. “I will speak for myself, Mr. Flixton, if you +please,” he said with the dignity which seldom deserted him. “Mr. +Vaughan,” he continued, with a piercing glance, “where is my daughter?” + +Vaughan returned his look, frowning. Since the parting in Miss Sibson’s +parlour, the remembrance of which still set his blood in a flame, Sir +Robert and he had not met. Now, in the wet gloom of College Green, +under a rare gaslamp, with turmoil about them, and the murmur of fresh +trouble drawing near through the streets, Sir Robert asked him for his +daughter! He could have laughed. As it was, “I know nothing, sir, of +your daughter,” he replied, in a tone between contempt and anger. + +“But,” Sir Robert retorted, “you travelled with her, from London!” + +“How do you know that I did?” + +“The servants, sir, have told me that you did.” + +“Then they must also have told you,” Vaughan rejoined keenly, “that I +did not take the liberty of speaking to Miss Vermuyden. And that I left +the coach at Chippenham. That being so, I can only refer you,” he +continued with a sneer, raising his hat and preparing to move on, “to +Mr. Flixton, who went with her the rest of the way to Bristol.” + +He turned away. But he had not taken two paces before Sir Robert +touched his shoulder, and with that habit of command which few +questioned. “Wait, sir,” he said, “Wait, if you please. You do not +escape me so easily. You will attend to me one moment, if you please. +Mr. Flixton accompanied Miss Vermuyden, as did her man and maid, to +Miss Sibson’s house. She gave that address to Lady Worcester, in whose +care she was; and I sought her there this afternoon. But she is not +there.” Sir Robert continued, striving to read Vaughan’s face. “The +house is empty. So is the house on either side. I can make no one +hear.” + +“And you come to me for news of her?” Vaughan asked in the tone he had +used throughout. He was very sore. + +“I do.” + +“You do not think that I am the last person of whom you should ask +tidings of your daughter?” + +“She came here,” Sir Robert answered sternly, “to see Lady Sybil.” + +Vaughan stared. The answer seemed to be irrelevant. Then he understood. +“Oh,” he said, “I see. You are still under the impression that your +wife and I are in a conspiracy to delude you? Your daughter also? You +think that she is in the plot? And that she gave the schoolmistress’s +address to deceive you?” + +“No!” Sir Robert cried. But, after all, that was what he did think. Had +he not told himself, more than once, that she was her mother’s +daughter? Had he not told himself that it could not have been by chance +that Vaughan and she met a second time on the coach? He knew that she +had left London and gone to her mother in defiance of him. He knew +that. And though she had entwined herself about his heart, though she +had seemed to him all gentleness, goodness, truth—she was still her +mother’s daughter! Nevertheless, he said “No!”—and said it angrily. + +“Then I do not know what you mean!” Vaughan retorted. + +“I believe that you can tell me something, if you will.” + +Vaughan looked at him. “I have nothing to tell you,” he said. + +“You mean, sir, that you will tell me nothing!” + +“That, if you like.” + +For nearly half a century the old man had found few to oppose him; and +now by good luck he had not time to reply. A man running out of the +darkness in the direction of Unity Street—the open space was full of +moving groups, of alarms and confusion—caught sight of Vaughan’s face, +checked himself and addressed him. + +“Mr. Vaughan!” he said. “They are coming! They are making for the +Palace! The Bishop must be got away, if he’s not gone! I am fetching +the Colonel! The Mayor is following with all he can get together. If +you will give warning at the Palace, there will be time for his +lordship to escape.” + +“Right!” Vaughan cried, glad to leave his company. And he started +without the loss of a moment. Even so, he had not gone twenty paces +down the Green before the head of the mob entered it from St. +Augustine’s, and passed, with hoarse shouts, along the south side, +towards the ancient Archway which led to the Lower Green. It was a +question whether he or they reached the Archway first; but he won the +race by a score of yards. + +The view from the Lower Green, which embraced the burning gaol, as well +as all Queen’s Square and the Floating Basin that islanded it, had +drawn together a number of gazers. These impeded Vaughan’s progress, +but he got through them at last, and as the mob burst into the Lower +Green he entered the paved passage leading to the Precincts, hurried +along it, turned the dark elbow near the inner end, and halted before +the high gates which shut off the Cloisters. The Palace door was in the +innermost or southeast corner of the Cloisters. + +It was very dark at the end of the passage; and fortunately! For the +gates were fast closed, and before he could, groping, find the knocker, +the rabble had entered the passage behind him and cut off his retreat. +The high wall which rose on either side made escape impossible. Nor was +this all. As he awoke to the trap in which he had placed himself, a +voice at his elbow muttered, “My God, we shall be murdered!” And he +learned that Sir Robert had followed him. + +He had no time to remonstrate, nor thought of remonstrance. “Stand flat +against the wall!” he muttered, his fingers closing upon the staff in +his pocket. “It is our only chance!” + +He had basely spoken before the leaders of the mob swept round the +elbow. They had one light, a flare borne above them, which shone on +their tarpaulins and white smocks, and on the huge ship-hammers they +carried. There was a single moment of great peril, and instinctively +Vaughan stepped before the older man. He could not have made a happier +movement, for it seemed—to the crowd who caught a glimpse of the two +and took them for some of their own party—as if he advanced against the +gates along with their leaders. + +The peril indeed, or the worst of it, was over the moment they fell +into the ranks. “Hammers to the front!” was the cry. And Sir Robert and +Vaughan were thrust back into the second line, that those who wielded +the hammers might have room. Vaughan tipped his hat over his face, and +the villains who pressed upon the two and jostled them, and whose cries +of “Burn him out! Burn the old devil out!” were dictated by greed +rather than by hate, were too full of the work in hand to regard their +neighbours closely. In three or four minutes—long minutes they seemed +to the two inclosed in that unsavoury company—the bars gave way, the +gates were thrown open, and Vaughan and Sir Robert, hardly keeping +their feet in the rush, were borne into the Cloisters. + +The rabble, with cries of triumph, raced across the dark court to the +Palace door and began to use their hammers on that. Vaughan hoped that +the Bishop had had warning—as a fact he had escaped some hours earlier. +At any rate he and his companion could do no more, and under cover of +the darkness they retreated to the porch of a smaller house which +opened on the Cloisters. Here they were safe for the time; and, his +heart opened and his tongue loosed by the danger through which they had +passed, he turned to his companion and remonstrated with him. + +“Sir Robert,” he said, “this is no place for a man of your years.” + +“England will soon be no place for any man of my years,” the Baronet +answered bitterly. “I would your leaders, sir, were here to see their +work! I would Lord Grey were here to see how well his friends carry out +his hints!” + +“I doubt if he would be more pleased than you or I!” Vaughan answered. +“In the meantime——” + +“The soldiers! Have a care!” The alarm came from the gate by which they +had entered, and Vaughan broke off, with an exclamation of joy. “We +have them now!” he said. “And red-handed! Brereton has only to close +the passage, and he must take them all!” + +But the rioters took that view also, and the alarm. And they streamed +out panic-stricken. When the soldiers rode in, Brereton at their head, +not more than twenty or thirty remained in the Precincts. And on that +followed the most remarkable of all the scenes that disgraced Bristol +that night; the scene which beyond others convinced many of the +complicity of the troops, if not of the Government, in the outrage. + +Not a man could leave the Palace except with the troops’ good-will. Yet +they let the rascals pass. In vain a handful of constables—who had +arrived on the heels of the military—exerted themselves to seize the +worst offenders, and such as passed with plunder in their hands. The +soldiers discouraged the attempt, and even beat back the constables. +“Let them go! Let them go!” was the cry. And the nimbleness of the +scamps in effecting their escape was greeted with laughter and +applause. + +Vaughan and the companion whom fate had so strangely joined saw it with +indignation. But Vaughan had made up his mind that he would not +approach Brereton again; and he controlled himself, until a blackguard +bolting from the Palace with his arms full of spoil was seized, close +to him, by an elderly man, who seemed to be one of the Bishop’s +servants. The two wrestled fiercely, the servant calling for help, the +soldiers looking on and laughing. A moment and the two fell to the +ground, the servant undermost. He uttered a cry of pain. + +That was too much for Vaughan. He sprang forward, dragged the ruffian +from his prey, and with his other hand he drew his staff. He was about +to strike his prisoner—for the man continued to struggle +desperately—when a voice above them shouted “Put that up! Put that up!” +And a trooper urged his horse almost on the top of them, at the same +time threatening him with his naked sword. + +Vaughan lost his temper at that. “You blackguard!” he cried. “Stand +back. The man is my prisoner!” + +For answer the soldier struck at him. Fortunately the blade was turned +by his hat and only the flat alighted on his head. But the man, drunk +or reckless, repeated the blow, and this time would certainly have cut +him down if Sir Robert, with a quickness beyond his years, had not +turned aside the stroke with his walking-cane. At the same time “Are +you mad?” he shouted peremptorily. “Where is your Colonel?” + +The tone, rather than the words, sobered the trooper. He swore sulkily, +reined in his horse, and moved back to his fellows. Sir Robert turned +to Vaughan, who, dazed by the blow, was leaning against the porch of +the house. “I hope you are not wounded?” he said. + +“It’s thanks to you, sir, he’s not killed!” the man whom Vaughan had +rescued, replied; and he hung about him solicitously. “He’d have cut +him to the chin! Ay, to the chin he would!” with quavering gusto. + +Vaughan was regaining his coolness. He tried to smile. “I hardly +saw—what happened,” he said. “I am only sure I am not hurt. Just—a rap +on the head!” + +“I am glad that it is no worse,” Sir Robert said gravely. “Very glad!” +Now it was over he had to bite his lower lip to repress its trembling. + +“You feel better, sir, now?” the servant asked, addressing Vaughan. + +“Yes, yes,” Vaughan said. But after that he was silent, thinking. And +Sir Robert was silent, too. The soldiers were withdrawing; the +constables, outraged and indignant, were following them, declaring +aloud that they were betrayed. And for certain the walls of the +Cathedral had looked down on few stranger scenes, even in those +troubled days when the crosslets of the Berkeleys first shone from +their casements. + +Vaughan thought of the thing which had happened; and what was he to +say? The position was turned upside down. The obligation was on the +wrong person; the boot was on the wrong foot. If he, the young, the +strong, and the injured, had saved Sir Robert, that had been well +enough. But this? It required some magnanimity to take it gracefully, +to bear it with dignity. + +“I owe you sincere thanks,” he said at last, but awkwardly and with +constraint. + +“The blackguard!” Sir Robert cried. + +“You saved me, sir, from a very serious injury.” + +“It was as much threat as blow!” Sir Robert rejoined. + +“I don’t think so,” Vaughan answered. And then he was silent, finding +it hard to say more. But after a pause, “I can only make you one +return,” he said with an effort. “Perhaps you will believe me when I +say, that upon my honour I do not know where your daughter is. I have +neither spoken to her nor communicated with her since I saw her in +Queen’s Square in May. And I know nothing of Lady Sybil.” + +“I am obliged to you,” Sir Robert said. + +“If you believe me,” Vaughan said. “Not otherwise!” + +“I do believe you, Mr. Vaughan.” And Sir Robert said it as if he meant +it. + +“Then that is something gained,” Vaughan answered, “besides the +soundness of my head.” Try as he might he felt the position irksome, +and was glad to seek refuge in flippancy. + +Sir Robert removed his hat, and stood in perplexity. “But where can she +be then?” he asked. “If you know nothing of her.” + +Vaughan paused before he answered. Then “I think I should look for her +in Queen’s Square,” he suggested. “In that neighbourhood neither life +nor property will be safe until Bristol comes to its senses. She should +be removed, therefore, if she be there.” + +“I will take your advice and try the house again,” Sir Robert answered. +“I think you are right, and I am much obliged to you.” + +He put his hat on his head, but removed it to salute his cousin. “Thank +you,” he repeated, “I am much obliged to you.” And he departed slowly +across the court. + +Halfway to the entrance, he paused, and fingered his chin. He went on +again—again he paused. He took a step or two, turned, hesitated. At +last he came slowly back. + +“Perhaps you will go with me?” he asked. + +“You are very good,” Vaughan answered, his voice shaking a little. Was +it possible that Sir Robert meant more than he said? It did seem +possible. + +But after all they did not go out that way. For, as they approached the +broken gates, shouts of “Reform!” and “Down with the Lords!” warned +them that the rioters were returning. And the Bishop’s servant, +approaching them anew, insisted on taking them through the Palace, and +by way of the garden and a low wall conducted them into Trinity Street. +Here they were close to the Drawbridge which crossed the water to the +foot of Clare Street; and they passed over it, one of them walking with +a lighter heart, notwithstanding Mary’s possible danger, than he had +borne for weeks. Soon they were in Queen’s Square, and, avoiding as far +as possible the notice of the mob, were knocking doggedly at Miss +Sibson’s door. But by that time the Palace, high above them on College +Green, had burst into flames, and, a mark for all the countryside, had +flung the red banner of Reform to the night. + + + + +XXXIII +FIRE + + +Sir Robert and his companion might have knocked longer and more loudly, +and still to no purpose. For the schoolmistress, prepared to witness a +certain amount of disorder on the Saturday, had been taken aback by the +sight which met her eyes when she rose on Sunday morning. And long +before noon she had sent her servants to their friends, locked up her +house, and gone next door, to dispel by her cheerful face and her +comfortable common sense the fears which she knew would prevail there. +The sick lady was not in a state to withstand alarm; Mary was a young +girl and timid; and neither the landlady nor Lady Sybil’s maid were +persons of strong mind. Miss Sibson felt that here was an excellent +occasion for the display of that sturdy indifference with which firm +nerves and a long experience of Bristol elections had endowed her. + +“La, my dear,” was her first remark, “it’s all noise and nonsense! They +look fierce, but there’s not a man of them all, that if I took him +soundly by the ear and said, ‘John Thomas Gaisford, I know you well and +your wife! You live in the Pithay, and if you don’t go straight home +this minute I’ll tell her of your goings on!’—there’s not one of them, +my dear,” with a jolly laugh, “wouldn’t sneak off with his tail between +his legs! Hurt us, my lady? I’d like to see them doing it. Still, it +will be no harm if we lock the door downstairs, and answer no knocks. +We shall be cosy upstairs, and see all that’s to be seen besides!” + +These were Miss Sibson’s opinions, a little after noon on the Sunday. +Nor, when the day began to draw in, without abating the turmoil, did +she recant them aloud. But when the servant of the house, who found +amusement in listening at the locked door to the talk of those who +passed, came open-eyed to announce that the people had fired the +Bridewell, and were attacking the gaol, Miss Sibson did rub her nose +reflectively. And privately she began to wonder whether the prophecies +of evil, which both parties had sown broadcast, were to be fulfilled. + +“It’s that nasty Brougham!” she said. “Alderman Daniel told me that he +was stirring up the devil; and we’re going to get the dust. But la, +bless your ladyship,” she continued comfortably, “I know the Bristol +lads, and they’ll not hurt us. Just a gaol or two, for the sake of the +frolic. My dear, your mother’ll have her tea, and will feel the better +for it. And we’ll draw the curtains and light the lamps and take no +heed. Maybe there’ll be bones broken, but they’ll not be ours!” + +Lady Sybil, with her face turned away, muttered something about Paris. + +“Well, your ladyship knows Paris and I don’t,” the schoolmistress +replied respectfully. “I can fancy anything there. But you may depend +upon it, my lady, England is different. I know old Alderman Daniel +calls Lord John Russell ‘Lord John Robespierre,’ and says he’s worse +than a Jacobin. But I’ll never believe he’d cut the King’s head off! +Never! And don’t you believe it, either, my lady. No, English are +English! There’s none like them, and never will be. All the same,” she +concluded, “I shall set ‘Honour the King!’ for a copy when the young +ladies come back.” + +Her views might not have convinced by themselves. But taken with tea +and buttered toast, a good fire and a singing kettle, they availed. +Lady Sybil was a shade easier that afternoon; and, naturally of a high +courage, found a certain alleviation in the exciting doings under her +windows. She was gracious to Miss Sibson, whose outpourings she +received with languid amusement; and when Mary was not looking, she +followed her daughter’s movements with mournful eyes. Uncertain as the +wind, she was this evening in her best mood; as patient as she could be +fractious, and as gentle as she was sometimes violent. She scouted the +notion of danger with all Miss Sibson’s decision; and after tea she +insisted that the lights should be shaded, and her couch be wheeled to +the window, in order that, propped high with pillows, she might amuse +herself with the hurly-burly in the Square below. + +“To be sure,” Miss Sibson commented, “it will do no good to anyone, +this; and many a poor chap will suffer for it by and by. That’s the +worst of these Broughams and Besoms, my lady. It’s the low down that +swallow the dust. It’s very fine to cry ‘King and Reform!’ and drink +the Corporation wine! But it will be ‘Between our sovereign lord the +King and the prisoner at the bar!’ one of these days! And their throats +will be dry enough then!” + +“Poor misguided people!” Mary murmured. + +“They’ve all learned the Church Catechism,” the schoolmistress replied +shrewdly. “Or they should have; it’s lucky for them—ay, you may shout, +my lads—that there’s many a slip between the neck and the rope—Lord ha’ +mercy!” + +The last words fitted the context well enough; but they fell so +abruptly from her lips that Mary, who was bending over her mother, +looked up in alarm. “What is it?” she asked. + +“Only,” Miss Sibson answered with composure, “what I ought to have said +long ago—that nothing can be worse for her ladyship than the cold air +that comes in at the cracks of this window!” + +“It’s not that,” Lady Sybil replied, smiling. “They have set fire to +the Mansion House, Mary. You can see the flames in the room on the +farther side of the door.” + +Mary uttered an exclamation of horror, and they all looked out. The +Mansion House was the most distant house on the north, or left-hand, +side of the Square, viewed from the window at which they stood; the +house next Miss Sibson’s being about the middle of the west side. +Nearer them, on the same side as the Mansion House, stood another +public building—the Custom House. And nearer again, being the most +northerly house on their own side of the Square, stood a third—the +Excise Office. + +They had thus a fair, though a side view, of the front of the Mansion +House, and were able to watch, with what calmness they might, the +flames shoot from one window after another; until, presently, meeting +in a waving veil of fire, they hid—save when the wind blew them +aside—all the upper part of the house from their eyes. + +A great fire in the night, the savage, uncontrollable revolt of man’s +tamed servant—is at all times a terrible sight. Nor on this occasion +was it only the horror of the flames, roaring and crackling and pouring +forth a million of sparks, which chained their eyes. For as these rose, +they shed an intense light, not only on the heights of Redcliffe, +visible above the east side of the Square, and on the stately tower +which rose from them, but on the multitude below; on the hurrying forms +that, monkey-like, played before the flames and seemed to feed them, +and on a still stranger sight, the expanse of up-turned faces that, in +the rear of the active rioters, extended to the farthest limit of the +Square. + +For it was the quiescence, it was the inertness of the gazing crowd +which most appalled the spectators at the window. To see that great +house burn and to see no man stretch forth a hand to quench it, this +terrified. “Oh, but it is frightful! It is horrible!” Mary exclaimed. + +“I should like to knock their heads together!” Miss Sibson cried +sternly. “What are the soldiers doing? What is anyone doing?” + +“They have hounded on the dogs,” Lady Sybil said slowly—she alone +seemed to view the sight with a dispassionate eye, “and they are biting +instead of barking! That is all.” + +“Dogs?” Miss Sibson echoed. + +“Ay, the dogs of Reform!” Lady Sybil replied cynically. “Brougham’s +dogs! Grey’s dogs! Russell’s dogs! I could wish Sir Robert were here, +it would so please him to see his words fulfilled!” And then, as in +surprise at the thing she had uttered, “I wonder when I wished to +please him before?” she muttered. + +“Oh, but it is frightful!” Mary repeated, unable to remove her eyes +from the flames. + +It was frightful; even while they were all sane people in the room, +and, whatever their fears, restrained them. What then was it a moment +later, when the woman of the house burst in upon them, with a maid in +wild hysterics clinging to her, and another on the threshold screaming +“Fire! Fire!” + +“It’s all on fire at the back!” the woman panted. “It’s on fire, it’s +all on fire, my lady, at the back!” + +“It’s all—what?” Miss Sibson rejoined, in a tone which had been known +to quell the pertest of seventeen-year-old rebels. “It is what, woman? +On fire at the back? And if it is, is that a ground for forgetting your +manners? Where is your deportment? Fire, indeed! Are you aware whose +room this is? For shame! And you, silly,” she continued, addressing +herself to the maid, “be silent, and go outside, as becomes you.” + +But the maid, though she retreated to the door, continued to scream, +and the woman of the house to wring her hands. “You had better go and +see what it is,” Lady Sybil said, turning to the schoolmistress. For, +strange to say, she who a few hours before had groaned if a coal fell +on the hearth, and complained if her book slid from the couch, was now +quite calm. + +“They are afraid of their own shadows,” Miss Sibson cried +contemptuously. “It is the reflection they have seen.” + +But she went. And as it was but a step to a window overlooking the +rear, Mary went with her. + +They looked. And for a moment something like panic seized them. The +back of the house was not immediately upon the quay, but through an +opening in the warehouses which fringed the latter it commanded a view +of the water and the masts, and of the sloping ground which rose to +College Green. And high above, dyeing the Floating Basin crimson, the +Palace showed in a glow of fire; fire which seemed to be on the point +of attacking the Cathedral, of which every pinnacle and buttress, with +every chimney of the old houses clustered about it, stood out in the +hot glare. It was clear that the building had been burning some time, +for the roar of the flames could be heard, and almost the hiss of the +water as innumerable sparks floated down to it. + +Horror-struck, Mary grasped her companion’s arm. And “Good Heavens!” +Miss Sibson muttered. “The whole city will be burned!” + +“And we are between the two fires,” Mary faltered. An involuntary +shudder might be pardoned her. + +“Ay, but far enough from them,” the schoolmistress answered, recovering +herself. “On this side, the water makes us safe.” + +“And on the other?” + +“La, my dear,” Miss Sibson replied confidently. “The folks are not +going to burn their own houses. They are angry with the Corporation. +They hold them all one with Wetherell. And for the Bishop, they’ve so +abused him the last six months that he’s hardly dared to show his wig +on the streets, and it’s no wonder the poor ignorants think him fair +game. But we’re just ordinary folk, and they’ll no more harm us than +fly. But we must go back to your mother.” + +They went back, and wisely Miss Sibson made no mystery of the truth; +repeating, however, those arguments against giving way to alarm which +she had used to Mary. + +“The poor dear gentleman has lost his house,” she concluded piously. +“But we should be thankful he has another.” + +Lady Sybil took the news with calmness; her eyes indeed seemed +brighter, as if she enjoyed the excitement. But the frightened woman at +the door refused to be comforted, and underlying the courage of the two +who stood by Lady Sybil’s couch was a secret uneasiness, which every +cheer of the crowd below the windows, every “huzza” which rose from the +revellers, every wild rush from one part of the Square to another +tended to strengthen. In her heart Miss Sibson owned that in all her +experience she had known nothing like this; no disorder so flagrant, so +unbridled, so daring. She could carry her mind back to the days when +the cheek of England had paled at the Massacres of September in Paris. +The deeds of ’98 in Ireland, she had read morning by morning in the +journals. The Three Days of July, with their street fighting, were +fresh in all men’s minds—it was impossible to ignore their bearing on +the present conflagration. And if here was not the dawn of Revolution, +if here were not signs of the crash of things, appearances deceived +her. But even so, she was not to be dismayed. She believed that even in +revolutions a comfortable courage, sound sense, and a good appetite +went far. And “I’d like to hear John Thomas Gaisford talk to me of +guillotines!” she thought. “I’d make his ears burn!” + +Meanwhile, Mary was thinking that, whatever the emergency, her mother +was too ill to be moved. Miss Sibson might be right, the danger might +be remote. But it was barely midnight; and long hours of suspense must +be lived through before morning came. Meanwhile there were only women +in the house, and, bravely as the girl controlled herself, a cry more +reckless than usual, an outburst of cheering more savage, a rush below +the windows, drove the blood to her heart. And presently, while she +gazed with shrinking eyes on the crowd, now blood-red in the glow of +the burning timbers, now lost for a moment in darkness, a groan broke +from it, and she saw pale flames appear at the windows of the house +next the Mansion House. They shot up rapidly, licking the front of the +buildings. + +Miss Sibson saw them at the same moment, and “The villains!” she +exclaimed. “God grant it be an accident!” + +Mary’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. + +Lady Sybil laughed her shrill laugh. “The curs are biting bravely!” she +said. “What will Bristol say to this?” + +“Show them that they have gone too far!” Miss Sibson answered stoutly. +“The soldiers will act now, and put them in their places, as they did +in Wiltshire in the winter! And high time too!” + +But though they watched in tense anxiety for the first sign of action +on the part of the troops, for the first movement of the authorities, +they gazed in vain. The miscreants, who fed the flames and spread them, +were few; and in the Square were thousands who had property to lose, +and friends and interests in jeopardy. If a tithe only of those who +looked on, quiescent and despairing, had raised their hands, they could +have beaten the rabble from the place. But no man moved. The fear of +coming trouble, which had been long in the air, paralysed even the +courageous, while the ignorant and the timid believed that they saw a +revolution in progress, and that henceforth the mob would rule—and woe +betide the man who set himself against it! As it had been in Paris, so +it would be here. And so the flames spread, before the eyes of the +terrified women at the window, before the eyes of the inert multitude, +from the house first attacked to its neighbour, and from that to the +next and the next. Until the noise of the conflagration, the crash of +sinking walls, the crackling of beams were as the roar of falling +waters, and the Square in that hideous red light, which every moment +deepened, resembled an inferno, in which the devils of hell played +awful pranks, and wherein, most terrible sight of all, thousands who in +ordinary times held the salvation of property to be the first of +duties, stood with scared eyes, passive and cowed. + +It was such a scene—and they were only women, and alone in the house—as +the mind cannot imagine and the eye views but once in a generation, nor +ever forgets. In quiet Clifton, and on St. Michael’s Hill, children +were snatched from their midnight slumbers and borne into the open, +that they might see the city stretched below them in a pit of flame, +with the overarching fog at once confining and reflecting the glare. +Dundry Tower, five miles from the scene, shone a red portent visible +for leagues; and in Chepstow and South Monmouth, beyond the wide +estuary of the Severn, the light was such that men could see to read. +From all the distant Mendips, and from the Forest of Dean, miners and +charcoal-burners gazed southward with scared faces, and told one +another that the revolution was begun; while Lansdowne Chase sent +riders galloping up the London Road with the news that all the West was +up. Long before dawn on the Monday horsemen and yellow chaises were +carrying the news through the night to Gloucester, to Southampton, to +Salisbury, to Exeter, to every place where scanty companies of foot +lay, or yeomanry had their headquarters. And where these passed, +alarming the sleeping inns and posthouses, panic sprang up upon their +heels, and the travellers on the down nightcoaches marvelled at the +tales which met them with the daylight. + +If the sight viewed from a distance was so terrible as to appal a whole +countryside, if, on those who gazed at it from vantage spots of safety, +and did not guess at the dreadful details, it left an impression of +terror never to be effaced, what was it to the three women who, in the +Square itself, watched the onward march of the flames towards them, +were blinded by the glare, choked by the smoke, deafened by the roar? +Whom distance saved from no feature of the scene played under their +windows: who could shun neither the savage cries of the drunken rabble, +dancing before the doomed houses, nor the sight, scarce less amazing, +of the insensibility which watched the march of the flames and +stretched forth not a finger to stay them! Who, chained by Lady Sybil’s +weakness to the place where they stood, saw house after house go up in +flames, until all the side of the Square adjoining their own was a wall +of fire; and who then were left to guess the progress, swift or slow, +which the element was making towards them! For whom the copper-hued fog +above them must have seemed, indeed, the roof of a furnace, from which +escape grew moment by moment less likely? + + + + +XXXIV +HOURS OF DARKNESS + + +Long before this the women of the house had fled, taking Lady Sybil’s +maid with them. And dreadful as was the situation of those who +remained, appalling as were the fears of two of them, they were able to +control themselves; the better because they knew that they had no aid +but their own to look to, and that their companion was helpless. +Fortunately Lady Sybil, who had watched the earlier phases of the riot +with the detachment which is one of the marks of extreme weakness, had +at a certain point turned faint, and demanded to be removed from the +window. She was ignorant, therefore, of the approach of the flames and +of the imminence of the peril. She had even, in spite of the uproar, +dozed off, after a few minutes of trying irritation, into an uneasy +sleep. + +Mary and Miss Sibson were thus left free. But for what? Compelled to +watch in suspense the progress of the flames, driven at times to fancy +that they could feel the heat of the fire, assailed more than once by +gusts of fear, as one or the other imagined that they were already cut +off, they could not have held their ground but for their unselfishness; +but for their possession of those qualities of love and heroism which +raise women to the height of occasion, and nerve them to a pitch of +endurance of which men are rarely capable. In the schoolmistress, with +her powdered nose and her portly figure, and her dull past of samplers +and backboards and Mrs. Chapone, there dwelt as sturdy a spirit as in +any of the rough Bristol shipmasters from whom she sprang. She might be +fond of a sweetbread, and a glass of port might not come amiss to her. +But the heart in her was stout and large, and she had as soon dreamed +of forsaking her forlorn companions as those bluff sailormen would have +dreamed of striking their flag to a codfish Don, or to a shipload of +mutinous slaves. + +And Mary? Perchance the gentlest and the mildest are also the bravest, +when the stress is real. Or perhaps those who have never known a +mother’s love cling to the veriest shred and tatter of it, if it fall +in their way. Or perhaps—but why explain that which all history has +proved a hundred times over—-that love casts out fear. Mary quailed, +deafened by the thunder of the fire, with the walls of the room turning +blood-red round her, and the smoke beginning to drift before the +window. But she stood; and only once, assailed by every form of fear, +did her courage fail her, or sink below the stronger nerve of the elder +woman. + +That was when Miss Sibson, after watching that latest and most pregnant +sign, the eddying of smoke past the window, spoke out. “I’m going next +door,” she cried in Mary’s ear. “There are papers I must save; they are +all I have for my old age. The rest may go, but I can’t see them burn +when five minutes may save them.” + +But Mary clung to her desperately. “Oh!” she cried, “don’t leave me!” + +Miss Sibson patted her shoulder. “I shall come back,” she said. “I +shall come back, my dear, never fear. And then we must move your +mother—into the Square if no better can be. Do you come down and let me +in when I knock three times.” + +Lady Sybil was still dozing, with a woollen wrap about her head to +deaden the noise; and giving way to the cooler brain Mary went down +with the schoolmistress. In the hall the roar of the fire was less, for +the only window was shuttered. But the raucous voices of the mob, +moving to and fro outside, were more clearly heard. + +Miss Sibson, however, remained undaunted. “Put up the chain the moment +I am outside,” she said. + +“But are you not afraid?” Mary cried, holding her back. + +“Of those scamps?” Miss Sibson replied truculently. “They had better +not touch me!” And she turned the key and slipped out. Nor did she +leave the step until Mary had put up the chain and re-locked the door. + +Mary waited—oh, many, many minutes it seemed—in the gloom of the hall, +pierced here and there by a lurid ray; with half her mind on her mother +upstairs, and the other half on the ribald laughter, the drunken oaths +and threats and curses which penetrated from the Square. It was plain +that Miss Sibson had not gone too soon, for twice or thrice the door +was struck with some heavy instrument, and harsh voices called on the +inmates to open if they did not wish to be burned. Uncertain how the +fire advanced, Mary heard them with a sick heart. But she held her +ground, until, oh, joy! she heard voices raised in altercation, and +among them the schoolmistress’s. A hand knocked thrice, she turned the +key and let down the chain. The door opened upon her, and on the steps, +with her hand on a man’s shoulder, appeared Miss Sibson. Behind her and +her captive, between them and that background of flame and confusion, +stood a group of four or five men—dock labourers, in tarpaulins and +frocks, who laughed tipsily. + +“This lad will help to carry your mother out,” Miss Sibson said with +the utmost coolness. “Come, my lad, and no nonsense! You don’t want to +burn a sick lady in her bed!” + +“No, I don’t, Missis,” the man grumbled sheepishly. “But I’m none here +for that! I’m none here for that, and——” + +“You’ll do it, all the same,” the schoolmistress replied. “And I want +one more. Here, you,” she continued, addressing a grinning hobbledehoy +in a sealskin cap. “I know your face, and you’ll want someone to speak +for you at the Assizes. Come in, you two, and the rest must wait until +the lady’s carried out!” + +And thereon, with that strange mixture of humanity and unreasoning fury +of which the night left many examples, the men complied. The two whom +she had chosen entered, the others suffered her to shut the door in +their faces. Only, “You’ll be quick!” one bawled after her. “She’s +afire next door!” + +That was the warning that went with them upstairs, and it nerved them +for the task before them. Over that task it were well to draw a veil. +The poor sick woman, roused anew and abruptly to a sense of her +surroundings, to the flickering lights, the smell of smoke, the strange +faces, to all the horrors of that scene rarely equalled in our modern +England, shrieked aloud. The courage, which had before upheld her, +deserted her. She refused to be moved, refused to believe that they +were there to save her; she failed even to recognise her daughter, she +resisted their efforts, and whatever Mary could say or do, she added to +the peril of the moment all the misery which frantic terror and +unavailing shrieks could add. They did not know, while they reasoned +with her, and tried to lift her, and strove to cloak her against the +outer air, the minute at which the house might be entered; nor even +that it was not already entered, already in some part on fire. The +girl, though her hands were steady, though she never wavered, though +she persisted, was white as paper. And even Miss Sibson was almost +unnerved, when at last nature came to their aid, and with a frantic +protest, a last attempt to thrust them from her, the poor woman +swooned; and the men who had looked on, as unhappy as those engaged, +lifted the couch and bore her down the stairs. Odd are the windings of +chance and fate. These men, in whom every good instinct was awakened by +the sight before them, might, had the schoolmistress’s eye alighted on +others, have plundered on with their fellows; and with the more +luckless of those fellows have stood on the scaffold a month later! + +Still, time had been lost. And perforce the men descended slowly, so +that as they reached the hall the door gave way, and admitted a dozen +rascals, who tumbled over one another in their greed. The moment was +critical, the inrush of horrid sounds and sights appalling. But Mary +rose to the occasion. With a courage which from this time remained with +her to the end, she put herself forward. + +“Will you let us pass out?” she said. “My mother is ill. You do not +wish to harm her?” + +Now Lady Sybil had made Mary put off the Quaker-like costume in which +she had wished to nurse her, and she had had no time to cover the light +muslin dress she wore. The men saw before them a beautiful creature, +white-robed, bareheaded, barenecked—even the schoolmistress had not +snatched up so much as a cloak—a Una with sweet shining eyes, before +whom they fell aside abashed. + +“Lord love you, Miss!” one cried heartily. “Take her out! And God bless +you!” while the others grinned fatuously. + +So down the steps and into the turmoil of the seething Square, walled +on two sides by fire, and full of a drunken, frenzied rabble—for all +decent onlookers had fled, awake at last to the result of their +quiescence—the strange procession moved, the girl going first. Tipsy +groups, singing and dancing delirious jigs to the music of falling +walls, pillagers hurrying in ruthless haste from house to house, or +quarrelling over their spoils, householders striving to save a remnant +of their goods from dwellings past saving—all made way for it. Men who +swayed on their feet, brandishing their arms and shouting obscene +songs, being touched on the shoulder by others, stared, and gave place +with mouths agape. Even boys, whom the madness of that night made worse +than men, and unsexed women, shrank at sight of it, and were +silent—nay, followed with a strange homage the slender white figure, +the shining eyes, the pure sweet face. + +In the worst horrors of the French Revolution it is said that the +devotion of a daughter stayed the hands which were raised to slay her +father. Even so, on this night in Bristol, amid surroundings less +bloody, but almost as appalling, the wildest and the most furious made +way for the daughter and the mother. + +Led by instinct rather than by calculation, Mary did not pause, or look +aside, but moved onward, until she reached the middle of the Square; +until some sixty or seventy yards divided her charge from the nearest +of the burning houses. The heat was less scorching here, the crowd less +compact. A fixed seat afforded shelter on one side, and by it she +signed to the bearers to set the couch down. The statue stood not far +away on the other side, and secured them against the ugly rushes which +were caused from time to time by the fall of a roof or a rain of +sparks. + +Mary gazed round her in stupor. And no wonder. The whole of the north +side of the great Square, and a half of the west side—thirty lofty +houses in all—were in flames, or were sinking in red-hot ruin. The long +wall of fire, the canopy of glowing smoke, the ceaseless roar of the +element, the random movements of the forms which, pigmy-like, played +between her and the conflagration, the doom which threatened the whole +city, held her awestruck, spellbound, fascinated. + +But even the feelings which she experienced, confronted by that sight, +were exceeded by the emotions of one who had seen her advance, and, at +first with horror, then as he recognised her, with incredulity, had +watched the white figure which threaded its way through this rout of +satyrs, this orgy of recklessness. She had not succeeded in wresting +her eyes from the spectacle before a trembling hand fell on her arm, +and the last voice she expected to hear called her by name. + +“Mary!” Sir Robert cried. “Mary! My God! What are you doing here?” For, +taken up with staring at her, he had seen neither who accompanied her +nor what they bore. + +A sob of relief and joy broke from her, as she recognised him and flung +herself into his arms and clung to him. + +“Oh!” she cried. “Oh!” She could say no more at that moment. But the +joy of it! To have at last a man to turn to, a man to lean upon, a man +to look to! + +And still he could not grasp the position. “My God!” he repeated in +wonder. “What, child, what are you doing here?” + +But before she could answer him, his eyes sank to the level of the +couch, which the figures about it shaded from the scorching light. And +he started—and stepped back. In a lower voice and a quavering tone he +called upon his Maker. He was beginning to understand. + +“We had to bring her out,” she sobbed. “We had to bring her out. The +house is on fire. See!” She pointed to the house beside Miss Sibson’s, +from the upper windows of which smoke was beginning to curl and eddy. +Men were pouring from the door below, carrying their booty and jostling +others who sought to enter. + +“You have been here all day?” he asked, passing his hand over his brow. + +“Yes.” + +“All day? All day?” he repeated. + +“Yes.” + +He covered his eyes with his hand, while Mary, recalled by a touch from +Miss Sibson, knelt beside her mother, to feel her pulse, to rub her +hands, to make sure that life still lingered in the inanimate frame. He +had not asked, he did not ask who it was over whom his daughter hung +with so tender a solicitude. He did not even look at the cloaked +figure. But the sidelong glance which at once sought and shunned, the +quivering of his mouth, which his shaking fingers did not avail to +hide, the agitation which unnerved a frame, erect but feeble, all +betrayed his knowledge. And what must have been his thoughts, how +poignant his reflections as he considered that there, there, enveloped +in those shapeless wraps, there lay the bride whom he had wedded with +hopes so high a score of years before! The mother of his child, the +wife whom he had last seen in the pride of her beauty, the woman from +whom he had been parted for sixteen years, and who through all those +sixteen years had never been absent from his thoughts for an hour, nor +ever been aught in them but an abiding, clinging, embittering +memory—she lay there! + +What wonder, if the scene about them rolled away and he saw her again +in the stately gardens at Stapylton, walking, smiling, talking, +flirting, the gayest of the gay, the lightest of the butterflies, the +admired of all? Or if his heart bled at the remembrance—at that +remembrance and many another? Or again, what wonder if his mind went +back to long hours of brooding in his sombre library, hours given up to +the rehearsal of grave remonstrances, vain reproofs, bitter complaints, +all destined to meet with defiance? And if his head sank lower, his +hands trembled more senilely, his breast heaved at this picture of the +irrevocable past? + +Of all the strange things wrought in Bristol that night, of all the +strangely begotten brood of riot and fire, and Reform, none were +stranger than this meeting, if meeting that could be called where one +was ignorant of the other’s presence, and he would not look upon her +face. For he would not, perhaps he dared not. He stood with bent head, +pondering and absorbed, until an uprush of sparks, more fiery than +usual, and the movement of the crowd to avoid them, awoke him from his +thoughts. Then his eyes fell on Mary’s uncovered head and neck, and he +took the cloak from his own shoulders and put it on her, with a touch +as if he blessed her. She was kneeling beside the couch at the moment, +her head bent to her mother’s, her hair mingling with her mother’s, but +he contrived to close his eyes and would not see his wife’s face. + +After that he moved to the farther side of the couch, where some +sneaking hobbledehoys showed a disposition to break in upon them. And +old as he was, and shaken and weary, he stood sentry there, a gaunt +stooping figure, for long hours, until the prayed-for day began to +break above Redcliffe and to discover the grim relics of the night’s +work. + + + + +XXXV +THE MORNING OF MONDAY + + +It has been said that midnight of that Sunday saw the alarm speeding +along every road by which the forces of order could hope to be +recruited; nevertheless in Bristol itself nothing was done to stay the +work of havoc. A change had indeed come over the feeling in the city; +for to acquiescence had succeeded the most lively alarm, and to +approval, rage and boundless indignation. But the handful of officials +who all day long had striven, honestly if not very capably, to restore +order, were exhausted; and the public without cohesion or leaders were +in no state to make head against the rioters. So great, indeed, was the +confusion that a troop of Gloucestershire Yeomanry which rode in soon +after dark received neither orders nor billets; and being poorly led, +withdrew within the hour. This, with the tumult at Bath, where the +quarters of the Yeomanry were beset by a mob of Reformers, who would +not let them go to the rescue, completed the isolation of the city. + +One man only, indeed, in the midst of that welter, had it in his power +to intervene with effect. And he could not be found. From Queen’s +Square to Leigh’s Bazaar, where the Third Dragoons stood inactive by +their horses; from Leigh’s to the Recruiting Office on College Green, +where a couple of non-commissioned officers stood inactive; from the +Recruiting Office to his lodgings in Unity Street, men, panting and +protesting, in terror for their property, hurried in vain nightmare +pursuit of that man. For to such men it seemed impossible that in face +of the damage already done, of thirty houses in flames, of a mob which +had broken all bounds, of a city disturbed to its entrails, he could +still refuse to act. + +But to go to Unity Street was one thing, and to gain speech with +Brereton was another. He had gone to bed. He was asleep. He was not +well. He was worn out and was resting. The seekers, with the roar of +the fire in their ears and ruin staring them in the face, heard these +incredible things, and went away, swearing profanely. Nor did anyone, +it would seem, gain speech with him, until the small hours were well +advanced. Then Arthur Vaughan, unable to abide by the vow he had taken +not to importune him, arrived, he, too, furious, at the door, and found +a knot of gentlemen clamouring for admission. + +Vaughan had parted from Sir Robert Vermuyden some hours earlier, +believing that, bad as things were, he might make head against the +rioters, if he could rally his constables. But he had found no one +willing to act without the soldiery; and he was here in the last +resort, determined to compel Colonel Brereton to move, if it were by +main force. For Vaughan had the law-keeping instincts of an Englishman +and his blood boiled at the sights he had seen in the streets, at the +wanton destruction of property, at the jeopardy of life, at the women +made homeless, at the men made paupers. Nor was it quite out of his +thoughts that if anything could harm the cause of Reform it was these +deeds done in its name, these outrages fulfilling to the letter the +worst which its enemies had predicted of it! + +He spoke a few words to the persons who, angry and nonplussed, were +wrangling at the door, then he pushed his way in, deaf to the +remonstrances of the woman of the house. He did not believe, he could +not believe the excuse given—that Brereton was in bed. Nero, fiddling +while Rome burned, seemed nought beside that! And his surprise was +great when, opening the sitting-room door, he saw before him only the +Honourable Bob; who, standing on the hearth-rug, met his indignant look +with one of forced and sickly amusement. + +“Good Heavens!” Vaughan cried, staring at him. “What are you doing +here? Where’s the Chief?” + +Flixton shrugged his shoulders. “There,” he said irritably, “it’s no +use blaming me! Man alive, if he won’t, he won’t! And it’s his +business, not mine!” + +“Then I’d make it mine!” Vaughan retorted. “Where is he?” + +Flixton flicked his thumb in the direction of an inner door. “He’s +there,” he said. “He’s there safe enough! For the rest, it is easy to +find fault! Very easy for you, my lad! You’re no longer in the +service.” + +“There are a good many will leave the service for this!” Vaughan +replied; and he saw on the instant that the shot told. Flixton’s face +fell, he opened his mouth to reply. But disdaining to listen to +excuses, of which the speaker’s manner betrayed the shallowness, +Vaughan opened the bedroom door and passed in. + +To his boundless astonishment Brereton was really in bed, with a light +beside him. Asleep he probably was not, for he rose at once to a +sitting posture and, with wild and dishevelled hair, confronted the +intruder with a mingling of wrath and discomfiture in his looks. His +sword and an undress cap, blue with a silver band, lay beside the +candle on the table, and Vaughan saw that though in his shirt-sleeves +he was not otherwise undressed. + +“Mr. Vaughan!” he cried. “What, if you please, does this mean?” + +“That is what I am here to ask you!” Vaughan answered, his face flushed +with indignation. He was too angry to pick his words. “Are you, can you +be aware, sir, what is done while you sleep?” + +“Sleep?” Brereton rejoined, with a sombre gleam in his eyes. “Sleep, +man? God knows it is the last thing I do!” He clapped his hand to his +brow and for a moment remained silent, holding it there. Then, “Sleep +has been a stranger to me these three nights!” he said. + +“Then what do you do here?” Vaughan answered, in astonishment. And +looked round the room as if he might find his answer there. + +“Ah!” Brereton rejoined, with a look half suspicious, half cunning. +“That is another matter. But never mind! Never mind! I know what I am +doing.” + +“Know——” + +“Yes, well!” the soldier replied, bringing his feet to the floor, but +continuing to keep his seat on the bed. “Very well, sir, I assure you.” + +Vaughan looked aghast at him. “But, Colonel Brereton,” he rejoined, “do +you consider that you are the only person in this city able to act? +That without you nothing can be done and nothing can be ventured?” + +“That,” Brereton returned, with the same shrewd look, “is just what I +do consider! Without me they cannot act! They cannot venture. And I—go +to bed!” + +He chuckled at it, as at a jest; and Vaughan, checked by the oddity of +his manner, and with a growing suspicion in his mind, knew not what to +think. For answer, at last, “I fear that you will not be able to go to +bed, Colonel Brereton,” he said gravely, “when the moment comes to face +the consequences.” + +“The consequences?” + +“You cannot think that a city such as this can be destroyed, and no one +be called to account?” + +“But the civil power——” + +“Is impotent!” Vaughan answered, with returning indignation, “in the +face of the disorder now prevailing! I warn you! A little more delay, a +little more license, let the people’s passions be fanned by farther +impunity, and nothing, nothing, I warn you, Colonel Brereton,” he +continued with emphasis, “can save the major part of the city from +destruction!” + +Brereton rose to his feet, a certain wildness in his aspect. “Good +God!” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean it! Do you really mean it, Vaughan? +But—but what can I do?” He sank down on the bed again, and stared at +his companion. “Eh? What can I do? Nothing!” + +“Everything!” + +He sprang to his feet. “Everything! You say everything?” he cried, and +his tone rose shrill and excited. “But you don’t know!” he continued, +lowering his voice as quickly as he had raised it and laying his hand +on Vaughan’s sleeve—“you don’t know! You don’t know! But I know! Man, I +was set in command here on purpose. If I acted they counted on putting +the blame on me. And if I didn’t act—they would still put the blame on +me.” + +His cunning look shocked Vaughan. + +“But even so, sir,” he answered, “you can do your duty.” + +“My duty?” Brereton repeated, raising his voice again. “And do you +think it is my duty to precipitate a useless struggle? To begin a civil +war? To throw away the lives of my own men and cut down innocent folk? +To fill the streets with blood and slaughter? And the end the same?” + +“Ay, sir, I do,” Vaughan answered sternly. “If by so doing a worse +calamity may be averted! And, for your men’s lives, are they not +soldiers? For your own life, are you not a soldier? And will you shun a +soldier’s duty?” + +Brereton clapped his hand to his brow, and, holding it there, paced the +room in his shirt and breeches. + +“My God! My God!” he cried, as he went. “I do not know what to do! But +if—if it be as bad as you say——” + +“It is as bad, and worse!” + +“I might try once more,” looking at Vaughan with a troubled, undecided +eye, “what showing my men might do? What do you think?” + +Vaughan thought that if he were once on the spot, if he saw with his +own eyes the lawlessness of the mob, he might act. And he assented. +“Shall I pass on the order, sir,” he added, “while you dress?” + +“Yes, I think you may. Yes, certainly. Tell the officer commanding to +march his men to the Square and I’ll meet him there.” + +Vaughan waited for no more. He suspected that the burden of +responsibility had proved too heavy for Brereton’s mind. He suspected +that the Colonel had brooded upon his position between a Whig +Government and a Whig mob until the notion that he was sent there to be +a scapegoat had become a fixed idea; and with it the determination that +he would not be forced into strong measures, had become also a fixed +idea. + +Such a man, if he was to be blamed, was to be pitied also. And Vaughan, +even in the heat of his indignation, did pity him. But he entertained +no such feeling for the Honourable Bob, and in delivering the order to +him he wasted no words. After Flixton had left the room, however, he +remembered that he had noted a shade of indecision in the aide’s +manner. And warned by it, he followed him. “I will come with you to +Leigh’s,” he said. + +“Better come all the way,” Flixton replied, with covert insolence. +“We’ve half a dozen spare horses.” + +The next moment he was sorry he had spoken. For, “Done with you!” +Vaughan cried. “There’s nothing I’d like better!” + +Flixton grunted. He had overreached himself, but he could not withdraw +the offer. + +Vaughan was by his side, and plainly meant to accompany him. + +Let no man think that the past is done with, though he sever it as he +will. The life from which he has cut himself off in disgust has none +the less cast the tendrils of custom about his heart, which shoot and +bud when he least expects it. Vaughan stood in the doorway of the +stable while the men bridled. He viewed the long line of tossing heads, +and the smoky lanthorns fixed to the stall-posts; he sniffed the old +familiar smell of “Stables.” And he felt his heart leap to the past. +Ay, even as it leapt a few minutes later, when he rode down College +Green, now in darkness, now in glare, and heard beside him the familiar +clank of spur and scabbard, the rattle of the bridle-chains, and the +tramp of the shod hoofs. On the men’s left, as they descended the slope +at a walk, the tall houses stood up in bright light; below them on the +right the Float gleamed darkly; above them, the mist glowed red. Wild +hurrahing and an indescribable babel of shouts, mingled with the +rushing roar of the flames, rose from the Square. When the troop rode +into it with the first dawn, they saw that two whole sides—with the +exception of a pair of houses—were burnt or burning. In addition a +monster warehouse was on fire in the rear, a menace to every building +to windward of it. + +The Colonel, with Flixton attending him, fell in on the flank, as the +troop entered the Square. But apparently—since he gave no orders—he did +not share the tingling indignation which Vaughan experienced as he +viewed the scene. A few persons were still engaged in removing their +goods from houses on the south side; but save for these, the decent and +respectable had long since fled the place, and left it a prey to all +that was most vile and dangerous in the population of a rough seaport. +The rabble, left to themselves, and constantly recruited as the news +flew abroad, had cast off the fear of reprisals, and believed that at +last the city was their own. Vaughan saw that if the dragoons were to +act with effect they must act at once. Nor was he alone in this +opinion. The troop had not ridden far into the open before he was +shocked, as well as astonished, by the appearance of Sir Robert +Vermuyden, who stumbled across the Square towards them. He was +bareheaded—for in an encounter with a prowler who had approached too +near he had lost his hat; he was without his cloak, though the morning +was cold. His face, too, unshorn and haggard, added to the tragedy of +his appearance; yet in a sense he was himself, and he tried to steady +his voice, as, unaware of Vaughan’s presence, he accosted the nearest +trooper. + +“Who is in command, my man?” he said. + +Flixton, who had also recognised him, thrust his horse forward. “Good +Heavens, Sir Robert!” he cried. “What are you doing here? And in this +state?” + +“Never mind me,” the Baronet replied. “Are you in command?” + +Colonel Brereton had halted his men. He came forward. “No, Sir Robert,” +he said. “I am. And very sorry to see you in this plight.” + +“Take no heed of me, sir,” Sir Robert replied sternly. Through how many +hours, hours long as days, had he not watched for the soldiers’ coming! +“Take no heed of me, sir,” he repeated. “Unless you have orders to +abandon the loyal people of Bristol to their fate—act! Act, sir! If you +have eyes, you can see that the mob are beginning to fire the south +side on which the shipping abuts. Let that take fire and you cannot +save Bristol!” + +Brereton looked in the direction indicated, but he did not answer. +Flixton did. “We understand all that,” he said, somewhat cavalierly. +“We see all that, Sir Robert, believe me. But the Colonel has to think +of many things; of more than the immediate moment. We are the only +force in Bristol, and——” + +“Apparently Bristol is no better for you!” Sir Robert replied with +tremulous passion. + +So far Vaughan, a horse’s length behind Brereton and his aide, heard +what passed; but with half his mind. For his eyes, roving in the +direction whence Sir Robert had come, had discerned, amid a medley of +goods and persons huddled about the statue, in the middle of the +Square, a single figure, slender, erect, in black and white, which +appeared to be gazing towards him. At first he resisted as incredible +the notion which besieged him—at sight of that figure. But the longer +he looked the more sure he became that it was, it was Mary! Mary, +gazing towards him out of that welter of miserable and shivering +figures, as if she looked to him for help! + +Perhaps he should have asked Sir Robert’s leave, to go to her. Perhaps +Colonel Brereton’s to quit the troop, which he had volunteered to +accompany. But he gave no thought to either. He slipped from his +saddle, flung the reins to the nearest man, and, crossing the roadway +in three strides, he made towards her through the skulking groups who +warily watched the dragoons, or hailed them tipsily, and in the name of +Reform invited them to drink. + +And Mary, who had risen in alarm to her feet, and was gazing after her +father, her only hope, her one protection through the night, saw +Vaughan coming, tall and stern, through the prowling night-birds about +her, as if she had seen an angel! She said not a word, when he came +near and she was sure. Nor did he say more than “Mary!” But he threw +into that word so much of love, of joy, of relief, of forgiveness—and +of the appeal for forgiveness—that it brought her to his arms, it left +her clinging to his breast. All his coldness in Parliament Street, his +cruelty on the coach, her father’s opposition, all were forgotten by +her, as if they had not been! + +And for him, she might have been the weakest of the weak, and fickle +and changeable as the weather, she might have been all that she was +not—though he had yet to learn that and how she had carried herself +that night—but he knew that in spite of all he loved her. She had the +old charm for him! She was still the one woman in the world for him! +And she was in peril. But for that there is no knowing how long he +might have held her. That thought, however, presently overcame all +others, made him insensible even to the sweetness of that embrace, ay, +even put words in his mouth. + +“How come you here?” he cried. “How come you here, Mary?” + +She freed herself and pointed to her mother. “I am with her,” she said. +“We had to bring her here. It was all we could do.” + +He lowered his eyes and saw what she was guarding; and he understood +something of the tragedy of that night. From the couch came a low +continuous moaning which made the hair rise on his head. He looked at +Mary. + +“She is insensible,” she said quietly. “She does not know anything.” + +“We must remove her!” he said. + +She looked at him, and from him to that part of the Square where the +rioters wrought still at their fiendish work. And she shuddered. “Where +can we take her?” she answered. “They are beginning to burn that side +also.” + +“Then we must remove them!” he answered sternly. + +“That’s sense!” a hearty voice cried at his elbow. “And the first I’ve +heard this night!” On which he became aware of Miss Sibson, or rather +of a stout body swathed in queer wrappings, who spoke in the +schoolmistress’s tones, and though pale with fatigue continued to show +a brave face to the mischief about her. “That’s talking!” she +continued. “Do that, and you’ll do a man’s work!” + +“Will you have courage if I leave you?” he asked. And when Mary, +bravely but with inward terror, answered “Yes,” he told her in brief +sentences—with his eyes on the movements in the Square—what to do, if +the rabble made a rush in that direction, and what to do, if the troops +charged too near them, and how, by lying down, to avoid danger if the +crowd resorted to firearms, since untrained men fired high. Then he +touched Miss Sibson on the arm. “You’ll not leave her?” he said. + +“God bless the man, no!” the schoolmistress replied. “Though, for the +matter of that, she’s as well able to take care of me as I of her!” + +Which was not quite true. Or why in after-days did Miss Sibson, at many +a cosy whist-party and over many a glass of hot negus, tell of a +particular box on the ear with which she routed a young rascal, more +forward than civil? Ay, and dilate with boasting on the way his teeth +had rattled, and the gibes with which his fellows had seen him driven +from the field? + +But, if not quite true, it satisfied Vaughan. He went from them in a +cold heat, and finding Sir Robert, still at words and almost at blows +with the officers, was going to strike in, when another did so. +Daylight was slowly overcoming the glare of the fire and dispelling the +shadows which had lain the deeper and more confusing for that glare. It +laid the grey of reality upon the scene, showing all things in their +true colours, the ruins more ghastly, the pale licking flames more +devilish. The fire, which had swept two sides of the Square, leaving +only charred skeletons of houses, with vacant sockets gaping to the +sky, was now attacking the third side, of which the two most westerly +houses were in flames. It was this, and the knowledge of its meaning, +that, before Vaughan could interpose, flung at Colonel Brereton a man +white with passion, and stuttering under the pressure of feelings too +violent for utterance. + +“Do you see? Do you see?” he cried brandishing his fist in Brereton’s +face—it was Cooke. “You traitor! If the fire catches the fourth house +on that side, it’ll get the shipping! The shipping, d’you hear, you +Radical? Then the Lord knows what’ll escape? But, thank God, you’ll +hang! You’ll—if it gets to the fourth house, I tell you, it’ll catch +the rigging by the Great Crane! Are you going to move?” + +Vaughan did not wait for Brereton’s answer. “We must charge, Colonel +Brereton!” he cried, in a voice which burst the bonds of discipline, +and showed that he was determined that others should burst them also. +“Colonel Brereton,” he repeated, setting his horse in motion, “we must +charge without a moment’s delay!” + +“Wait!” Brereton answered hoarsely. “Wait! Let me——” + +“We must charge!” Vaughan replied, his face pale, his mind made up. And +turning in his saddle he waved his hand to the men. “Forward!” he +cried, raising his voice to its utmost. “Trot! Charge, men, and charge +home!” + +He spurred his horse to the front, and the whole troop, some thirty +strong, set in motion by the magic of his voice, followed him. Even +Brereton, after a moment’s hesitation, fell in a length behind him. The +horses broke into a trot, then into a canter. As they bore down along +the south side upon the southwest corner, a roar of rage and alarm rose +from the rioters collected there; and scores and hundreds fled, +screaming, and sought safety to right and left. + +Vaughan had time to turn to Brereton, and cry, “I beg your pardon, sir; +I could not help it!” The next moment he and the leading troopers were +upon the fleeing, dodging, ducking crowd; were upon them and among +them. Half a dozen swords gleamed high and fell, the horses did the +rest. The rabble, taken by surprise, made no resistance. In a trice the +dragoons were through the mob, and the roadway showed clear behind +them. Save where here and there a man rose slowly and limped away, +leaving a track of blood at his heels. + +“Steady! Steady!” Vaughan cried. “Halt! Halt! Right about!” and then, +“Charge!” + +He led the men back over the same ground, chasing from it such as had +dared to return, or to gather upon the skirts of the troop. Then he led +his men along the east side, clearing that also and driving the rioters +in a panic into the side streets. Resistance worthy of the name there +was none, until, having led the troop back across the open Square and +cleared that of the skulkers, he came back again to the southwest +corner. There the rabble, rallying from their surprise, had taken up a +position in the forecourts of the houses, where they were protected by +the railings. They met the soldiers with a volley of stones, and half a +dozen pistol-shots. A horse fell, two or three of the men were hit; for +an instant there was confusion. Then Vaughan spurred his horse into one +of the forecourts, and, followed by half a dozen troopers, cleared it, +and the next and the next; on which, volunteers who sprang up, as by +magic, at the first act of authority, entered the houses, killed one +rioter, flung out the rest, and extinguished the flames. Still the more +determined of the rascals, seeing the small number against them, clung +to the place and the forecourts; and, driven from one court, retreated +to another, and still protected by the railings, kept the troopers at +bay with missiles. + +Vaughan, panting with his exertions, took in the position, and looked +round for Brereton. + +“We must send for the Fourteenth, sir!” he said. “We are not enough to +do more than hold them in check.” + +“There is nothing else for it now,” Brereton replied, with a gloomy +face and in such a tone that the very men shrank from looking at him; +understanding, the very dullest of them, what his feelings must be, and +how great his shame, who, thus superseded, saw another successful in +that which it had been his duty to attempt. + +And what were Vaughan’s feelings? He dared not allow himself the luxury +of a glance towards the middle of the Square. Much less—but for a +different reason—had he the heart to meet Brereton’s eyes. “I’m not in +uniform, sir,” he said. “I can pass through the crowd. If you think +fit, and will give me the order, I’ll fetch them, sir?” + +Brereton nodded without a word, and Vaughan wheeled his horse to start. +As he pushed it clear of the troop he passed Flixton. + +“That was capital!” the Honourable Bob cried heartily. “Capital! We’ll +handle ’em easily now, till you come back!” + +Vaughan did not answer, nor did he look at Flixton; his look would have +conveyed too much. Instead, he put his horse into a trot along the east +side of the Square, and, regardless of a dropping fire of stones, made +for the opening beside the ruins of the Mansion House. At the last +moment, he looked back, to see Mary if it were possible. But he had +waited too long, he could distinguish only confused forms about the +base of the statue; and he must look to himself. His road to Keynsham +lay through the lowest and most dangerous part of the city. + +But though the streets were full of rough men, navigators and seamen, +whose faces were set towards the Square, and who eyed him suspiciously +as he rode by them, none made any attempt to stop him. And when he had +crossed Bristol Bridge and had gained the more open outskirts towards +Totterdown, where he could urge his horse to a gallop, the pale faces +of men and women at door and window announced that it was not only the +upper or the middle class which had taken fright, and longed for help +and order. Through Brislington and up Durley Hill he pounded; and it +must be confessed that his heart was light. Whatever came of it, though +they court-martialled him, were that possible, though they tried him, +he had done something, he had done right, and he had succeeded. +Whatever the consequences, whatever the results to himself, he had +dared; and his daring, it might be, had saved a city! Of the charge, +indeed, he thought nothing, though she had seen it. It was nothing, for +the danger had been of the slightest, the defence contemptible. But in +setting discipline at defiance, in superseding the officer commanding +the troops, in taking the whole responsibility on his own shoulders—a +responsibility which few would have dreamed of taking—there he had +dared, there he had played the man, there he had risen to the occasion! +If he had been a failure in the House, here, by good fortune, he had +not been a failure. And she would know it. Oh, happy thought! And happy +man, riding out of Bristol with the murk and smoke and fog at his back, +and the sunshine on his face! + +For the sun was above the horizon as, with full heart, he rode down the +hill into Keynsham, and heard the bugle sound “Boots and saddles!” and +poured into sympathetic ears—-and to an accompaniment of strong +words—the tale of the night’s doings. + +* * * * * + +An hour later he rode in with the Fourteenth and heard the Blues +welcomed with thanksgiving, in the very streets which had stoned them +from the city twenty-four hours before. By that time the officer in +command of the main body of the Fourteenth at Gloucester had posted +over, followed by another troop, and, seeing the state of things, had +taken his own line and assumed, though junior to Colonel Brereton, the +command of the forces. + +After that the thing became a military evolution. One hour, two hours +at most, and twenty charges along the quays and through the streets +sufficed—at the cost of a dozen lives—to convince the most obstinate of +the rabble of several things. _Imprimis_, that the reign of terror was +not come. On the contrary, that law and order, and also Red Judges, +survived. That Reform did not spell fire and pillage, and that at these +things even a Reforming Government could not wink. In a word, by noon +of that day, Monday, and many and many an hour before the ruins had +ceased to smoke, the bubble which might have been easily burst before +was pricked. Order reigned in Bristol, patrols were everywhere, two +thousand zealous constables guarded the streets. And though troops +still continued to hasten by every road to the scene, though all +England trembled with alarm, and distant Woolwich sent its guns, and +Greenwich horsed them, and the Yeomanry of six counties mustered on +Clifton Down, or were quartered on the public buildings, the thing was +nought by that time. Arthur Vaughan had pricked it in the early morning +light when he cried “Charge!” in Queen’s Square. + + + + +XXXVI +FORGIVENESS + + +The first wave of thankfulness for crowning blessings or vital escapes +has a softening quality against which the hearts of few are wholly +proof. Old things, old hopes, old ties, old memories return on that +gentle flood tide to eyes and mind. The barriers raised by time, the +furrows of ancient wrong are levelled with the plain, and the generous +breast cries “_Non nobis!_ Not to us only be the benefit!” + +Lady Lansdowne, with something of this kind in her thoughts and pity in +her heart, sat eying Miss Sibson in a silence which disclosed nothing, +and which the schoolmistress found irksome. Miss Sibson could beard Sir +Robert at need; but of the great of her own sex—and she knew Lady +Lansdowne for a very great lady, indeed—her sturdy nature went a little +in awe. Had her ladyship encroached indeed, Miss Sibson would have +known how to put her in her place. But a Lady Lansdowne perfectly +polite and wholly silent imposed on her. She rubbed her nose and was +glad when the visitor spoke. + +“Sir Robert has not seen her, then?” + +Miss Sibson smoothed out the lap of her dress. “No, my lady, not since +she was brought into the house. Indeed, I can’t say that he saw her +before, for he never looked at her.” + +“Do you think that I could see her?” + +The schoolmistress hesitated. “Well, my lady,” she said, “I am afraid +that she will hardly live through the day.” + +“Then he must see her,” Lady Lansdowne replied quickly. And Miss Sibson +observed with surprise that there were tears in the great lady’s eyes. +“He must see her. Is she conscious?” + +“She’s so-so,” Miss Sibson answered more at her ease. After all, the +great lady was human, it seemed. “She wanders, and thinks that she is +in France, my lady; believes there’s a revolution, and that they are +come to take her to prison. Her mind harps continually on things of +that kind. And not much wonder either! But, then again she’s herself. +So that you don’t know from one minute to another whether she’s +sensible or not.” + +“Poor thing!” Lady Lansdowne murmured. “Poor woman!” Her lips moved +without sound. Presently, “Her daughter is with her?” she asked. + +“She has scarcely left her for a minute since she was carried in,” Miss +Sibson answered warmly. And to her eyes, too, there rose something like +a tear. “Only with difficulty have I made her take the most necessary +rest. But if your ladyship pleases, I will ask whether she will see +you.” + +“Do so, if you please.” + +Miss Sibson retired for this purpose, and Lady Lansdowne, left to +herself, rose and looked from the window. As soon as it had been +possible to move her, the dying woman had been carried into the nearest +house which had escaped the flames, and Lady Lansdowne, gazing out, +looked on the scene of conflict, saw lines of ruins, still asmoke in +parts, and discerned between the scorched limbs of trees, from which +the last foliage had fallen, the blackened skeletons of houses. A +gaping crowd was moving round the Square, under the eyes of special +constables, who, distinguished by white bands on their arms, guarded +the various entrances. Hundreds, doubtless, who would fain have robbed +were there to stare; but for the most part the guilty shunned the +scene, and the gazers consisted mainly of sightseers from the country, +or from Bath, or of knots of merchants and traders and the like who +argued, some that this was what came of Reform, others that not Reform +but the refusal of Reform was to blame for it. + +Presently she saw Sir Robert’s stately figure threading its way through +the crowd. He walked erect, but with effort; yet though her heart +swelled with pity, it was not with pity for him. He would have his +daughter and in a few days, in a few weeks, in a few months at most, +the clouds would pass and leave him to enjoy the clear evening of his +days. + +But for her whom he had taken to his house twenty years before in the +bloom of her beauty, the envied, petted, spoiled child of fortune, who +had sinned so lightly and paid so dearly, and who now lay distraught at +the close of all, what evening remained? What gleam of light? What +comfort at the last? + +In her behalf, the heart which Whig pride, and family prejudice, and +the cares of riches had failed to harden, swelled to bursting. “He must +forgive her!” she ejaculated. “He shall forgive her!” And gliding to +the door she stayed Mary, who was in the act of entering. + +“I must see your father,” she said. “He is mounting the stairs now. Go +to your mother, my dear, and when I ring, do you come!” + +What Mary read in her face, of feminine pity and generous purpose, need +not be told. Whatever it was, the girl seized the woman’s hand, kissed +it with wet eyes, and fled. And when Sir Robert, ushered upstairs by +Miss Sibson, entered the room and looked round for his daughter, he +found in her stead the wife of his enemy. + +On the instant he remembered the errand on which she had sought him six +months before, and he was quick to construe her presence by its light, +and to feel resentment. The wrong of years, the daily, hourly wrong, +committed not against him only but against the innocent and the +helpless, this woman would have him forgive at a word; merely because +the doer, who had had no ruth, no pity, no scruples, hung on the verge +of that step which all, just and unjust, must take! And some, he knew, +standing where he stood, would forgive; would forgive with their lips, +using words which meant nought to the sayer, though they soothed the +hearers. But he was no hypocrite; he would not forgive. Forgive? Great +Heaven, that any should think that the wrongs of a lifetime could be +forgiven in an hour! At a word! Beside a bed! As soon might the +grinding wear of years be erased from the heart, the wrinkles of care +from the brow, the snows of age from the head! As easily might a word +give back to the old the spring and flame and vigour of their youth! + +Something of what he thought impressed itself on his face. Lady +Lansdowne marked the sullen drop of his eyebrows, and the firm set of +the lower face; but she did not flinch. “I came upon your name,” she +said, “in the report of the dreadful doings here—in the ‘Mercury,’ this +morning. I hope, Sir Robert, I shall be pardoned for intruding.” + +He murmured something, as much no as yes, and with a manner as frigid +as his breeding permitted. And standing—she had reseated herself—he +continued to look at her, his lips drawn down. + +“I grieve,” she continued, “to find the truth more sad than the +report.” + +“I do not know that you can help us,” he said. + +“No?” + +“No.” + +“Because,” she rejoined, looking at him softly, “you will not let me +help you. Sir Robert——” + +“Lady Lansdowne!” He broke in abruptly, using her name with emphasis, +using it with intention. “Once before you came to me. Doubtless you +remember. Now, let me say at once, that if your errand to-day be the +same, and I think it likely that it is the same——” + +“It is not the same,” she replied with emotion which she did not try to +hide. “It is not the same! For then there was time. And now there is no +time. Let a day, it may be an hour, pass, and at the cost of all you +possess you will not be able to buy that which you can still have for +nothing!” + +“And what is that?” he asked, frowning. + +“An easy heart.” He had not looked for that answer, and he started. +“Sir Robert,” she continued, rising from her seat, and speaking with +even deeper feeling, “forgive her! Forgive her, I implore you. The +wrong is past, is done, is over! Your daughter is restored——” + +“But not by her!” he cried, taking her up quickly. “Not by her act!” he +repeated sternly, “or with her will! And what has she done that I +should forgive? I, whose life she blighted, whose pride she stabbed, +whose hopes she crushed? Whom she left solitary, wifeless, childless +through the years of my strength, the years that she cannot, that no +one can give back to me? Through the long summer days that were a +weariness, and the dark winter days that were a torpor? Yet—yet I could +forgive her, Lady Lansdowne, I could forgive her, I do forgive her +that!” + +“Sir Robert!” + +“That, all that!” he continued, with a gesture and in a tone of +bitterness which harmonised but ill with the words he uttered. “All +that she ever did amiss to me I forgive her. But—but the child’s wrong, +never! Had she relented indeed, at the last, had she of her own motion, +of her own free will given me back my daughter, had she repented and +undone the wrong, then—but no matter! she did not! She did not one,” he +repeated with agitation, “she did not any of these things. And I ask, +what has she done that I should forgive her?” + +She did not answer him at once, and when she did it was in a tone so +low as to be barely audible. + +“I cannot answer that,” she said. “But is it the only question? Is +there not another question, Sir Robert—not what she has done, or left +undone, but what you—forgive me and bear with me—have left undone, or +done amiss? Are you—you clear of all spot or trespass, innocent of all +blame or erring? When she came to you a young girl, a young bride—and, +oh, I remember her, the sunshine was not brighter, she was a child of +air rather than of earth, so fair and heedless, so capricious, and yet +so innocent!—did you in the first days never lose patience? Never fail +to make allowance? Never preach when wisdom would have smiled, never +look grave when she longed for lightness, never scold when it had been +better to laugh? Did you never forget that she was a score of years +younger than you, and a hundred years more frivolous? Or”—Lady +Lansdowne’s tone was a mere whisper now—“if you are clear of all +offence against her, are you clear of all offence against any, of all +trespass? Have you no need to be forgiven, no need, no——” + +Her voice died away into silence. She left the appeal unfinished. + +Sir Robert paced the room. And other scenes than those on which he had +taught himself to brood, other days than those later days of wasted +summers and solitary winters, of dulness and decay, rose to his memory. +Sombre moods by which it had pleased him—at what a cost!—to make his +displeasure known. Sarcastic words, warrant for the facile retort that +followed, curt judgments and ill-timed reproofs; and always the sense +of outraged dignity to freeze the manner and embitter the tone. + +So much, so much which he had forgotten came back to him as he walked +the room with averted face! While Lady Lansdowne waited with her hand +on the bell. Minutes were passing, minutes; who knew how precious they +might be? And with them was passing his opportunity. + +He spoke at last. “I will see her,” he said huskily. + +And on that Lady Lansdowne performed a last act of kindness. She said +nothing, bestowed no thanks. But when Mary entered—pale, yet with that +composure which love teaches the least experienced—she was gone. Nor as +she drove in all the pomp of her liveries and outriders through Bath, +through Corsham, through Chippenham, did those who ran out to watch my +lady’s four greys go by, see her face as the face of an angel. But Lady +Louisa, flying down the steps to meet her—four at a time and +hoidenishly—was taken to her arms, unscolded; and knew by instinct that +this was the time to pet and be petted, to confess and be forgiven, and +to learn in the stillness of her mother’s room those thrilling lessons +of life, which her governess had not imparted, nor Mrs. Fairchild +approved. + +_But more than wisdom sees, love knows. +What eye has scanned the perfume of the rose? +Has any grasped the low grey mist which stands +Ghost-like at eve above the sheeted lands?_ + + +Meanwhile Sir Robert paused on the threshold of the room—_her_ room, +which he had first entered two-and-twenty years before. And as the then +and the now, the contrast between the past and the present, forced +themselves upon him, what could he do but pause and bow his head? In +the room a voice, her voice, yet unlike her voice, high, weak, never +ceasing, was talking as from a great distance, from another world; +talking, talking, never ceasing. It filled the room. Yet it did not +come from a world so distant as he at first fancied, hearing it; a +world that was quite aloof. For when, after he had listened for a time +in the shadow by the door, his daughter led him forward, Lady Sybil’s +eyes took note of their approach, though she recognised neither of +them. Her mind was still busy amid the scenes of the riot; twisting and +weaving them, it seemed, into a piece with old impressions of the +French Terror, made on her mind in childhood by talk heard at her +nurse’s knee. + +“They are coming! They are coming now,” she muttered, her bright eyes +fixed on his. “But they shall not take her. They shall not take her,” +she repeated. “Hide behind me, Mary. Hide, child! Don’t tremble! They +shan’t take you. One neck’s enough and mine is growing thin. It used +not to be thin. But that’s right. Hide, and they’ll not see you, and +when I am gone you’ll escape. Hush! Here they are!” And then in a +louder tone, “I am ready,” she said, “I am quite ready.” + +Mary leant over her. + +“Mother!” she cried, unable to bear the scene in silence. “Mother! +Don’t you know me?” + +“Hush!” the dying woman answered, a look of terror crossing her face. +“Hush, child! Don’t speak! I’m ready, gentlemen; I will go with you. I +am not afraid. My neck is small, and it will be but a squeeze.” And she +tried to raise herself in the bed. + +Mary laid gentle hands on her, and restrained her. “Mother,” she said. +“Mother! Don’t you know me? I am Mary.” + +But Lady Sybil, heedless of her, looked beyond her, with fear and +suspicion in her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I know you. I know you. I know +you. But who is—that? Who is that?” + +“My father. It is my father. Don’t you know him?” + +But still, “Who is it? Who is it?” Lady Sybil continued to ask. “Who is +it?” + +Mary burst into tears. + +“What does he want? What does he want? What does he want?” the dying +woman asked in endless, unreasoning repetition. + +Sir Robert had entered the room in the full belief that with the best +of wills it would be hard, it would be well-nigh impossible to forgive; +to forgive his wife with more than the lips. But when he heard her, +weak and helpless as she was, thinking of another; when he understood +that she who had done so great a wrong to the child was willing to give +up her own life for the child; when he felt the sudden drag at his +heart-strings of many an old and sacred recollection, shared only by +her, and which that voice, that face, that form brought back, he fell +on his knees by the bed. + +She shrank from him, terrified. “What does he want?” she repeated. + +“Sybil,” he said, in a husky voice, “I want your forgiveness, Sybil, +wife! Do you hear me? Will you forgive me? Can you forgive me, late as +it is?” + +Strange to say, his voice pierced the confusion which filled the sick +brain. She looked at him steadily and long; and she sighed, but she did +not answer. + +“Sybil,” he repeated in a quavering voice. “Do you not know me? Don’t +you remember me? I am your husband.” + +“Yes, I know,” she muttered. + +“This is your daughter.” + +She smiled. + +“Our daughter,” he repeated. “Our daughter!” + +“Mary?” she murmured. “Mary?” + +“Yes, Mary.” + +She smiled faintly on him. Mary’s head was touching his, but she did +not answer. She remained looking at them. They could not tell whether +she understood, or was slipping away again. He took her hand and +pressed it gently. “Do you hear me?” he said. “If I was harsh to you in +the old days, if I made mistakes, if I wronged you, I want you—wife, +say that you forgive me.” + +“I—forgive you,” she murmured. A faint gleam of mischief, of laughter, +of the old Lady Sybil, shone for an instant in her eyes, as if she knew +that she had the upper hand. “I forgive you—everything,” she murmured. +Yes, for certain now, she was slipping away. + +Mary took her other hand. But she did not speak again. And before the +watch on the table beside her had ticked many times she had slipped +away for good, with that gleam of triumph in her eyes—forgiving. + + + + +XXXVII +IN THE MOURNING COACH + + +It is a platitude that the flood is followed by the ebb. In the heat of +action, and while its warmth cheered his spirits, Arthur Vaughan felt +that he had done something. True, what he had done brought him no +nearer to making his political dream a reality. Not for him the +promise, + +_It shall be thine in danger’s hour +To guide the helm of Britain’s power +And midst thy country’s laurelled crown +To twine a garland all thy own_. + + +Yet he had done something. He had played the man when some others had +not played the man. + +But now that the crisis was over, and he had made his last round, now +that he had inspected for the last time the patrols over whom he was +set, seen order restored on the Welsh Back, and panic driven from +Queen’s Square, he owned the reaction. There is a fatigue which one +night’s rest fails to banish; and low in mind and tired in body, he +felt, when he rose late on Tuesday afternoon, that he had done nothing +worth doing; nothing that altered his position in essentials. + +For a time, indeed, he had fancied that things were changed. Sir Robert +had requested his assistance, and allowed him to share his search; and +though it was possible that the merest stranger, cast by fortune into +the same adventure, had been as welcome, it was also possible that the +Baronet viewed him with a more benevolent eye. And Mary—Mary, too, had +flown to his arms as to a haven; but in such a position, amid +surroundings so hideous, was that wonderful? Was it not certain that +she would have behaved in the same way to the merest acquaintance if he +brought her aid and protection? + +The answer might be yes or no! What was certain was that it could not +avail him. For between him and her there stood more than her father’s +aversion, more than the doubt of her affection, more than the unlucky +borough, of which he had despoiled Sir Robert. There were her +possessions, there was the suspicion which Sir Robert had founded on +them—on Mary’s gain and his loss—there was the independence, which he +must surrender, and which pride and principle alike forbade him to +relinquish. + +In the confusion of the night Vaughan had almost forgotten and quite +forgiven. Now he saw that the thing, though forgotten, though forgiven, +was there. He could not owe all to a man who had so misconstrued him, +and who might misconstrue him again. He could not be dependent on one +whose views, thoughts, prejudices, were opposed to his own. No, the +night and its doing must stand apart. He and she had met, they had +parted. He had one memory more, and nothing was changed. + +In this mood the fact that the White Lion regarded him as a hero +brought him no comfort. Neither the worshipping eyes of the young lady +who had tried to dissuade him from going forth on the Sunday, nor the +respectful homage which dogged his movements, uplifted him. He had +small appetite for his solitary dinner, and was languidly reading the +“Bristol Mercury,” when a name was brought up to him, and a letter. + +“Gentleman will wait your pleasure, sir,” the man said. + +He broke open the letter, and felt the blood rise to his face as his +eyes fell on the signature. The few lines were from his cousin, and ran +as follows: + +“Dear Sir,—I feel it my duty to inform you, as a connection of the +family, that Lady Sybil Vermuyden died at five minutes past three +o’clock this afternoon. Her death, which I am led to believe could in +no event have been long delayed, was doubtless hastened by the +miserable occurrences of the last few days. + +“I have directed Isaac White to convey this intimation to your hands, +and to inform you from time to time of the arrangements made for her +ladyship’s funeral, which will take place at Stapylton. I have the +honour to be, sir, + +“Your obedient servant, + +“Robert Vermuyden.” + +Vaughan laid the letter down with a groan. As he did so he became aware +that Isaac White was in the room. “Halloa, White,” he said. “Is that +you?” + +White looked at him with unconcealed respect. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Sir +Robert bade me wait on you in person without delay. If I may venture,” +he continued, “to compliment you on my own account, sir—a very great +honour to the family, Mr. Vaughan—in all the west country, I may say——” + +Vaughan stopped him, and said something of Lady Sybil’s death; adding +that he had never seen her but once. + +“Twice, begging your pardon,” White answered, smiling. “Do you remember +I met you at Chippenham before the election, Mr. Vaughan? Well, sir, +she came up to the coach, and as good as touched your sleeve, poor +lady, while I was talking to you. Of course, she knew that her daughter +was on the coach.” + +“I learned afterwards that Lady Sybil travelled by it that day,” +Vaughan replied. Then with a frown he took up the letter. “Of course,” +he continued, “I have no intention of attending the funeral.” + +“But I think his honour wishes much——” + +“There is no possible reason,” Vaughan said doggedly. + +“Pardon me, sir,” White answered anxiously. “You are not aware, I am +sure, how highly Sir Robert appreciates your gallant conduct yesterday. +No one in Bristol can view it in a stronger light. It is a happy thing +he witnessed it. He thinks, indeed, that but for you her ladyship would +have died in the crowd. Moreover——” + +“That’s enough, White,” Vaughan said coldly. “It is not so much what +Sir Robert thinks now, too, as what he thought formerly.” + +“But indeed, sir, his honour’s opinion of that matter, too——” + +“That’s enough, White,” the young gentleman repeated, rising from his +seat. He was telling himself that he was not a dog to be kicked away +and called to heel again. He would forgive, but he would not return. “I +don’t wish to discuss the matter,” he added with an air of finality. + +And White did not venture to say more. + +He did wisely. For Vaughan, left to himself, had not reflected two +minutes before he felt that he had played the churl. To make amends, he +called at the house to inquire after the ladies at an hour next morning +when they could not be stirring. Having performed that duty, and having +learned that no inquiry into the riots would be opened for some +days—and also that a proposal to give him a piece of gold plate was +under debate at the Commercial Rooms, he fled, pride and love at odds +in his breast. + +It is possible that in Sir Robert’s heart, also, there was a battle +going on. On the eve of the funeral he sat alone in the library at +Stapylton, that room in which he had passed so many unhappy hours, and +with which the later part of his life seemed bound up. Doubtless, as he +sat, he gave solemn thought to the past and the future. The room was no +longer dusty, the furniture was no longer shabby; there were fresh +flowers on his table; and by his great leather chair, a smaller chair, +filled within the last few minutes, had its place. Yet he could not +forget what he had suffered there; how he had brooded there. And +perhaps he thanked God, amid his more solemn thoughts, that he was not +glad that she who had plagued him would plague him no more. All that +her friend had urged in her behalf, all that was brightest and best in +his memories of her, this generous whim, that quixotic act rose, it may +be supposed, before him. And the picture of her fair young beauty, of +her laughing face in the bridal veil or under the Leghorn, of her first +words to him, of her first acts in her new home! And but that the tears +of age flow hardly, it is possible that he would have wept. + +Presently—perhaps he was not sorry for it—a knock came at the door and +Isaac White entered. He came to take the last instructions for the +morrow. A few words settled what remained to be settled, and then, +after a little hesitation, “I promised to name it to you, sir,” White +said. “I don’t know what you’ll say to it. Dyas wishes to walk with the +others.” + +Sir Robert winced. “Dyas?” he muttered. + +“He says he’s anxious to show his respect for the family, in every way +consistent with his opinions.” + +“Opinions?” Sir Robert echoed. “Opinions? Good Lord! A butcher’s +opinions! Who knows but some day he’ll have a butcher to represent him? +Or a baker or a candlestick-maker! If ever they have the ballot, +that’ll come with it, White.” + +White waited, but as the other said no more, “You won’t forbid him, +sir?” he said, a note of appeal in his voice. + +“Oh, let him come,” Sir Robert answered wearily. “I suppose,” he +continued, striving to speak in the same tone, “you’ve heard nothing +from his—Member?” + +“From—oh, from Mr. Vaughan, sir? No, sir. But Mr. Flixton is coming.” + +Sir Robert muttered something under his breath, and it was not +flattering to the Honourable Bob. Then he turned his chair and held his +hands over the blaze. “That will do, White,” he said. “That will do.” +And he did not look round until the agent had left the room. + +But White was certain that even on this day of sad memories, with the +ordeal of the morrow before him, Arthur Vaughan’s attitude troubled his +patron. And when, twenty-four hours later, the agent’s eyes travelling +round the vast assemblage which regard for the family had gathered +about the grave, fell upon Arthur Vaughan, and he knew that he had +repented and come, he was glad. + +The young Member held himself a little apart from the small group of +family mourners; a little apart also from the larger company whom +respect or social ties had brought thither. Among these last, who were +mostly Tories, many were surprised to see Lord Lansdowne and his son. +But more, aware of the breach between Mr. Vaughan and his cousin, and +of the former’s peculiar position in the borough, were surprised to see +him. And these, while their thoughts should have been elsewhere, stole +furtive glances at the sombre figure; and when Vaughan left, still +alone and without speaking to any, followed his departure with +interest. In those days of mutes and crape-coloured staves, mourning +cloaks and trailing palls, it was not the custom for women to bury +their dead. And Vaughan, when he had made up his mind to come, knew +that he ran no risk of seeing Mary. + +That he might escape with greater case, he had left his post-chaise at +a side-gate of the park. The moment the ceremony was over, he made his +way to it, now traversing beds of fallen chestnut and sycamore leaves, +now striding across the sodden turf. The solemn words which he had +heard, emphasised as they were by the scene, the grey autumn day, the +lonely park, and the dark groups threading their way across it, could +not hold his thoughts from Mary. She would be glad that he had come. +Perhaps it was for that reason that he had come. + +He had passed through the gate of the park and his foot was on the step +of the chaise, when he heard White’s voice, calling after him. He +turned and saw the agent hurrying desperately after him. White’s +mourning suit was tight and new and ill made for haste; and he was hot +and breathless. For a moment, “Mr. Vaughan! Mr. Vaughan!” was all he +could say. + +Vaughan turned a reluctant, almost a stern face to him. Not that he +disliked the agent, but he thought that he had got clear. + +“What is it?” he asked, without removing his foot from the step. + +White looked behind him. “Sir Robert, sir,” he said, “has something to +say to you. The carriage is following. If you’ll be good enough,” he +continued, mopping his face, “to wait a moment!” + +“Sir Robert cannot wish to see me at such a time,” Vaughan answered, +between wonder and impatience. “He will write, doubtless.” + +“The carriage should be in sight,” was White’s answer. As he spoke it +came into view; rounding the curve of a small coppice of beech trees, +it rolled rapidly down a declivity, and ascended towards them as +rapidly. + +A moment and it would be here. Vaughan looked uncertainly at his +post-boy. He wished to catch the York House coach at Chippenham, and he +had little time to spare. + +It was not the loss of time, however, that he really had in his mind. +But he could guess, he fancied, what Sir Robert wished to say; and he +did not deny that the old man was generous in saying it at such a +moment, if that were his intention. But his own mind was made up; he +could only repeat what he had said to White. It was not a question of +what Sir Robert had thought, or now thought, but of what _he_ thought. +And the upshot of all his thoughts was that he would not be dependent +upon any man. He had differed from Sir Robert once, and the elder had +treated the younger man with injustice, and contumely; that might occur +again. Indeed, taking into account the difference in their political +views in an age when politics counted for much, it was sure to occur +again. But his mind was made up that it should not occur to him. +Unhappy as the resolution made him, he would be free. He would be his +own man. He would remember nothing except that that night had changed +nothing. + +It was with a set face, therefore, that he watched the carriage draw +near. Apparently it was a carriage which had conveyed guests to the +funeral, for the blinds were drawn. + +“It will save time, if it takes you a mile on your way,” White said, +with some nervousness. “I will tell your chaise to follow.” And he +opened the door. + +Vaughan raised his hat, and stepped in. It was only when the door was +closing behind him and the carriage starting anew at a word from White, +that he saw that it contained, not Sir Robert Vermuyden, but a lady. + +“Mary!” he cried. The name broke from him in his astonishment. + +She looked at him with self-possession, and a gentle, unsmiling +gravity. She indicated the front seat, and “Will you sit there?” she +said. “I can talk to you better, Mr. Vaughan, if you sit there.” + +He obeyed her, marvelling. The blind on the side on which she sat was +raised a few inches, and in the subdued light her graceful head showed +like some fair flower rising from the depth of her mourning. For she +wore no covering on her head, and he might have guessed, had he had any +command of his thoughts, that she had sprung as she was into the +nearest carriage. Amazement, however, put him beyond thinking. + +Her eyes met his seriously. “Mr. Vaughan,” she said, “my presence must +seem extraordinary to you. But I am come to ask you a question. Why did +you tell me six months ago that you loved me if you did not?” + +He was as deeply agitated as she was quiet on the surface. “I told you +nothing but the truth,” he said. + +“No,” she said. + +“But yes! A hundred times, yes!” he cried. + +“Then you are altered? That is it?” + +“Never!” he cried. “Never!” + +“And yet—things are changed? My father wrote to you, did he not, three +days ago? And said as much as you could look to him to say?” + +“He said——” + +“He withdrew what he had uttered in an unfortunate moment. He withdrew +that which, I think, he had never believed in his heart. He said as +much as you could expect him to say?” she repeated, her colour mounting +a little, her eyes challenging him with courageous firmness. + +“He said,” Vaughan answered in a low voice, “what I think it became him +to say.” + +“You understood that his feelings were changed towards you?” + +“To some extent.” + +She drew a deep breath and sat back. “Then it is for you to speak,” she +said. + +But before, agitated as he was, he could speak, she leant forward +again. “No,” she said, “I had forgotten. I had forgotten.” And the +slight quivering of her lips, a something piteous in her eyes, reminded +him once more, once again—and the likeness tugged at his heart—of the +Mary Smith who had paused on the threshold of the inn at Maidenhead, +alarmed and abashed by the bustle of the coffee-room. “I had forgotten! +It is not my father you cannot forgive—it is I, who am unworthy of your +forgiveness? You cannot make allowance,” she continued, stopping him by +a gesture, as he opened his mouth to speak, “for the weakness of one +who had always been dependent, who had lived all her life under the +dominion of others, who had been taught by experience that, if she +would eat, she must first obey. You can make no allowance, Mr. Vaughan, +for such an one placed between a father, whom it was her duty to +honour, and a lover to whom she had indeed given her heart, she knew +not why—but whom she barely knew, with whose life she had no real +acquaintance, whose honesty she must take on trust, because she loved +him? You cannot forgive her because, taught all her life to bend, she +could not, she did not stand upright under the first trial of her +faith?” + +“No!” he cried violently. “No! No! It is not that!” + +“No?” she said. “You do forgive her then? You have forgiven her? The +more as to-day she is not weak. The earth is not level over my mother’s +grave, some may say hard things of me—but I have come to you to-day.” + +“God bless you!” he cried. + +She drew a deep breath and sat back. “Then,” she said, with a sigh as +of relief, “it is for you to speak.” + +There was a gravity in her tone, and so complete an absence of all +self-consciousness, all littleness, that he owned that he had never +known her as she was, had never measured her true worth, had never +loved her as she deserved to be loved. Yet—perhaps because it was all +that was left to him—he clung desperately to the resolution he had +formed, to the position which pride and prudence alike had bidden him +to take up. + +“What am I to say?” he asked hoarsely. + +“Why, if you love me, if you forgive me,” she answered softly, “do you +leave me?” + +“Can you not understand?” + +“In part, I can. But not altogether. Will you explain? I—I think,” she +continued with a movement of her flower-like head, that for gentle +dignity he had never seen excelled, “I have a right to an explanation.” + +“You know of what Sir Robert accused me?” + +“Yes.” + +“Am I to justify him? You know what was the difference which came +between us, which first divided us? And what I thought right then, I +still think right. Am I to abandon it? You know what I bore. Am I to +live on the bounty of one who once thought so ill of me, and may think +as ill again? Of one who, differing from me, punished me so cruelly? Am +I to sink into dependence, to sacrifice my judgment, to surrender my +political liberty into the hands of one who——” + +“Of my father!” she said gravely. + +He could not, so reminded, say what he had been going to say, but he +assented by a movement of the head. And after an interval of silence, +“I cannot,” he cried passionately, “I cannot, even to secure my +happiness, run that risk!” + +She looked from the window of the carriage, and in a voice which shook +a little, “No,” she said, “I suppose not.” + +He was silent and he suffered. He dared not meet her eyes. Why had she +sought this interview? Why had she chosen to torment him? Ah, if she +knew, if she only knew what pain she was inflicting upon him! + +But apparently she did not know. For by and by she spoke again. “No,” +she said. “I suppose not. Yet have you thought”—and now there was a +more decided tremor in her voice—“that that which you surrender is not +all there is at stake? Your independence is precious to you, and you +have a right, Mr. Vaughan, to purchase it even at the cost of your +happiness. But have you a right to purchase it at the cost of +another’s? At the cost of mine? Have you thought of my happiness?” she +continued, “or only of yours—and of yourself? To save your +independence—shall I say, to save your pride?—you are willing to set +your love aside. But have you asked me whether I am willing to pay my +half of the price? My heavier half? Whether I am willing to set my +happiness aside? Have you thought of—me at all?” + +If he had not, then, when he saw how she looked at him, with what eyes, +with what love, as she laid her hand on his arm, he had been more than +man if he had resisted her long! But he still fought with himself, and +with her; staring with hard, flushed face straight before him, telling +himself that by all that was left to him he must hold. + +“I think, I think,” she said gently, yet with dignity, “you have not +thought of me.” + +“But your father—Sir Robert——” + +“He is an ogre, of course,” she cried in a tone suddenly changed. “But +you should have thought of that before, sir,” she continued, tears and +laughter in her voice. “Before you travelled with me on the coach! +Before you saved my life! Before you—looked at me! For you can never +take it back. You can never give me myself again. I think that you must +take me!” + +And then he did not resist her any longer. And the carriage was stayed; +and orders were given. And, empty and hugely overpaid, the yellow +post-chaise ambled on to Chippenham; and bearing two inside, and a +valise on the roof, the mourning coach drove slowly and solemnly back +to Stapylton. As it wound its way over the green undulations of the +park, the rabbits that ran, and then stopped, cocking their scuts, to +look at it, saw nothing strange in it. Nor the fallow-deer of the true +Savernake breed, who, before they fled through the dying bracken, eyed +it with poised heads. Nay, the heron which watched its approach from +the edge of the Garden Pool, and did not even deign to drop a second +leg, saw nothing strange in it. Yet it bore for all that the strangest +of all earthly passengers, and the strongest, and the bravest, and the +fairest—and withal, thank God, the most familiar. For it carried Love. +And love the same yet different, love gaunt and grey-haired, yet kind +and warm of heart, met it at the door and gave it welcome. + + + + +XXXVIII +THREADS AND PATCHES + + +Though England had not known for fifty years an outbreak so formidable +or so destructive as that of which the news was laid on men’s +breakfast-tables on the Tuesday morning, it had less effect on the +political situation than might have been expected. It sent, indeed, a +thrill of horror through the nation. And had it occurred at an earlier +stage of the Reform struggle, before the middle class had fully +committed itself to a trial of strength with the aristocracy, it must +have detached many more of the timid and conservative of the Reformers. +But it came too late. The die was cast; men’s minds were made up on the +one side and the other. Each saw events coloured to his wish. And +though Wetherell and Croker, and the devoted band who still fought +manfully round those chieftains, called heaven and earth to witness the +first-fruits of the tree of Reform, the majority of the nation +preferred to see in these troubles the alternative to the Bill—the +abyss into which the whole country would be hurled if that heaven-sent +measure were not passed. + +On one thing, however, all were agreed. The outrage was too great to be +overlooked. The law must be vindicated, the lawbreakers must be +punished. To this end the Government, anxious to clear themselves of +the suspicion of collusion, appointed a special Commission, and sent it +to Bristol to try the rioters; and four poor wretches were hanged, a +dozen were transported, and many received minor sentences. Having thus, +a little late in the day, taught the ignorant that Reform did not spell +Revolution after the French pattern, the Cabinet turned their minds to +the measure again. And in December they brought in the Third Reform +Bill, with the fortunes and passage of which this story is not at pains +to deal. + +But of necessity the misguided creatures who kindled the fires in +Queen’s Square on that fatal Sunday, and swore that they would not +leave a gaol standing in England, were not the only men who suffered. +Sad as their plight was, there was one whose plight—if pain be measured +by the capacity to feel—was sadder. While they were being tried in one +part of Bristol, there was proceeding in another part an inquiry +charged with deeper tragedy. Not those only who had done the deed, but +those who had suffered them to do it, must answer for it. And the +fingers of all pointed to one man. The magistrates might escape—the +Mayor indeed had done his duty creditably, if to little purpose; for +war was not their trade, and the thing at its crisis had become an +affair of war. But Colonel Brereton could not shield himself behind +that plea: so many had behaved poorly that the need to bring one to +book was the greater. + +He was tried by court-martial, and among the witnesses was Arthur +Vaughan. By reason of his position, as well as of the creditable part +he had played, the Member for Chippinge was heard by the Court with +more than common attention; and he moved all who listened to him by his +painful anxiety to set the accused’s conduct in the best light; to show +that what was possible by daylight on the Monday morning might not have +been possible on the Sunday night, and that the choice from first to +last was between two risks. No question of Colonel Brereton’s +courage—for he had served abroad with credit, nay, with honour—entered +into the inquiry; and it was proved that a soldier’s duty in such a +case was not well defined. But afterwards Vaughan much regretted that +he had not laid before the Court the opinion he had formed at the +time—that during the crisis of the riots Brereton, obsessed by one +idea, was not responsible for his actions. For, sad to say, on the +fifth day of the inquiry, sinking under a weight of mental agony which +a man of his reserved and melancholy temper was unable to support, the +unfortunate officer put an end to his life. Few have paid so dearly for +an error of judgment and the lack of that coarser fibre which has +enabled many an inferior man to do his duty. The page darkens with his +fate, too tragical for such a theme as this. And if by chance these +words reach the eye of any of his descendants, theirs be the homage due +to the memory of a signal misfortune and an honourable but hapless man. + +Of another and greater personage whose life touched Arthur Vaughan’s +once and twice, and of whom, with all his faults, it was never said by +his worst enemy that he feared responsibility or shunned the post of +danger, a brief word must suffice. If Lord Brougham did not live to see +that complete downfall of the great Whig houses which he had predicted, +he lived to see their power ruinously curtailed. He lived to see their +influence totter under the blow which the Repeal of the Corn Laws dealt +the landed interest, he lived to see the Reform Bill of 1867, he lived +almost to see the _coup de grâce_ given to their leadership by the +Ballot Act. And in another point his prophecy came true. As it had been +with Burke and Sheridan and Tierney, it was with him. His faults were +great, as his merits were transcendent; and presently in the time of +his need his highborn associates remembered only the former. They took +advantage of them to push him from power; and he spent nearly forty +years, the remnant of his long life, in the cold shade of Opposition. +The most brilliant, the most versatile, and the most remarkable figure +of the early days of the century, whose trumpet voice once roused +England as it has never been roused from that day to this, and whose +services to education and progress are acknowledged but slightly even +now, paid for the phenomenal splendour of his youth by long years spent +in a changed and changing world, jostled by a generation forgetful or +heedless of his fame. To us he is but the name of a carriage; +remembered otherwise, if at all, for his part in Queen Caroline’s +trial. While Wetherell, that stout fighter, Tory of the Tories, witty, +slovenly, honest man, whose fame was once in all mouths, whose +caricature was once in all portfolios, and whose breeches made the +fortune of many a charade, is but the shadow of a name. + +* * * * * + +The year had waned and waxed, and it was June again. At Stapylton the +oaks were coming to their full green; the bracken was lifting its +million heads above the sod, and by the edge of the Garden Pool the +water voles sat on the leaves of the lilies and clean their fur. Arthur +Vaughan—strolling up and down with his father-in-law, not without an +occasional glance at Mary, recumbent on a seat on the lawn—looked +grave. + +“I fancy,” he said presently, “that we shall learn the fate of the Bill +to-day.” + +“Very like, very like,” Sir Robert answered, in an offhand fashion, as +if the subject were not to his taste. And he turned about and by the +aid of his stick expounded his plan for enlarging the flower garden. + +But Vaughan returned to the subject. “If not to-day, to-morrow,” he +said. “And that being so, I’ve wanted for some time, sir, to ask you +what you wish me to do.” + +“To do?” + +“As to the seat at Chippinge.” + +Sir Robert’s face expressed his annoyance. “I told you—I told you long +ago,” he replied, “that I should never interfere with your political +movements.” + +“And you have kept your word, sir. But as Lord Lansdowne cedes the seat +to you for this time, I assume——” + +“I don’t know why you assume anything!” Sir Robert retorted irritably. + +“I assume only that you will wish me to seek another seat.” + +“I certainly don’t wish you to lead an idle life,” Sir Robert answered. +“When the younger men of our class do that, when they cease to take an +interest in political life, on the one side or the other, our power +will, indeed, be ended. Nothing is more certain than that. But for +Chippinge, I don’t choose that a stranger should hold a seat close to +my own door. You might have known that! For the party, I have taken +steps to furnish Mr. Cooke, a man whose opinions I thoroughly approve, +with a seat elsewhere; and I have therefore done my duty in that +direction. For the rest, the mischief is done. I suppose,” he continued +in his driest tones, “you won’t want to bring in another Reform Bill +immediately?” + +“No, sir,” Vaughan answered gratefully. “Nor do I think that we are so +far apart as you assume. The truth is, Sir Robert, that we all fear one +of two things, and according as we fear the one or the other we are +dubbed Whigs or Tories.” + +“What are your two things?” + +“Despotism, or anarchy,” Vaughan replied modestly. + +Sir Robert sniffed. “You don’t refine enough,” he said, pleased with +his triumph. “We all fear despotism; you, the despotism of the one: I, +a worse, a more cruel, a more hopeless despotism, the despotism of the +many! That’s the real difference between us.” + +Vaughan looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “But—what +is that, sir?” He raised his hand. The deep note of a distant gun +rolled up the valley from the town. + +“The Lords have passed the Bill,” Sir Robert replied. “They are +celebrating the news in Chippinge. Well, I am not sorry that my day is +done. I give you the command. See only, my boy,” he continued, with a +loving glance at Mary, who had risen, and, joined by Miss Sibson, was +coming to the end of the bridge to meet them, “see only that you hand +it on to others—I do not say as I give it to you, but as little +impaired as may be.” + +And again, as Mary called to them to know what it was, the sound of the +gun rolled up the valley—the knell of the system, good or bad, under +which England had been ruled so long. The battle of which Brougham had +fired the first shot in the Castle Yard at York was past and won. + +_Boom!_ + +THE END. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHIPPINGE BOROUGH *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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